Walking down Main Street, Kate sensed she was experiencing the real Coral Cay for the first time. In the week she’d been here, she’d spent every minute at the beach and resort areas. That, she had thought, was where they were going to need a professionally trained pastry chef. And where her skills would bring top dollar.
Now she was seeing downtown. On foot. But the atmosphere was somehow comfortable and comforting. A cool breeze off the ocean carried the scent of salt water, mingled with something tropical.
The Old Florida–style town center could have been built in the late 1800s or yesterday. Immaculately maintained shops were a rainbow of pastel colors. Bright flowers tumbled out of window boxes and stone planters up and down the street. And the wide sidewalks were spotless—like they’d been regularly scrubbed.
The odd note: dog bowls, filled with water, outside many of the shop doors. Each bowl was different. Some were china or stoneware. Others stainless steel or brightly colored plastic. And one, outside Seize the Clay pottery studio, looked handmade.
Kate was surprised at the number of tourists she saw here, too. Sporting deep tans, new cruise wear, and top-of-the-line sunglasses, they were easy to spot. But with a post office, grocer, bookstore, and shops for other necessities, Coral Cay was clearly a working small town. She got the impression that if the tourists disappeared tomorrow—or later in the season, when the worst of the summer heat hit, according to Gabe—the locals would carry on just fine.
Looking into a shop window, Kate glimpsed a figure in the reflected glass that wasn’t her own. One with a ball cap and sunglasses.
She turned and saw him. Across the street. Studying a store window, with a mint-green shopping bag dangling off one hand. Same guy from the car? She couldn’t tell.
This is nuts, she thought. I’m not carrying a wad of cash or credit cards. And I don’t know a soul in town. Who’d be following me?
When she looked down, a large oatmeal-colored dog blocked her path.
It looked sort of like a poodle. A big poodle. But instead of the fussy pompoms, it had a smooth, natural clip.
The dog stared up at her, almost expectantly. Like it recognized her.
A blue collar but no leash, Kate noticed. A boy? She looked around for an owner. No one seemed to be missing him. Or paying any attention to him at all.
Sitting back on his haunches, his black button eyes studied her face. Worried?
“Uh, hello?” she said.
He politely offered up a paw—the way a new acquaintance would proffer a hand.
Hesitating, she reached out and gave it a gentle shake. His fur was impossibly soft. Like a child’s plush toy. She patted the back of his head. Silky. Clean.
He eagerly sniffed her hand. And her knees.
That’s when she noticed two silver tags on his collar and reached for them. The one on top read: “Oliver, Coral Cay, FL”
“Well, hello, Oliver,” she said, slipping her hand around to give his ear a scratch.
No street address. But in a small town, that probably wasn’t necessary.
Was he the reason for the water bowls?
She stood and glanced over her shoulder. The stranger had vanished. But as she strolled down the street, Oliver stayed with her, matching her steps.
That’s when she spotted it at the end of the block—the Cookie House. A delicate sunset pink bearing a large sign that affirmed its name. The building looked like an old Victorian home—complete with scuffed white gingerbread trim—that had seen better days.
The pink paint was worn in places, exposing a muddy green underneath. The plantation shutters were peeling. And the bakery’s second-floor window boxes were empty, save for one dead bush.
The old worry knot hardened again in her gut. Kate pulled out her cell phone. If she was lucky, she could reschedule Fish-a-Palooza. Maybe there was a bus service she could use. Or, worse to worst, she’d grab a Lyft. If she landed the job, it would be worth it.
Nothing. She checked the screen. No bars.
“Can’t go back, have to go forward,” she sighed.
Oliver looked up at her, puzzled.
OK, so the Cookie House wasn’t a tony French restaurant, like her last gig. But it wasn’t a dark storage unit or Jeanine’s rec room, either.
She turned. Ball Cap Man was back, standing in front of another shop, chatting with someone she pegged as a local.
The poor guy is probably killing time waiting for his wife.
