They say that you have to let go of the past to step into your future. My future was now. Here, in my hometown of Ashland, Oregon, where organic pear orchards were bursting with fragrant white blossoms, gangly wild turkeys and spotted baby deer stumbled on wobbly new legs in Lithia Park, and the Oregon Shakespeare Festival was back in the swing of entertaining audiences with dozens of performances each week. Our remote location, nestled in the Siskiyou Mountains, blocked any light pollution, which meant that outdoor evening productions at the Elizabethan theater felt like you were being blanketed by thousands of dazzling stars—both human and celestial. One of the things that made living in Ashland unique was bumping into actors while shopping at the co-op or sipping an iced latte at my family’s artisan bakeshop, Torte.
Of course, I was biased, but spring in the Rogue Valley had a special touch of magic.
This morning, I was doing my best to make some magic in Torte’s kitchen in the form of rising loaves of cinnamon raisin bread, a hearty egg bake, and chocolate hazelnut muffins. There would be a palpable buzz of energy in our open-concept basement kitchen once the rest of the team arrived. For the moment, I was glad for a reprieve because I was doing everything I could to stay upright. Lately, I’d been plagued with dizzy spells. It reminded me of being back on the Amour of the Seas, the boutique cruise ship where I’d spent the early part of my culinary career. My years at sea taught me resiliency and how to stay upright in the middle of a storm. The resiliency was a gift I carried with me, but struggling to find my land legs after being permanently cemented to Ashland was an unexpected challenge.
“Are you okay, boss?” Andy, our head barista, asked with a look of concern as I grabbed the counter to steady myself.
I hadn’t heard him come in, and I didn’t want to worry him or any of my other staff. “Fine,” I lied, plastering on a smile and securing a death grip on the countertop. “Too much coffee, that’s all.”
Andy gasped as he shrugged off his thin jacket. His youthful eyes widened with disbelief. “Honestly, I didn’t think I would ever hear Jules Capshaw utter those words. Too much coffee? I would have sworn that you were immune to the effects of caffeine.” He joined me at the island, setting down a canister of coffee beans. “I guess it’s good to see that you’re human.”
“It’s probably because I haven’t eaten breakfast.” I motioned to the trays of rising bread and the muffin tins. That was true. I had gotten an early start at Torte. There was something innately calming about the whir of the mixer whipping creamy butter and the aroma of applewood burning in the pizza oven. Mornings before the team arrived were my favorite time in the kitchen. I could linger over a strong cup (or five) of coffee and map out a plan for the day. As Torte continued to expand our offerings, carving out a few moments to set the tone and make sure schedules, orders, and deliveries were in alignment had become critical. In addition to keeping our main pastry cases stocked, we were preparing to reopen Scoops, our summer pop-up ice cream shop, for the season. Uva, our winery, was also in high demand for wine-tasting parties, weddings, and now a new endeavor—live theater.
My best friend, Lance, the artistic director at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, had his own project blooming—his Fair Verona Players. Never one to pass up an opportunity to entertain, Lance was launching his own spin-off production company. The Fair Verona Players would be staging their first performance in Uva’s vineyard in a few short days. Lance had been at OSF—as the locals call it—for nearly a decade. His creative way of combining tradition with innovation in gender-bending Shakespeare productions had made OSF one of the most esteemed repertory theaters in the country. Lately, though, he had confessed that he needed a new challenge—something smaller and more personal that would allow him the freedom to leave his indelible mark on a new generation of actors and patrons. In Lance’s words, hosting intimate productions amongst the vines, where patrons and actors could engage and interact in a gorgeous, lush outdoor setting, provided “a space for raw expression.”
“There’s nothing that can compare with the vulnerability of putting on a stripped-down show,” he explained to me when he first pitched the idea of partnering. “This isn’t going to be Shakespeare with sequins and glittery lighting, no, no, darling. We’re taking plays with a small yet mighty cast and bringing the audience on a journey with us that will leave them forever changed. Creativity does not thrive if we stay stagnant.”
