The Cakes of Monte Cristo (2 page)

I'd met a few of the society's members in the past few weeks, mostly the ones with complaints or some issue they wanted the society's administration to resolve. I was pretty sure that trapping any one of them in an elevator would result in pandemonium.

We reached the second floor and got off the elevator. The right side of the spacious foyer was blocked off by orange cones, so we turned to our left. “Tommy assures me they'll have a more attractive barrier set up by the time we're here,” Simone said, grimacing at the cones. “I understand the ballroom is a complete disaster from the water damage. They have to wait for inspectors and insurance adjusters and who
knows who to look at the damage. That could take weeks. After that, it will probably take a minor fortune and a month or more to make the repairs.”

We had reached the smaller ballroom and I ran a critical glance around the open space. My first impression was that the foyer would be large enough for the buffet service, but I didn't want to take any chances. I pulled out the tape measure and a notebook and set to work, jotting down measurements, calculating the space necessary for serving stations and traffic patterns, and making a rough sketch of the area, marking the locations of electrical outlets.

When I'd finished there, we moved into the ballroom itself. Simone explained the proposed layout of tables and her suggestions for displaying the cakes and setting up dessert stations. The Belle Lune Ball was a charity event, with proceeds going to benefit various women's causes. The price tag for a ticket to the event was steep enough to make my eyes water, but a large chunk of that money went to funding the event, paying the band and the caterer (that would be me), and renting the hotel space. A big share of the money they donated to charity came from society members who paid big bucks for space to exhibit their wares and a silent auction conducted during the event. All of that meant that we had to squeeze in tables to accommodate them as well.

The rooms weren't as spacious as the original area we'd agreed upon, but after discussing a couple of different configurations, I thought we could work around the few restrictions I'd found. We'd almost finished when Tommy Sheridan surged into the room, his face flushed, dark hair tousled as if he'd been running his fingers through it. He's mid-thirties with a boyish face and soft brown eyes that make him look much younger. “Well?” he said as he advanced toward us. “What do you think? Is it going to work?”

He looked so distraught, I hurried to reassure him. “It will be a bit tight,” I said, “but yes, I think it will work just fine.”

He stopped walking and clasped both hands to his chest. His dark eyes filled with tears and he sprinted the last few steps toward me. He wrapped me in a hug so enthusiastic I almost lost my balance. “Praise the good Lord! You have no idea how worried I've been. I feel just horrible about this.”

I hate to cry and I'm not comfortable when other people do it. Being caught up in Tommy's arms while he sobbed into my neck made me squirm. I tried to disentangle myself, but he held on tight. “It's okay,” I assured him. “It's going to be fine. Please don't worry anymore.”
And please stop crying!

He sniffed loudly and finally let me go, digging a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopping his eyes with it. “Forgive me,” he said with an embarrassed laugh. “I'm just so relieved that you are okay with the space.”

I put a couple of feet between us, creating a safety zone in case he lost control again. “I do have a few questions about logistics,” I said, “but I don't think there's anything we can't work out. My biggest concern is with the staging area. We originally had two rooms that were connected to the ballroom so we had a workspace to get everything set up. I don't see anything like that here.”

“There isn't,” he said with a slight frown. “But we have what I believe will be an adequate space at the end of the hall. Would you like to see it?”

I said that I would, and we all trooped off together. Tommy unlocked the door to a small meeting room and showed me how that room connected to the one next door. He vowed on his life to provide anything I thought we would need, including the moon and stars. I thought Tommy was going to dissolve into tears again when Simone and I both agreed that the replacement rooms would work for us. To my relief, he held it together long enough for us to sign the paperwork, and less
than an hour after I walked through the front doors, Tommy scurried away, leaving Simone and me smiling after him.

“I think that went well,” I quipped as Tommy disappeared around the corner. “I'm just glad we didn't have to move to another location entirely.”

