Lou used her stand mixer to cream the butter, blending until it was smooth. She poured in the sugar and kept mixing until the batter was pale and fluffy. Ingredients in baking were mixed in a specific way to create a specific result—a lot like relationships, Lou thought. If people didn’t blend well together, you’d never get the outcome you wanted. Next, she added the coconut extract and Harley’s vanilla. Before capping the vanilla, Lou dabbed a little behind her ears as if it were Chanel N°5.
She added the flour and coconut mixture, a little of each at a time, to the butter mixture. The key to a light, delicate cake was to not overmix; handling it too much made the cake dense and tough. If you tried too hard, you ruined it. She wanted Devlin to understand and love the restaurant as much as she did, but every attempt to involve him ended in anger and silence. Too much mixing, Lou thought.
She looked into the bowl. The perfect mix. At least she could get this right.
Lou divided the cake batter into the pans and carried them to the baking ovens. Harley heard her coming.
“Turn back around,” he said.
“Harley, I need to bake them.”
“It’s bad enough you wear my vanilla like perfume; you can’t use my baking ovens, too.”
“Technically, they’re my ovens.”
Harley crossed his arms and stood in front of them. “I have bread proofing.”
“Fine.” Lou stomped back to the main cooking line and put the cakes into the small, yellow-doored oven behind the grill station. This was the oven she used when a dish needed roasting or braising, not quite as precise as the baking ovens, but it’d do. After all, her grandmother had never used a fancy oven. She walked the dirty bowls to the sink, using her finger to scoop up leftover batter, closing her eyes to fully experience the balanced flavors—not too sweet, plenty of coconut, but not so much you couldn’t taste the vanilla. Perfect. Grandma would be proud.
“You want in on this?” Lou held out the bowl. Harley walked over, took a fingerful, and dabbed it on his tongue.
“And?” asked Lou.
“Should have used the scale.” But Lou could see a faint smile in his whiskers. As his hand reached for another sample, she pulled it away.
“Then no more for you.” She set it by the sink and walked away but saw Harley sneak the bowl back to his corner.
With the cakes baking, Lou made some breakfast for the two of them. She slapped a few slices of bacon on the heated griddle. Sizzling started immediately and the scent of rising coconut cake mingled with the smoky salt of bacon. “Heaven.” She buttered day-old baguettes to toast, then cracked a few eggs for breakfast sandwiches. “Now some cheese. Brie? Emmental? Mmm, smoky onion cheddar.”
The sounds of her cooking bounced around the empty restaurant like a Super Ball, reminding her of where she was and why. She still couldn’t believe Luella’s was hers, that she’d mustered the guts to open it. If Sue and Harley hadn’t promised to work for her, she never would have done it. Going it alone was never an option. Each month she felt a thrill of shock when her balance sheet squeaked into the black. The profits were tiny, but they existed. After over a year of hard work, it looked like Luella’s just might make it.
Standing at the sink to eat breakfast, Lou drained two cups of coffee laced with enough sugar and cream to make it dessert. She set her dishes in the sink for the dishwasher just as the timer dinged. Heat blasted out when she opened the oven; the sweet smell of coconut saturated her nose. The cakes glowed with golden perfection, tender to the touch—perfect. She had made four rounds, so that if she screwed up two taking them out of the pans, she’d have backups. Besides, her staff would devour the backup cake during prep. While the cakes cooled, Lou made the frosting: more softened unsalted butter, more fresh coconut milk—just enough to make it spreadable—powdered sugar, and more of the precious vanilla. So creamy and decadent, Lou used her finger to scoop out a Ping-Pong-ball-sized glob.
After frosting the cake and sprinkling on toasted coconut for a little crunch, Lou glanced at the clock. The little hand hovered by the seven.
“Damn!” Lou slid the freshly frosted confection onto the cardboard box, then folded it around the cake. She tied the box closed with butcher’s twine, grabbed her keys, waved to Harley, and rushed to the door as Sue entered the kitchen. Lou noticed Harley stop and stare at the newest arrival.
“Morning, Lou. Hey, Harley. Coffee on?” Sue said in his direction, avoiding eye contact. Eyeing the box in Lou’s hands and sniffing the vanilla-and-coconut-scented kitchen, she finished braiding her long, red hair. She always wore two braids while cooking. If things got really hot, she’d tie them on top of her head in an overexcited Pippi Longstocking look. Lou smiled at Sue’s no-nonsense greeting.
“Yup,” said Lou. “Gotta go, I’ve got to run some errands before I surprise Devlin with his cake. He’s expecting it tonight, but I thought a prework birthday party would be a nice treat. I’ll be back later. The backup cake is by the coffee—dig in.” Then Lou leaned in to whisper, “Let me know what Harley says.”
“Sure thing.” Sue walked out to the coffee station, then, with a mouth full of cake, added, “He doesn’t deserve you, Lou.” But Lou rushed out the front door toward the corner, purse in one hand and cake in the other, eager to surprise her fiancé.
• CHAPTER TWO •
Al Waters stood at the corner of St. Paul and Milwaukee Streets, a crisp, white note card in one hand, irritation on his face, and the wind at his back. The snow-white, thick paper had two imperfections: blue-gray engraved initials, DP, in the bottom right, and a suggestion, “Mr. Wodyski, Consider visiting Luella’s at 320 St. Paul Street.”
In response to such a succinct directive, Al had made all the arrangements so A. W. Wodyski could dine incognito at Luella’s tonight. Right now, he just needed to find the bloody place: “Three-oh-six, 312, 320. Here it is.” On the back of the card, he scrawled,
Hours
S, T–H 5–10
F+S 5–12
Al studied the entrance. He liked to scout restaurants before dining to see what they looked like without the hustle and bustle of other patrons as a distraction. Through the window, he could see a woman with ginger braids near the kitchen doors. The chef, most likely. Luella’s—dull name—probably a grandmother, thought Al. He looked at the menu posted in a small, bronze-framed box to the right of the restaurant’s entrance. His mouth grimaced at the laundry list of ordinary French dishes. The review practically wrote itself.
Al shivered and headed back toward Milwaukee Street, scowling at the chill wind whistling between the city buildings, a contrast to the bright, blue sky above him. He remembered seeing a Starbucks a few blocks away and could use a hot cup of tea, even from there. As he walked into the crowded coffee shop, the caffeinated air slapped him in the face. Coffee had no subtlety. It was bitter at best, mud from a rubbish heap at worst. He could manage a latte or mocha, but that didn’t count as coffee. Al shuffled to the counter to order his Earl Grey with a splash of milk. Starbucks had an absurd tea selection—Darjeeling and Earl Grey were the only reasonable options. The rest involved berries and herbs, which no self-respecting Englishman would order.
He waited for his tea at the pickup counter, tapping his foot at a rapid pace. Finally, he grabbed the hot drink and worked his way through the caffeine-deprived crowd toward the door, still polite and smiling at him as he pushed through. What were they so cheery about at seven in the morning?