Lance had an unmatched gift for embellishing, but I didn’t put up a fight. I loved the concept. Watching a show in the vineyard on a warm spring evening while sipping on an earthy glass of our malbec sounded like a dream, and I could appreciate his need to stretch himself. I felt the same way about Torte. It was one of the reasons I had been so intent on expanding our offerings and partnerships at the bakeshop.
The question was had I been too ambitious? Until recently, I thought I was managing our varied projects well, but now I was starting to second-guess myself.
“Jules, are you sure you’re good?” Andy asked, waving a hand in front of me to get my attention. His face was tanned from spring skiing on Mount A. There was a touch of auburn stubble on his chin and cheeks. When I had first returned home, Andy was a college student at Southern Oregon University. He had opted to drop out in favor of pursuing his passion—coffee roasting. Mom and I had agreed to support him and do whatever we could to help him grow his roasting operation.
He never called me Jules. Usually Andy was all about the coffee banter, but he stared at me with such an intense gaze that I wondered if I looked worse than I felt.
“No, I promise, I’m fine.” I lifted one hand off the counter as proof and pointed to the empty coffee carafe. “I polished off the entire pot before you got here. I just need to eat something.” I couldn’t tell if I was trying to convince him or me.
“Okay.” He hesitated and scrunched his wide forehead like he was trying to assess whether I was in danger of passing out. “I guess you probably don’t want to sample my latest roast?”
“Of course I do.” I peeled my other hand free and kept my eyes focused on the built-in brick oven at the far end of the kitchen. As long as I didn’t look down or to the side, I should be all right. That could be problematic with the day of baking we had ahead of us, but I didn’t want to freak him out. “My egg bake, raisin bread, and chocolate muffins will be done soon. I’ll fuel myself and be ready to savor your next masterpiece.”
“I’ll fire up the espresso machine and be back soon.” Andy took off upstairs.
As soon as he was out of sight, I inched along the wall to steady myself. The dizziness came in waves with no predictable pattern. It had been happening on and off for a few weeks. Eating sometimes helped, but if it continued like this, I was going to have to make a doctor’s appointment.
My egg bread bowls were ready, so I carefully removed them and rested them on cooling racks. They bubbled with steam and smelled heavenly. The bake was simple. I had halved and hollowed-out crusty leftover buns. Then I cracked eggs in each half and topped them off with a splash of heavy cream, fresh herbs, and salt and pepper. I baked the eggs in the bread, creating a soft creamy center and a perfect vessel for breakfast on the go.
While I waited for the egg bread to cool, I turned my attention to the next item on my to-do list: opening night party pastries. Lance had requested spring pastries and small bites for the first show. We had landed on lemon curd cupcakes, mini coconut cream pies, grapefruit tartlets, and chocolate-dipped almond tuiles for sweet options. Additionally, we would serve crostini with arugula pesto, naan and falafels with roasted red pepper hummus, feta and chicken meatball skewers, and edible Parmesan cups filled with spring vegetables.
I wanted to start on the cupcakes before the kitchen got too busy, so I took a few timid steps toward the pantry and walk-in fridge to gather ingredients. To begin, I creamed butter and sugar together, then I added vanilla, lemon rind, and fresh lemon juice. Once those were incorporated, I sifted in flour, baking soda, and salt, in alternation with buttermilk, until a smooth batter had formed. I filled silicone cupcake trays with an ice cream scoop to ensure that each cupcake would be consistent, and then slid them into the oven to bake.
The egg bowls had cooled enough, so I pulled up a stool and took a seat. The dizziness seemed to be subsiding, and eating could only help. One of our mantras in the bakeshop was “we eat with our eyes first,” and my eyes were more than pleased to cut into the flaky layered egg dish. It had a touch of an herbaceous aroma from the fresh sprinkling of parsley and thyme and a perfectly cooked soft-baked egg that oozed as I stabbed it with my fork.
“Good morning, honey.” Mom breezed in through the back stairwell. She tugged off a lightweight jacket and hung it on the coatrack before coming into the kitchen. Fine lines etched on either side of her walnut eyes, a sign of her years of wisdom.