“You and me both,” Simone said. “Evangeline will be so relieved.”

I grinned as we started walking toward the elevator. “Good. I like making her happy when I can.” And it hadn't even been that difficult.

The two of us made plans to meet for lunch the following day to discuss changes the new venue would make to the decorations and the positioning of the cakes Zydeco would be making for the event, five cakes in the shape of dress forms, each sporting a different style of dress from the 1930s. As I drove away from the Monte Cristo, I was feeling pretty good about how I'd handled that morning's crisis.

It turned out approving the new meeting space was the easiest thing I would do all day.

It was nearly eleven when I pulled into the parking lot behind Zydeco. I nosed the Range Rover into a parking spot and came inside through the loading dock door, which lets directly into the design room. It's my favorite room in the building, probably because I'd imagined it so many times while Philippe and I were in pastry school. Imagine my surprise when I came to New Orleans to get his signature on our divorce papers and found that he'd brought my dream to life.

Zydeco is housed in a graceful antebellum home near the Garden District. It was built sometime in the nineteenth century and was probably magnificent in its heyday. The back half of the house was revamped well before Philippe opened the bakery, but the front half is structurally the same as it was when the house was built. The foyer, complete with sweeping staircase, became our reception area. A large parlor morphed into my office, and the upstairs rooms became meeting and storage areas. The lovely finishes are still there, but most of the original
furnishings are long gone, replaced by more utilitarian office furniture.

I've never known much about the building's history but learning about its past is penciled on my to-do list. Unfortunately, something else always takes priority. One of these days, when the sky isn't falling down around my ears, I'll get around to doing the research.

The design room in the back of the house is a huge area connected to a state-of-the-art kitchen. Large windows look out over the parking lot and what remains of the original gardens. On sunny days, light streams into the room, bathing everyone and everything in sunlight.

The only exception is Sparkle Starr, a twenty-something dedicated to all things goth, who had chosen the one corner sunlight never reaches. Sparkle glanced up from her workstation and acknowledged me with a narrowing of her black-rimmed eyes and a slight lift of her chin. I used to think that Sparkle might turn to dust if the sunlight actually touched her, but the recent birth of her nephew, John David, had changed her a lot. She still did her goth thing—black clothes, lips, and fingernails and thick black liner on her eyes—but now she actually smiles on occasion.

Across the room Ox and Isabeau, his significant other, were studying the damaged wedding cake, which appeared to have shed the cracked fondant without trouble. Ox is six feet of well-toned muscle, an African-American Mr. Clean lookalike. He's in his late thirties and he's been a friend since we were in pastry school together. Isabeau is roughly fifteen years younger, short and blond and cheerleader perky.

I couldn't see Dwight Sonntag (another friend from our pastry school days) but I could hear him banging around in the kitchen. Meanwhile Estelle Jergens, fifty-something and the oldest member of Zydeco's staff, hustled out from behind her workstation the instant she noticed me.

Estelle's springy red hair had escaped the bright blue kerchief she was using to hold it in place, and her faded green sweatpants were already bagging at the knees. “Rita? I need to talk to you for a minute. It's important.”

Hoping that Estelle wasn't about to hit me with bad news, I stopped walking.

She shooed me toward the front of the house. “Not here,” she whispered with a sidelong glance at Ox. “We need privacy.”

Uh-oh
. I didn't like the sound of that at all. Filled with trepidation, I led her into the front of the house, through the empty reception area, and into my office. I sat behind the desk, and she dropped into another chair, linking her fingers on her lap.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“You could say that. Danielle quit this morning.”

That wasn't what I'd been expecting her to say. It took a moment for me to process the bombshell since Danielle—our latest temp—had worked at Zydeco for only one day. “Why? What happened?”

Estelle wagged a hand in front of her. “She didn't really say and I didn't think it was my place to ask.”

I groaned in dismay. “No wonder Ox is in a mood.”