Just off the porch, Kate stretched her phone skyward trying to catch a signal. Nada.
As she climbed the steps, the poodle raced ahead. He hopped onto one of the two white benches flanking the bakery’s front door, turned around a few times, and stretched out.
Relaxed, with one paw crossed casually over the other, he cocked his head and looked at her.
“OK, Oliver, wish me luck,” Kate said.
She could have sworn he smiled.
While the outside of the bakery was neglected, the inside was just the opposite. Every surface—from the glass cases to the wide-plank floors to the stainless-steel counters—gleamed. It looked like most of the first floor was devoted to the kitchen, hidden behind a pair of swinging doors. The shop smelled of freshly baked bread, butter, and yeast.
Kate stood at the back and waited her turn. With a one-man operation, customers would take precedence over job interviews, she reasoned. Besides, this would give her time to scope out the place. Not that she was procrastinating.
A well-bronzed man with a beer gut encased in a lemon-yellow golf shirt stood in front of the bakery counter. “How are the cheddar biscuits today?”
Kate pegged his Brooklyn accent and felt a stab of homesickness.
“If they weren’t good, I wouldn’t bake ’em,” the proprietor said. “How many you want?”
“Yes, but are they fresh?” asked his wife, who’d paired her Lilly Pulitzer sundress with sky-high pink espadrilles and a matching straw hat the size of a truck tire. “And are your ingredients locally sourced?”
“Made ’em this morning,” the baker replied. “Ingredients came outta my storeroom. You want any or not?”
“We’ll take a half dozen,” the husband said decisively.
As the tourist couple exited, a middle-aged blonde stepped up to the counter. Clad in a white T-shirt and well-worn jeans, her hair was pulled into a high, messy ponytail and topped off with a faded Marlins cap. “Hey, Sam,” she said with a smile. “Need a loaf of that sourdough and two of the whole wheat.”
“You want ’em sliced, Sadie?”
“Just the whole wheat. Kids are out of school for the summer. They’re eating me out of house and home.”
“Yup, they’ll do that.”
Kate scoped out the bakery case. Focaccia. Corn bread. Several kinds of biscuits—including one with sour cream and chives. And about five different kinds of bread, including whole-wheat pita and golden-brown naan.
But no pastry. No cakes, cupcakes, or cookies. No pies or delicate tartlets. No bear claws topped with crunchy sugar. Or Danishes with sweet, moist filling. Not so much as a doughnut.
What kind of bakery sold out of sweets? They must have more in the back, she reasoned.
The front door burst open, and a pack of kids ran in shrieking. “Cool it, you little gremlins! Inside voices!” a woman behind them hissed over the din.
As she waddled through the door, Kate saw that she was heavily pregnant. “Bobby! Don’t touch the glass! And stop jumping! Becky, quit poking your big brother!”
Kate stepped aside to give her more room.
The woman smiled sheepishly. “I had to get off the beach and out of the sun for a little while. I promised them cookies.”
“Sounds like a smart move,” Kate said.
“OK, you little ruffians, get over here and pipe down—or we’re leaving. Jennie! Get your hands off the glass! Becky, if you don’t stop poking Bobby, you’re going outside. Empty handed. Is that what you want?”
Becky looked startled, shook her head, and dropped her hands to her sides. Next to her, the youngest sibling, who looked about two, pulled his thumb out of his mouth and assumed the same position—with a proud grin on his face.
“The magic of cookies,” Kate whispered to the mom.
“Amen to that,” the brunette replied, rubbing her back, as the four kids gathered around her.
“Are you getting cookies, too?” Jennie asked Kate.
“Not exactly. I make cookies. I’m here about a job.”
“You make cookies?” Bobby asked. “For real?”
“Cookies, cupcakes, all kinds of good stuff.” To their mom she explained, “I’m a pastry chef.”
“Oh God, that would be so dangerous. Right now, I could eat my weight in eclairs. All two tons of it.”