“You’re here early,” I said with a smile, digging my fork into the eggy mixture. “I’m taking a breakfast break; want to join me?”
“These smell as good as they look.” She leaned over the tray to examine the egg bowls. “I already ate, but I’m tempted to be a hobbit and have a second breakfast. Now, if there’s coffee, I wouldn’t turn down a second cup.”
“There was, but I drank it all,” I admitted. “That’s why I’m eating. I got really dizzy for a couple of minutes. I think I might have to cut back on my caffeine intake.”
“This is the third time in a week that you’ve been dizzy.” Mom’s eager eyes narrowed. She glanced upstairs, then lowered her voice, her entire face lighting up with excitement. “Could there be another reason you might be dizzy? You know, when I was pregnant with you, that was my first clue.”
I shook my head and took another bite of the gooey egg, using the buttery pastry to soak up the runny yolk. “No, it’s not that. I did a test.” I had actually taken several tests, but I didn’t want to share that with her or anyone else yet. When Carlos and I decided to start trying for a baby, I figured I would get pregnant quickly, but thus far that hadn’t been the case.
The briefest flash of disappointment crossed her face.
“I’m sorry.” She patted my shoulder and tied on a fire-engine red Torte apron with a silhouette of a single-layer torte embroidered in teal blue. When my parents first opened the bakeshop, they decided to pay homage to the Bard by decorating the space in royal colors and adding touches of Shakespeare like the rotating quote on the chalkboard menu upstairs that today read: “Our doubts are traitors. And make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.”
I nodded but didn’t say more. I wasn’t prone to worry, and I didn’t want to upset Mom, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there might be something wrong.
“I’ve been in the mood for scones. How does a batch of fresh strawberry scones sound?” she asked, moving to the walk-in fridge for butter.
“I’ll never turn down your scones, and I’m happy to chop strawberries if you want to start on the batter.”
She proceeded to cut cold butter into cubes. Using cold butter helps create flakiness in scones. The butter melts as the scones bake, leaving little layers of fat in the dough and giving the breakfast treats a tender texture.
We chatted more as she whisked flour, sugar, baking soda, and salt in a large mixing bowl. She used a pastry cutter to add in the cubed butter and worked the dough until it was coarse and crumbly. Next, she incorporated heavy cream, vanilla, and eggs.
Once a thick dough had formed, she folded in the strawberries and turned the mixture out onto a floured surface. She patted the dough into a large circle and cut it into wedges, finishing them with a light brush of melted butter and a sprinkling of sugar.
As she put them in the oven, my stomach growled in anticipation of tasting the light and airy scones.
“I know I don’t need to say this, but I’m always here for you, no matter what.” Mom closed the oven door. “And for the record it took me a little while to get pregnant with you.”
Steph and Sterling arrived together, followed closely by Marty and Bethany, which saved me from having to go any deeper into the subject.
Sterling, our sous chef, had an uncanny ability to read people, especially me. I think it stemmed from our shared grief. We had both lost parents young, leaving an indelible mark on our tender souls. His steel-blue eyes caught mine ever so briefly as he passed me on his way to the sink to wash his hands.
No words were exchanged, just a subtle nod of acknowledgment that told me he must have heard the tail end of my conversation with Mom.
I swallowed back my emotions and gave him a grateful smile.
Bethany removed the custom order forms from the whiteboard as everyone gathered around the island. She tied up her bouncy curls and reviewed the list of specialty cakes for the day. Her pink T-shirt had an illustration of chocolate chip cookie dough and read SERIOUSLY, DOUGH.
“Nice one.” Andy came downstairs, balancing a tray of sample coffees, and nodded in approval at Bethany’s punny shirt.
Rosa and Sequoia, the final two members of our team, joined us for our morning meeting. Rosa managed the dining room, and Sequoia was a barista, although she had recently started classes at massage school, so I wasn’t sure how long we’d be lucky enough to have her on staff.
I liked to gather everyone to run through the rotation and schedules, and sample our daily specials. Steph helped me cut slices of the egg bake, muffins, and raisin bread.
