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TORI CARLIN’S GAZE hung on the slight figure of a young man in droopy jeans who lounged by the pastry counter. His limp brown hair needed a good wash, his shapeless hoodie was well used. He glanced at the tall, shapely young woman who waited at the counter for the clerk to return, smoothed the sparse fringe on his upper lip, then shifted his gaze back to the display of pastries behind the glass.
“What d’you think would happen if I gave those droopy drawers a good yank?”
“You’d get sued. At the very least I’ll be mortified and will have to pretend we haven’t known each other since the age of six.
“Reminds me of saggy diapers. It’s a sloppy look at best, and an invitation to embarrassment at worst.” Tori Carlin and her friend Annie Marchand carried their laden trays to a white pine table nearest the window.
Tori tipped her chin toward the ceiling and inhaled.
“I could package this heady aroma of chocolate, butter and caramel, call it ‘Scent of Paradise’ and make a fortune. Drug addicts would fall over themselves to buy it. They’d forget heroin and cocaine and other stimulants and get hooked on my ‘Scent of Paradise’ instead.”
Annie snorted and dug her plastic fork into the brownie. Tori flashed her friend a happy grin and stabbed her own fork into the decadent pastry on the plate, business ventures and droopy jeans forgotten. Sweet goodness like this contributed in no small way to the never-ending battle to shrink her waistband size. In fact, a small waist, thin body and hair restored to its former brown color was magical thinking, like desiring unicorns. Tori was fifty something now, and being svelte was the least of her worries.
Annie, spinning in a pastry orbit of her own, roused enough will power to speak.
“Aline’s Bakery is the best in the county,” she said, gaze loving the huge chocolate brownie in front of her.
“I like the new look. The place looks maniacally cheery.”
“Aline made it her mission to renovate after she bought the bakery from Ted’s uncle. She never believed Ernie’s mantra: “Decor doesn’t change the quality of the product.”
“How is the old boy these days? I haven’t seen him the last couple of times I visited.”
“He only works part-time now.” Annie paused and tipped her chin toward the counter
“That’s Francie Girard, the new manager at the Auberge.” Tori’s eyes cut toward the counter.
“Don’t look,” Annie’s eyes widened, her eyebrows rose.
“I have to look if you want me to see her.” Tori stole a look out of the corner of her eye.
Francie Girard smoothed the pale green dress that clung for dear life to her generous curves, combed her fingers through a mane of long auburn hair, and tossed it back for good measure. Already tall, in her shiny black four-inch-heel pumps, she topped six feet. Crouching a little to better see her reflection between the loaves of pumpernickel, Belgian, French, and Italian loaves, she adjusted the low scooped neckline that displayed an ample cleavage. At rest, her thin lips were set in a perpetual half-smile, as if she could read minds, and the contents of the mind before her amused her deeply.
“Bonjour, Madame Girard. The Auberge order is ready,” the counter girl returned from the back room.
“Merci, Melanie.”
“I heard a famous rock group is staying at the Auberge.” Melanie leaned forward, smiling, her cheeks pink, tripping over her words, hungry for gossip.
“Yeah. The big dining room and the terrace are closed to the public. They wanted to shut down the entire Auberge, but Chef was already in a snit about the short notice. He said he’s keeping the small dining room open for our current guests, and hang the big shots.”
“Are you going to be there? Oh, how I wish I could be there.” Melanie’s shoulders rose to her ears, she pressed her palms to her cheeks.
“They don’t want anybody except essential staff. And Chef, of course. They told him he has to personally prepare everything. He’s got a reputation you know.” Melanie’s hands dropped to the counter, her pleasant features drooped. She shrugged and gave Francie the bill without comment.
Francie tucked the invoice into a large leather tote.
“If you go around the back, Ted will put the order in your car.” Francie was half out of the door when Melanie called her back.
“I almost forgot, Aline wanted you to have this.” Melanie slid a box across the counter.
“What is it?”
“A selection of some of your favorites.” Aline stood in the doorway from the back room, wiping her hands on a flour dusted chef’s apron. She was in her mid-forties, on the heavy side, brown hair generously streaked with gray and tucked into a haphazard knot at the nape. Tori longed to send Aline to a hairdresser, gift her with a powder compact, some blush and lip color. Then get her better fitting clothes and transform this woman from dingy to ‘wow’. Compared to Francie Girard’s carefully manufactured image, this woman’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes were natural and wholesome.
“Thanks Aline. In honor of what?”
Aline’s full lips thinned, as if it hurt to smile.
“A small gesture of appreciation to the representative of a good client.”
“Thank you,” Francie said. “I’ll enjoy these.” She nodded her thanks again, and sauntered out into the sunny street.
“Interesting,” Annie lowered her voice. “Gossip has it that those two don’t like each other because, the same rumor says, Ted and Francie are cavorting behind Aline’s back. And yet there is gifting.”
“Really?” Tori cocked an eyebrow. “Not bosom buddies with so much in common? The wholesome chubby baker and the tall model perfect younger woman who want the same man?”
The whole subject of romantic relationships with one person too many in them made her ulcer burn. Or maybe it was the acidity of the coffee, or too much sugar. The ulcer developed soon after Reverend Andrew’s killer had been arrested. Although glad that justice had been done, she’d spent the summer on tenterhooks waiting to hear if she’d be charged with interfering in a murder investigation. Then, two weeks ago, she’d received a notice from the court that her testimony wasn’t required because the priest’s killer had confessed.
Relieved that part was over, she didn’t know if the detective duo of Sasha and Theo had forgiven her. Sasha was family, he’d come around, but she wasn’t sure about Theo. No, too complicated to think about now. She’d enjoy her time at Annie’s country house, take the requisite photos of the splendid autumn colors, and try to heal this damned ulcer.
Tori patted her pockets. “Annie, I forgot my purse in the car. May I borrow your keys?”
“No worries. My treat.”
“Thanks, but I need my stomach meds after this little bit of excess.”
The man with the sagging jeans unglued himself from the pastry display and wandered out after Francie. Had he been working up his courage to speak to the attractive woman while pretending interest in pastries? Surely, he was bright enough to see that a woman like Francie would not reject him gently.
Outside, a suffocating heat shimmered up from the concrete and asphalt. Maybe this was what hellfire was like. Tori waved her hand in front of her face to simulate a breeze, but it didn’t help. The heat lay on her skin, a film of fire, more intense fresh from an air-conditioned space. Thoughts of Francie melted as she walked around the side of the building into the shade. Indian Summer was supposed to be a pleasant, warm week; a last nod to summer before the dreary November moved in. This one came disguised as midst of summer.
The bakery threw welcome shade over the lane that led to the parking area. Tori gave her eyes a few minutes to adjust to the shady lane, found the right button on the remote, aimed it at the car door and was startled by an immediate flash of pale green.
She squinted at the reflection in the passenger window, but couldn’t see past the glare. In the car, Tori crouched low in the passenger seat and lifted her upper body enough so that the sill edge of the window was at eye level.
Aline’s handsome husband Ted leaned against the side of the bakery delivery van, and Francie Girard clung to him like a bizarre ornament as the couple kissed feverishly, oblivious to the world.
“Hmm... that’s one rumor laid to rest.”
––––––––
AROUND THE OTHER SIDE of the building, the young man from the bakery also watched the lovers. His small hands balled into fists, his jaw rigid with rage, he snarled, “Home wrecking bitch.”