I bit into the treat, and felt the texture of the beignet in my mouth. The flavor was spot-on, a hint of airy lightness that tasted something like a sophisticated funnel cake from the fair. I had to agree that it was good--there was no doubt about that--but was it as good as my yeast beignets?
"Are you sure?"
"Well, maybe I'd better eat the rest of these so I can be sure." He had a hint of powdered sugar on his nose, and I reached over and wiped it off.
We were about to have a moment when his cell phone rang.
"Bishop here," he said as he answered, his voice becoming instantly serious. I didn't have any idea how he could turn it off and on like he did.
"Yes, sir. I understand. I'm on my way."
After he hung up, I asked, "Bad news?"
"I've got a case. It's on the Outer Banks, Suzanne. Looks like I'm going to have to miss the tour. Sorry."
"You've got a job to do," I said, a little sad that he wouldn't be there for my demonstration.
He shrugged, and then wrapped me in his arms. "I'll call you later."
"Liar," I said with a grin. When he was on a case, I knew how focused he could get, so I didn't expect daily, or even weekly telephone calls.
"You caught me," he said, and then to make up for it, he kissed me.
After he was gone, I could swear I could still taste the beignets on his breath.
The day before the tour, Marge stopped by Donut Hearts half an hour before we were set to close, to go over my menu one more time. She was a petite woman in her early sixties, and her smile was always a little crooked, shifting slightly to the left whenever she grinned. You couldn't see it at the moment though, since Marge wasn't anywhere close to smiling.
"Suzanne, are you certain you're ready for the big day? I don't mean to put any extra pressure on you, but this is important."
I nodded and did my best to reassure her. "Marge, I've got everything under control. I've been staying late an hour every day for a week to test my recipes and polish my cooking techniques with the portable fryer, and I've got it all down cold. Don't worry. It's going to be fabulous."
Marge Rankin had inherited a great deal of money from her father when he'd passed away a few years earlier. Rumors around town put her net worth at two million dollars on the conservative side, and all the way up to ten million on those hot summer days when no one had anything else to talk about. It was impossible to tell that Marge had money by the way she dressed, though; she bought her clothes from Gabby Williams's shop next door to the converted train depot that now housed my donut shop. ReNEWed
was a clothing store that offered some of the best recycled clothing in our part of North Carolina, and Marge wasn't afraid who knew she shopped for her apparel second-hand.
"It just has to be perfect," Marge said, wringing her hands together with such force they were white. "I've dreamed about this kitchen for twenty years, and I can hardly believe I finally have it. I want everyone to know it, too."
I'd had the grand tour of her remodeled place the day before, and she had every right to be proud. From the Viking stove to the deluxe six-burner industrial cook-top, the lustrous marble countertops to the elegant hardwood floors, it was truly a thing of beauty.
"It's going to be the star of the show," I said. "Everyone will be talking about it when we're through."
Marge smiled. "I certainly hope so. Thanks again for making donuts for me."
The underlying theme of the exhibition was Working Kitchens, and everyone with a stop on the tour had hired a professional chef to show off their creations. I was the lone demonstrator who hadn't gone to culinary school, and I was beginning to feel the pinging of my nerves, something I couldn't let Marge see.
I tried to match her smile as I said, "Are you kidding? How often do I get the chance to work in such elegant surroundings? I'm looking forward to it."
She looked around the shop, then frowned softly. "I think your place is quaint. Who doesn't love an old train depot?"
I glanced at the painted burgundy floor, the large windows overlooking Springs Drive from one view and the abandoned railroad tracks from the other,
and saw Donut Hearts in a different light. Sometimes I took it for granted, but it really was a welcoming place to spend my days, even if they did begin at one-thirty in the morning and end a little after noon.
"Don't get me wrong," I said. "I'm a huge fan of my shop. After all, it's named after me, isn't it?"
Marge nodded. "That was so clever, adding an E to your last name. Hart for Heart, it's perfect."
"I like it," I admitted. "Now, don't you have a thousand things to do to get ready for tomorrow? Do you have the list of ingredients I asked you to get for me?" Marge had insisted on supplying everything I'd need for the day's donut-making, and I hadn't fought her on it. After all, it freed me to try some things that I'd only read about in books before, and I wasn't going to scrimp or substitute on second-class ingredients.
"I've got three of everything you requested, so we'll be fine. I
do
have to see about the china, though. I'd better go check to see if it's arrived at the house yet."
As she started for the door, Marge hesitated, then asked, "Have I thanked you recently for doing this for me?"
"Just a thousand times," I said with a grin. "Just remember to relax and have fun with it. Our stop is going to be the talk of the town. Now shoo."