“Okay, everyone, I want your honest input as always,” Andy said, passing out the samples. “I paired my latest espresso roast with house-made vanilla syrup, cherry blossom water, brown sugar, and oat milk.”
“It smells like I’m walking through Tokyo in the spring,” Marty noted, rolling up the sleeves of his button-down shirt. Marty was in his sixties with white hair and a jovial, warm face that reminded me (and all of the kids who traipsed into the bakeshop) of Santa Claus. “This transports me back to a trip my wife and I took many years ago to experience the cherry blossoms.” He paused for a moment to breathe in Andy’s creation before taking a long, slow sip. A nostalgic smile spread across his face. “Yes, this is why we do what we do. There’s nothing that can capture a memory like food.”
Andy’s cheeks tinged pink with pride. “Thanks, man. I’m glad to hear that.”
Steph sipped her coffee in contemplation. She reached for a sketch pad and began drawing the outline of a cherry tree. “This gives me inspiration. What if we do cherry blossom cakes with light cherry buttercream and fresh preserves? We can pipe something like this on top.” She held her sketch out for everyone to see.
“I love it.” Bethany bobbed her fluffy curls in agreement. “I’m starting on our delivery boxes this week, and I think mini cakes and chocolate cherry brownies would be such a great pairing. Maybe we even do a cherry theme. We could hand paint sugar cookies with cherry blossoms and make cherry bark.”
“What about a cherry and arugula pizza with goat cheese?” Sterling asked, looking to Marty for his input.
“Count me in. We could do a cherry bacon jam, too,” Marty replied.
Mom raised her coffee in a toast to Andy. “Look at this wonderful collaboration, all from your drink.”
Andy shrugged, trying to downplay her praise. “Aww, Mrs. The Professor, stop.”
She winked and took another sip of his latte, keeping her proud gaze on him.
The creamy latte with a touch of sweetness from the cherry blossom water and brown sugar was the perfect antidote for my nausea. It settled my stomach as we went through the plan for the day. Rosa would swap out Torte’s window display to mirror our cherry-baking theme and advertise our partnership with the Fair Verona Players. Sequoia and Andy would manage the espresso bar, while Sterling and Marty focused on savory items and lunch specials. Mom, Bethany, Steph, and I would oversee stocking Torte’s pastry case with cakes, cookies, croissants, and crumpets.
Everyone dispersed to their workstations. I turned my attention to the lemon curd for my cupcakes. I squeezed fresh lemons from the farmers’ market into a saucepan and added butter and cornstarch. I whisked the mixture over low heat until it began to thicken. I made a mental note to swing by the theater later and check in with Lance. I had a feeling that he might want to include some additional items to the menu for opening weekend. The cherry blossom cakes and chocolate cherry brownies seemed like a perfect fit, but I didn’t want to alter his menu without touching base. Plus, I never turned down an excuse to walk to “the bricks,” as we affectionally called the OSF campus, to see Lance.
The morning breezed by in an aromatic symphony of baking bread, simmering soups, and the waft of coffee coming from overhead. By the time we opened the doors to our first customers, the kitchen was a sea of activity, and the pastry case was a feast for the eyes. It never got old to see Torte humming with happy customers. A group of preschoolers camped out near the chalkboard doodling on the bottom half, which we reserved exclusively for our youngest guests. The corrugated metal wainscotting, red and teal accents, and dainty bouquets of yellow tulips made me forget about my dizziness.
Rosa had changed this week’s quote to read: “April … hath put a spirit of youth in everything.” Shakespeare’s words felt fitting for the vibe.
A little before noon, I went upstairs to restock cherry hand pies and discovered Lance in line for coffee. He stood out in his tapered jeans, tailored checkered shirt, and skinny tie.
“Darling, there you are. I was going to come to find you, but it’s already been a morning, so coffee is my first priority.” Lance greeted me with a kiss on both cheeks before pulling away with his eyebrows arched in concern. “Oh, dear. You’re looking a bit peckish today. Are you feeling all right?”