Suddenly all four kids clustered around Kate.
“What kind of cookies are you gonna make?” Becky asked.
Kate started to laugh. “I can’t make any now—I haven’t got the job yet. But how about if I tell you what kind of cookies you like best?”
“Cookies!” the littlest boy said, throwing both hands up into the air like a referee signaling a touchdown.
“Yes, Charlie, cookies,” his mom said, ruffling his sandy-blond hair. “Can you really do that?” she asked Kate. “Guess their favorite cookies?”
“After four years as a Girl Scout and eight years as a pastry chef, you’d be surprised,” she said, her amber eyes twinkling.
“OK, what kind do I like?” Bobby asked.
Kate took a minute and sized him up. “Oatmeal. No raisins.”
Bobby’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”
She smiled mysteriously.
“What’s mine? What’s mine?” squealed Becky, bouncing up and down. “What do I like?”
“Peanut butter. Preferably with chocolate chips.”
“Oh yeah!” Becky said, twirling toward the counter.
“Betcha don’t know mine,” her older sister dared.
“Ah, a challenge,” Kate said, refocusing. “Let me see. I’m thinking … lemon coolers!”
“Whoa!” the little girl said. “Are you a witch?”
Kate shrugged and squatted down to eye level with Charlie. “And I bet you like animal crackers.” She lowered her voice so that only he could hear. “And the chocolate ones are your very favorites.”
He beamed and nodded vigorously.
“That is amazing,” their mom said. “You’re a cookie whisperer!”
“Hey, tell me what kind of cookies I like,” implored a voice behind her. Kate turned to see a young guy in purple board shorts and blue flip-flops.
“Shortbread,” Kate said without hesitating.
“Damn! That’s awesome!”
“I bet you can’t tell what kind of cookies I like,” said the blonde next to him. Dressed in a yellow beach romper, she crossed her arms and fixed Kate with a defiant squint.
Kate took a deep breath and gave the woman a once-over.
“Well, you tell people you don’t eat dessert,” Kate started. “But the truth is you’d sell your grandmother for a dozen of those chewy lace cookies with the chocolate drizzle. And you dunk them in milk.”
The woman’s mouth dropped open, and she turned beet red.
“For what it’s worth, I love those things, too,” Kate added.
“Awwww, sis, she nailed you,” Board Shorts said, snapping his fingers. “Hey, Sam, you gotta see this. This woman is great! She’s a cookie whisperer.”
“I don’t sell cookies, Justin,” the baker said matter-of-factly. “Bread and rolls. No fancy stuff.”
“No cookies?” the three older kids repeated in unison as Charlie’s face crumbled.
“You want sweets, we got an ice-cream shop at the other end of Main Street,” the baker said. “They sell a fair amount of candy, too.”
“But this place is called the Cookie House,” the mom said, her voice stressing up half an octave. “How can you name it that and not sell cookies?”
The baker shrugged.
Kate leaned over, speaking quietly. “Those sour-cream biscuits just came out of the oven. I can tell by the way they’re radiating heat. And it looks like a good batch. See the way they’re all evenly golden brown? There’s an empty bench outside on the porch. You guys could sit in the shade for a while and have a picnic.”
The mom clapped her hands. “OK, kids, first a snack. Then we get ice cream!”
“Ice cream! Ice cream!” the kids sang, bouncing up and down.
“I’ll take a dozen of the sour-cream biscuits. And you three wild things—outside! Find a place to sit on the porch. And look after your little brother.”
“Yes, Mooommm,” Jennie said, grabbing one of Charlie’s hands as Bobby held the door open.
“I wish I had half that energy,” the mom said, watching them dance, skip, and hop out to the porch. “Good luck with the job interview,” she said, dropping her voice. “Ichabod Scrooge over there could really use you.”
“Man, that is some party trick—I would love to know how you do that,” Justin said, collecting two loaves of sourdough and heading for the door.
His sister strode ahead, ignoring them both.
“Can I help you?” the baker said to Kate.
