The carton was a virtual bakery supply store. Cookie sheets. Mixing bowls. Cupcake tins. Whisks. Wooden spoons.
Flummoxed, she closed up the box, replaced it in the stack, and pulled down another. It contained more of the same. Plus a half-dozen cookbooks with titles she recognized—staples for any serious pastry chef. Her own copies were back at the hotel.
What was Hepplewhite hiding?
She heaved the box back into place and looked around the room. With wide-plank hardwood floors and a high ceiling, it definitely had possibilities. Almost a shame that it was only for a couple of nights.
Kate opened a door off to the right, expecting a closet. Instead, it was a tiny bathroom. Artfully arranged to fit a white pedestal sink under a small gilt-framed mirror, and a trim tub/shower combo. Over the tub: a high, round stained-glass window. Bearing the image of a single red flower.
Kate was amazed.
With a layer of dust on the sink, the bathroom clearly hadn’t been used in years. And the shower needed a curtain. She turned on the sink tap and flushed the toilet. Both worked.
In the city, Hepplewhite could have called this a studio and rented it out for a small fortune, she thought.
Wandering back into the main room, Kate spotted a large bundle of sticks wrapped in canvas propped against one of the stainless-steel shelves. Tagged with a yellow Post-it note, it was helpfully labeled “cot.” She recognized the scrawly script from the kitchen notebook.
Adjacent to that little gift was a door. Opening it, Kate found a walk-in closet. She flipped the light switch. Nothing. If there was a bulb, it had burned out.
She grabbed the cot bundle, unrolled the canvas, and tried to visualize how the wooden parts fit together. It looked less like actual furniture and more like a set of Lincoln Logs.
She took something that resembled a leg and tried to fit it into the main frame. No go. She shoved and it bounced off, clattering onto the floor.
I’ve assembled six-tiered wedding cakes that were easier, she thought.
Out of nowhere, her ex-fiancé’s handsome face popped into her head.
So what was Evan doing now?
Bam, bam, bam! Bam, bam, bam!
Kate jumped.
The pounding continued. “Paradise Cove Resort!” a male voice shouted.
Her bags! She could change her clothes. Brush her teeth. And pore over her cookbooks.
“Coming!” she shouted, galloping down the steep stairs. “Hang on, I’m coming!”
The back door didn’t have much of a lock on it, Kate noticed. No dead bolt. Just a twist button on the doorknob.
Hepplewhite had cleaned out the cash register before he left. And there probably wasn’t much of a market for stolen baked goods. So absent someone living on-site, the guy probably didn’t need much in the way of security.
Kate opened the door to find a teenager in a Paradise Cove bellhop’s uniform: black shorts, linen shirt, and a pith helmet. He was standing next to an eight-seater golf cart.
“Kate McGuire?”
“That’s me.”
He looked around conspiratorially. “I wasn’t sure I had the right address. Never delivered bags to the back of a bakery before. Or a bakery, period.”
“I, uh, work here.”
“Oh. Well, I can drop them off at your house, if you want. That way, they’ll be waiting for you when you get home.” He pointed to the golf cart.
“Uh, no, this is fine. Thanks, though.”
“OK, then just sign here, and you’re all paid up,” he said, producing an electronic tablet and a stylus. “The resort will apply the charges to the credit card on file. They’ll also email you a receipt.”
Signing the bill, she regretted not snagging the bittersweet Ghirardelli chocolate bar from her room’s minifridge. Or the chocolate-covered macadamia nuts.
As the teenager hauled her possessions—two suitcases, a duffel bag, three book boxes, and three moving cartons full of Kate’s favorite bakeware and tools—off the golf cart, it suddenly hit her: She had to tip him. And day-old bread wasn’t going to cut it.
“Just drop everything in here!” she shouted, racing across the kitchen for her purse. She rifled through her wallet and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. Then she remembered the three heavy book boxes and grabbed another fiver.
When she turned, the kid was looking around the bakery kitchen like he’d just landed on Mars.
“It’s OK, I’m a pastry chef. I was just staying at the resort until I started my new job.”
“Here?” he asked dubiously.
“Yup. And here you go,” she said, slipping him the fifteen dollars. “Thanks for bringing my stuff all the way out here.”
“OK, but if you change your mind, we pick up and deliver,” he said. With that, he tipped his helmet, climbed into the cart, and sped off into the night.