“Fine.” I motioned to the counter where Andy had set Lance’s flat white. “Too much coffee. Not enough sleep.”
“Story of my life.” Lance reached for his drink and then pointed to a window booth. “Can you chat for a minute?”
“Yes, in fact, I was going to come see you later.”
“How fortuitous.” He wiggled his brows and waited for me, making a grand sweeping gesture in front of him. “Beauty before beauty.”
I rolled my eyes and headed for a booth. Rosa was stringing cherry blossom branches from A Rose by Any Other Name next door around the window frame. She had already sprinkled petals across the base of the display, making it look like the window was coated in pale pink snow. I couldn’t wait to see the finished product. Thanks to Rosa’s and Steph’s creativity, our window displays had become a talking point for tourists and locals alike.
Lance slid into the booth across from me. His angular cheekbones and dark hair caught the light, casting a halo over him. He wore his hair shorter than normal and had shaved off any trace of facial hair.
“You look like you’re backlit for the stage,” I said.
He posed with one hand on the side of his cheek. “The light knows where to find me, darling. Always.”
I grinned.
“Speaking of the stage. How are things coming along with the menu for opening?” He dipped his pinkie into the foam on his flat white.
“Great. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you, though. We’re doing a cherry theme here, as you can see.” I motioned to Rosa. “And I wondered if you want us to add a few cherry options to the mix?”
“If it’s anything like that, then yes.” Lance pointed to one of Steph’s tiered cherry blossom cakes on display at the pastry counter.”
“Exactly. Although smaller versions for the dessert bar.”
“Brilliant. Love it. Love it all.” He strummed his fingers together. Then he leaned closer. “Let me tell you what I don’t love.”
“What?”
“The flack I’m getting for staging Taming of the Shrew.”
Taming of the Shrew was the inaugural production for the Fair Verona Players. “To be honest, I’m kind of surprised, too. Isn’t that play a bit controversial?”
“Are the gender roles a bit, shall we say, problematic?” Lance nodded emphatically. “Yes, obviously, but let me tell you, we’ve put our own little spin on it. This is not your grandmother’s Shakespeare, okay? This is Will Shakes, Ashland style. We’ve got Katherine as a fierce and independent woman who doesn’t take any nonsense from Petruchio and Petruchio as a hapless buffoon who is constantly tripping over his own words. It’s a diverse cast, and it’s going to be outrageously fun. We need something whimsical and over the top to draw in a new audience. I’m confident that this production and the talent I’ve pulled together for the Fair Verona Players is going to leave the audience speechless, gasping for breath, and begging for more.”
“I love your humility,” I teased.
“When you’re sitting with greatness.” Lance sighed dramatically. “What can you do?”
I shook my head. “You’re too much, even for you.”
His eyes twinkled, but then he cleared his throat and lowered his voice, his tone turning serious. “Here’s the problem. I’m a bit concerned that nefarious things are afoot. I have the sense that someone is trying to sabotage my Fair Verona Players before we break legs. Items have gone missing—costumes, props. Two days ago, we had a little incident where the set collapsed during a fight scene. Thankfully, no one was injured. And then, mysteriously, a prop gun misfired during a scene. I have no idea how the prop gun even made it onto set. Then yesterday, one of our actors took a tumble during a particularly acrobatic dance sequence. We’ve added a few extra crash mats to the stage, just in case. I’m beginning to wonder if we’re cursed. I mean, it’s not uncommon for theater gremlins to be up to their antics before opening, but I have a bad feeling about this.”
Lance, like most theater directors, was quite superstitious, but I could tell from his fidgety body language and the way that he ran his finger along the rim of his coffee mug that he was worried.
“Who would want to sabotage the show?” I asked.
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” He blew out a long breath and clutched his coffee. “The problem is that my suspect list is growing, and we open in two days. If these supposed accidents continue to happen on set, I’m concerned that one of my fair actors could end up in serious danger, or worse…” He trailed off.
Was Lance merely caught up in theatrics, or was his latest venture teetering on the edge of disaster?