“I’m Kate McGuire—I’m actually here about the job.” She pointed to the “help wanted” sign in the window. This is it. Go big or go home. Literally.
She took a deep breath and started her spiel. “I’m a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America with a degree in baking and pastry arts. I’ve been a professional pastry chef in Manhattan for the last eight years, and I have an extensive list of excellent references.”
With that, she proffered a slick black folder containing her résumé and two pages of references on creamy white vellum.
“Not right for the job,” he said abruptly, slapping the folder onto the counter.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t sell pastry or any of that frilly stuff. Need someone to tend the counter. And pitch in hauling supplies to and from the storeroom. Fancy degree won’t help with that.”
Kate walked over to the window, pulled down the “help wanted” sign, and examined it.
She glanced outside. A guy was sitting on a bench across the street. The upper half of his body was totally obscured by the newspaper he was reading. But there was a familiar green shopping bag parked at his feet.
“So how long have you been looking for help?” she said quietly, turning toward the baker.
He shrugged.
“This sign is faded, so I’m guessing it’s been a while. It’s the tail end of tourist season, and it’s also the start of summer break. But you haven’t gotten so much as a nibble. In spite of the fact that you bake a first-class sourdough. You’ve been blunt, so I’ll return the favor. I don’t want this job long-term. I’m moving to Coral Cay and looking for a permanent spot as a pastry chef. But I need something to tide me over in the meantime. As you know, baking is hard work. I’ve spent the last eight years on my feet all day every day, in a hot kitchen, pounding dough and hauling supplies.”
Kate mentally crossed her fingers behind her back for that last part. At the restaurant, the busboys, dishwashers, and delivery guys did all the heavy lifting.
Hepplewhite shrugged again. But she noticed he hadn’t said no. At least, not outright.
“So how much does the job pay?” Kate asked.
“Minimum wage. Seven twenty-five an hour.”
“That’s the national minimum wage,” she said. “Florida minimum wage is eight ten an hour.”
“Last time I checked, Florida was still part of the country. Pay is seven twenty-five an hour.”
Inwardly, she rolled her eyes. This guy was tighter than Deacon Dave. She’d never worked so hard to land a job she didn’t want. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a narrow hallway. She remembered the second-story window boxes. And the dead bush.
“What’s upstairs?”
“Storeroom. Like I said, no work for a girl.”
“Do you use all the upstairs rooms for the baking supplies?”
“Just the one. On the back side of the house.”
“What about the rooms on the front side?”
“Just two rooms. One in the back for baking supplies. Other one’s for extra cleaning supplies and some old junk. Why?”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Kate said. “I’ll take your seven twenty-five an hour if you let me camp out in the front storeroom. Just for a couple of days. Until I can rent a place in town.”
The baker shook his head. “Already said, this work isn’t for you. Besides, this area’s commercial. No one’s s’posed to live here. Probably a health code violation, too.”
Suddenly Kate remembered something—something Gabe had mentioned. What could it hurt?
“Here’s my offer: If you don’t like my work, you can fire me. And it won’t cost you a dime. I’ll walk away without a paycheck. But wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to tend the shop, when you want to get away for a while?” With a metal detector and a bottle of rum?
“And I’ve shown I’m very good with customers,” she added.
Hands flat on the counter, the baker narrowed his eyes, clenching and unclenching his jaw. For the first time, he seemed to be genuinely considering the idea.
“I do the baking,” he said finally. “You just mind the counter and fetch supplies now and then. And cut all that cookie-talk nonsense. I don’t sell that junk. And I’m not gonna start now.”
“Fair enough. I’ll have my stuff sent over from the hotel, and I can start this afternoon. Um, what should I call you?”
“Name’s Sam Hepplewhite. Mr. Hepplewhite to you. And if anyone asks, tell ’em you’re still staying at that hotel. Don’t want the Board of Health getting their panties in a twist. Don’t expect you’ll last the week, anyway.”