“Oh, he doesn't know,” Estelle said. “I haven't told him yet.”

He didn't know? Great. That meant his mood would get worse before it got better. “If Danielle didn't tell you why she was leaving, how do you know she quit?”

“I ran into her coming out of the break room and she told me she was quitting.”

“Just like that? No explanation?”

“None. She just asked me to tell you.”

I sank back in my chair with a sigh. We'd been through three temps in the two months our office manager, Edie Bryce, had been on maternity leave. Number One had been
a sweet older woman who was thoroughly baffled by the phone system. Number Two had been a whiz at the computer, but she'd spent most of her time on Twitter and Instagram, leaving work a distant third on her priority list. Now that Number Three had walked out, I wondered if we'd ever find someone who could fill the gap.

“Well, thanks,” I said, reaching for the phone. “I guess I'd better call the employment agency and see if they can find us another warm body.”

Estelle held up a finger to stop me. “About that . . . I might know somebody who could do the job.”

That made me perk up a bit. “You do? Who?”

“My niece, Zoey. She's been looking for work, so she's available right away. I'm sure she could step in and take care of this job with no problem at all.”

Estelle was offering me a lifeline, but I didn't jump on the offer right away. Sure, I needed someone at Edie's desk, but I'd had some experience with Estelle's nieces during Mardi Gras the previous year. Frankly, they'd both seemed a bit flighty. Typical for teenage girls, I suppose, but I wasn't sure that either of them was the answer.

Despite my doubts, I didn't want to offend Estelle, so I proceeded with caution. “Aren't they still in school? They're not available to work full-time, are they?”

Estelle gave a little laugh. “I'm not talking about Carmen and Tiffani. They're much too young. Zoey is older. She's my sister Esther's daughter.”

As if that would mean anything to me. Estelle had a handful of siblings and she talked about them endlessly. I never could keep them straight, but I didn't want Estelle to know that I hadn't been paying attention, so I nodded as if I knew who she meant. “Then Zoey isn't in school?”

“She graduated four or five years ago. She's twenty-three and like I said, she's been looking for work. She's smart.
And steady. She doesn't spend all her time hanging out with friends or mooning over boys like some girls do. I just know she'd be perfect for the job.”

Hope fluttered in my chest. “Does she have any office experience?”

“I'm sure she does, and even if she's not completely up to speed, she's a quick learner.”

Translation: Not one minute of experience.

Then again, the three temps we'd hired through the agency had each supposedly had loads of experience and look how they'd turned out.

“Edie's job isn't easy,” I said, pointing out the obvious. “We need someone who's highly organized.”

“That's Zoey to a T,” Estelle assured me. “And she's sharp as a tack.” She paused for breath. When I didn't agree immediately, she said, “At least meet her. There's no harm in that, is there?”

She had me there. Other than wasting time if Zoey didn't work out, meeting her wouldn't hurt anything. And maybe, just maybe, this was a blessing in disguise. “I suppose I could talk to her.”

A broad smile stretched across Estelle's face. “Perfect! I'll call her. She can be here first thing tomorrow morning. I know she can. And really, Rita, what have you got to lose?”

Actually, I had a lot to lose, but we were shorthanded, and with the Belle Lune Ball coming up so quickly, I didn't have the luxury of second-guessing my decision. Hiring Zoey might be a huge mistake. Training her might put me farther behind than I already was. And if she didn't work out and I had to let her go, would Estelle resent me?

On the other hand, this might be a great solution. Estelle was a dedicated employee and a hard worker. I had to trust that she wouldn't suggest hiring her niece unless she believed that Zoey could do the job.

“All right,” I said before I could change my mind. “Give Zoey a call and tell her to come to work. But if she doesn't work out, I'll have to treat her like I would anyone else.”

Estelle shot to her feet and bounced a little. “Well, of course you will. I wouldn't expect anything less. Thank you, Rita. Zoey needs this job as much as we need her. You're doing the right thing. Just you wait and see.”

