Chapter1
Bess
I biteoff a curse and immediately cover a second yawn with the back of my hand.
Another early morning after yet another sleepless night.
One of these days, one of my employees is going to come in and find me passed out on the kitchen floor.Unless Chance Tanek finds me first.He’s the town drunk and I swear he watches this place, waiting to see the light go on in my apartment upstairs.
He is usually already at the back door by the time I make my way downstairs in the morning.I normally have a paper bag with the prior day’s leftovers ready for him.He’s such a lost soul, not a particularly friendly one, but I feel for him nonetheless.I figure there’s no harm in giving him some day-old baked goods to soak up all the alcohol he consumed in the previous twenty-four hours.Plus, everyone deserves at least one friendly interaction a day.I’d like to think of it as doing a public service, although a couple of people in my circle of friends may not agree with me.
This morning, I was too tired to even spare him a basic greeting, almost tossing the paper bag at him before slamming the door shut and shuffling into the kitchen.This is getting ridiculous; I can count the hours of sleep I’ve managed to cobble together over the past week on one hand.I’m going to have to ask Dana if there is anything she can prescribe because this is not sustainable.
I have a business to run, bills and employees to pay, and I can’t afford to fall down on the job, but that’s exactly what I’ve been doing since that damn phone call last week.
So far this morning, I already overproofed my Chelsea buns, burned a batch of cookies, and now the apple streusel muffins I just pulled from the oven are collapsing.I can’t seem to do anything right, and it’s only a little after 6:00 a.m.
Something’s got to give.
As I quickly slide the muffins back in the oven—hoping I can salvage the batch—I hear the back door open.Lola, my only full-time employee, pokes her head into the kitchen.She takes one look at the lackluster Chelsea buns, and the discarded tray with my cookies’ charred remains before turning to me with a sympathetic look on her face.
“Let me put my stuff away and I’ll come give you a hand.”
I open my mouth to tell her not to bother—she shouldn’t have to pick up my slack like she’s been doing all week—but she’s already disappeared down the hall.Letting my eyes drift around the kitchen, I do some damage assessment.At least the date squares and the bacon and cheese scones came out fine.The Chelsea buns will have to do, and hopefully the muffins will turn out, but I’ll have to redo the cookies and should probably whip up a batch of lemon-poppyseed muffins as well, just in case.
Lola grabs an apron off the hook as she walks into the kitchen and ties it on.
“What’s next?”she asks, and I swallow against the sudden flood of emotions.
Damn, who’d have thought when I took a chance on the rail-thin girl who answered the help-wanted sign in my window six years ago, she’d become the rock I lean on these days.As it turned out, hiring her was not only the best thing that could’ve happened to her, but me as well.She has become invaluable to me and Strange Brew.
Lola has shared only bits and pieces of her history with me over the years, but it was enough information for me to realize my own sordid past pales in comparison.The woman has a core of steel though, and has completely reinvented herself.The pretty, well-put-together woman in front of me is a far cry from the skinny kid who first walked in here.
“Lemon-poppyseed muffins and pecan chocolate-chip cookies.”
“On it,” she states, checking the wall for the recipes.
Every time I add a new item to our weekly rotation, I tack a laminated copy to our recipe wall.I don’t have any secrets, at least not with respect to my baked goods.
“Why don’t you take a break, go make yourself a coffee,” Lola suggests, glancing at me over her shoulder.“You look like you could use it.”
Ugh.I purposely avoided looking in the mirror this morning.I figured it wouldn’t be an improvement on the pale, haggard reflection staring back at me last night.Guess I was right.
I don’t bother arguing; I could use a boost of caffeine if I’m going to make it through today.
“Oh, and I’ll take Carson under my wing when he gets here,” she adds when I start out the door.
Shoot, Carson.I’d forgotten about him; the kid is supposed to start today.
I overheard him talking to his girlfriend, Tatum, when they dropped in after school last week.He’d been complaining he had a hard time finding an after-school job.It just so happened one of my weekend part-timers gave me two-weeks’ notice a few days prior, and I hadn’t started looking yet.I ended up offering him the job, provided his father approved.I’m sure working at the local coffee shop wasn’t Carson’s first choice, but the promise of free baked goods had been enough of an enticement for him to accept.
I’d all but forgotten he’s supposed to start today.
“I need him to fill in a few forms for me first, but after that, yes.If he could shadow you for a bit during the rush, that would be great.”
The rush is usually between seven—when we open—and nine.After that things slow down a bit until noon, when it picks up again for the lunch crowd.Our menu isn’t big, since we’re supposed to be a coffee shop and not a restaurant but, especially on the weekends, people have a tendency to pop in here for a quick bite while they run their errands.We offer sandwiches and a daily soup or stew during the winter months, but it’s all pretty basic.
When I get here at around four in the morning, baking is the first thing I tackle.Usually by the time the doors open, most of the pastries are done, and I start prepping for lunch.