“I hope you're right,” I said with a smile. “Is there anything else?”

Estelle shook her head and bounced toward the door. “Not a thing.”

She disappeared into the reception area, and my stomach gave a nervous flip. I ignored it. I'd learned how to worry from my uncle Nestor, a true master of the art. He could spend days chewing on a subject and tormenting himself with unanswered “what-ifs.” I'd seen what worry was doing to his health, and I was determined to take a different path for myself.

Telling myself there was no sense borrowing trouble, I stowed my purse in a desk drawer, grabbed a cup of coffee from the break room, and then headed into the design room, where thousands of gumpaste beads we needed for the beaded evening gown cake were waiting for me to make them. I might not know what would come of hiring Zoey, but I knew for a fact those beads wouldn't make themselves.

*   *   *

By the time I returned to the design room, Ox had moved into the kitchen. While Sparkle applied another layer of crumb-coating buttercream to the damaged cake, Ox directed Dwight and Isabeau as they diced pears and shallots for a chutney recipe we were testing for the Belle Lune Ball.

Unlike Ox, who had initially resisted taking the Belle Lune contract and predicted abject failure, Isabeau had thrown herself into the experience. I suspected that her
enthusiasm for learning new and unfamiliar techniques had gone a long way toward softening Ox.

Dwight seemed to be enjoying himself as well. I don't think Dwight has actually seen a barber in several years and he probably won't see one anytime soon. The scraggly whiskers on his chin could have benefited from a trim, but then Dwight always looks rumpled and a little shaggy as if he is perpetually waking up from a long winter's nap. Despite his scruffy appearance, he's one of the most talented cake artists I've ever known.

I looked around for an empty workstation and caught Estelle beaming at me from her station, which made me glad that I'd agreed to give Zoey a chance, and even more hopeful that she'd be the right fit for the job.

I grabbed my chef's jacket from its hook on the wall and managed to get one arm all the way inside a sleeve before Ox noticed me. He motioned for me to join them in the kitchen. I wasn't ready for another distraction. I had too much to do. But he'd been running the show without me all morning, so I finished shrugging into the jacket as I walked.

As soon as I stepped through the door, I realized that Ox, Isabeau, and Dwight weren't alone in the kitchen. Another man, about thirty, leaned against the far counter, arms folded across his chest. He had a dark complexion and deep-set eyes shaded by a ball cap, and he watched closely as the others worked.

I started to ask who he was, but Ox jerked his head again, this time toward the far corner of the cavernous kitchen. I swallowed my curiosity for the moment and tromped over there behind him. Ox doesn't engage in a lot of small talk, so I figured he had something important on his mind.

He got down to business immediately, leaning a shoulder against the kitchen wall and folding his arms across his chest like the mystery man. “Estelle says the new girl quit and you're going to hire her niece instead. Is that true?”

I'm not an expert on body language, but I had a feeling Ox wasn't pleased. I nodded. “I'm going to give her a try.”

“What happened to what's her name?”

“Danielle? She quit. That's all I know. Keep your fingers crossed that Zoey is as good as Estelle says she is.” I glanced toward the others and lowered my voice so I could ask, “Who's that guy?”

Ox followed my gaze and shrugged. “My cousin, Calvin. Sorry. He showed up a few minutes ago out of the blue. I haven't seen him for years so it didn't seem right to send him away.”

I waved that idea away. “Well, of course you couldn't do that. But there's no reason for you to make him stick around here. Why don't you take the rest of the day off? Go spend some time with him. Catch up a little.”

Ox started shaking his head before I finished talking. “It's okay. He can wait. We've got too much to do.”

“Yeah, but I'm here now, and we're just talking about a few hours. It's fine with me if you want to leave.”

“I'll think about it,” Ox said in a tone that clearly meant he wouldn't do any such thing. “Tell me, what do you know about this girl?”