Crumbs and Misdemeanors Read online

  “If this is about money—” Sol said.

  Eloise made a sound like a sigh or maybe a groan. “I only need a small advance. I—”

  But Sol cut her off. “I can’t keep giving you money. You’ve had advances on your last two paychecks, Eloise. It’s too much. You get a good salary here. Why are you so hard up? Do you have some habit I should know about?”

  “No. Nothing like that. I—lost all my savings. Things have been a bit tight. Just trying to get back on my feet.”

  There was a silence and I all but held my breath. Finally, Sol said, in a much gentler tone. “We all have our troubles.”

  I rose from my crouching position carefully and saw Sol shake his head. His hair caught the sun so that it glinted like the edge of a freshly polished steak knife.

  Eloise turned, and I ducked again. If anyone was watching, I’d have looked like I was bobbing for apples. In June. Like a maniac.

  I heard her clear her throat, and then her already deep voice lowered another notch. “Sol, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to.”

  He scoffed. “Oh yeah? I’m surprised you do need the money after all you’ve been skimming off the top here.”

  There was a long silence. I felt my stomach contract. Wow. This was awkward. I’d only just met the poor girl, and now here I was, overhearing her money troubles. As a freelance graphic designer, I knew what it was like to find yourself in a tight spot when a client delayed payment or if there was too long a gap between jobs. You could work as hard as it was possible to work but still not make ends meet when the bills came rolling in. Poor Eloise. My heart went out to her.

  The baker still hadn’t replied.

  “I didn’t say anything when I found out because you’re good at what you do,” Sol said. “A bit moody, but you make the best croissants I’ve ever tasted, and you keep your head down at work. I like that. But ordering supplies and then fudging the invoices to look like they cost more than they did? That’s some ballsy racket you’ve got going on. It’s got to stop. Otherwise, I’ll have to let you go.”

  “Oh, come on!” she shouted back. “What about the joints of meat I’ve seen you walking out with? You think I’m stupid?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I saw him take a step toward her, looking furious. His hand fisted. I didn’t pause to think. I pointed at the box of produce he’d placed on the ground. I said softly,

  Crate.

  Break.

  Let your contents spill.

  My wish fulfill.

  As I will, so mote it be.

  I barely got the first couple of words out when one side of the crate fell and potatoes rolled out.

  “What the—” The chef rushed forward to rescue the rolling potatoes.

  Eloise turned away. I dashed back to the prep area.

  A moment later, she walked back into the kitchen, a big smile on her face, and handed me the apron. But even if I hadn’t overheard that uncomfortable exchange, Eloise’s smile wouldn’t have distracted me from the worry in her eyes. She looked absolutely forlorn.

  “No wonder you haven’t had any success baking bread,” she said, pointing at my mixing bowl, which so far only had flour in it. “You’d better get your skates on if you want to win bread week!”

  Chapter 2

  “There you go, Pops,” Florence said, gallantly setting a glass of red wine on the table. “You look like you need it.”

  Coffee in the day, wine in the evening—that sounded about right. I thanked Florence and took a deep drink. If I thought I’d been exhausted practicing my bread-making skills all week, it was nothing compared with what Eloise put me through today. Sweet as pie, until she suddenly wasn’t, Eloise was a tough taskmaster. I spent all morning helping her prepare bread for the inn’s restaurant, which was fully booked for the weekend. We covered sourdough, rye, soda bread and granary—the loaves which, until now, I’d happily gobbled down at breakfast without giving a second thought to who made them or where the ingredients came from.

  My head was spinning with all the knowledge Eloise had tried to impart in the time we had together. Flour processes, kneading techniques, how to use the right yeast, balance the levels of salt and judge the amount of proving time needed. My fingers ached, my back ached, and my feet ached. And did I feel ready for filming? Nope. I felt like I’d finished a grueling weekend of baking on camera, and we hadn’t started yet.

  If anything, Eloise’s expertise and instinctive knowledge around bread dough had only made me more aware of my shortcomings. I just hoped that this brain of mine had soaked up some of her knowledge and could use it when it was crunch time. An early night was in order. This was my last chance to get some rest. No doubt I’d be dreaming of bread rising all night.

  Florence settled herself beside me. She was wearing a khaki jumpsuit that complemented the chestnut curls that hung loosely around her shoulders. The remaining bakers had checked into their rooms in the late afternoon, and we were gathered at our usual table, poring over the menu. The pub was busy, the sound of laughter and wineglasses clinking filled the air, and I tried hard to unclench the muscles in my stomach, roll back my shoulders and let myself relax. It was Friday night. I’d worked hard, and now it was time to switch off for a few hours.

  Darius walked over to take our food orders. He’d obviously been out in the sun this week, and his olive skin glowed. His black hair had grown a little, too, and he’d brushed it away from his forehead in a debonair style reminiscent of forties Hollywood heartthrobs. He greeted Florence with a grin, and they exchanged a few words in Greek, Florence tossing her hair over her shoulder coquettishly.

  Hamish raised his eyebrows, but I’d long stopped being shocked by Florence’s compulsive flirting. She was who she was, and there wasn’t any harm in a little cheeky grin or six, so why not let her be? When Darius had finished flashing his perfectly white teeth at Florence, he turned his attention to the rest of us, and I ordered a chicken parmigiana. I needed protein and a little cheesy goodness to fill the gnawing ache in my belly.

  Maggie caught my eye across the table and asked about my week. I shook my head miserably. “Tough. How about yours? What’s your signature bake tomorrow?”

  “A sweet soda bread,” Maggie said, smiling, “with toasted pecans and chocolate chips. My grandchildren love it. I’ve been their favorite relative this week.”

  “I’m sure you’re their favorite every week,” I replied. If I had to sketch a picture of a loving grandmother, I was sure it would look exactly like Maggie. With her soft white hair, kindly smile, and round glasses, which hung around her neck on a golden chain, she was the perfect good-natured grandparent. I loved the elegant twin sets she wore, always in pastel hues. Today, she had on a pair of understated mother-of-pearl earrings, and I complimented them.

  “A gift from my son last Christmas,” she said, glowing.

  Darius returned with a basket of sliced warm baguette. I moaned and declined a piece. “As if I can even look at bread right now,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s officially my enemy.”

  “It’s a very good idea for you to stay away from the carbs, Poppy,” Florence agreed, glancing at my belly. I was shocked. Had I gained weight? Or had she misunderstood?

  Gaurav laughed. “I can never eat too much bread. I love it.”

  “It’s delicious, but it doesn’t love me back,” I said. “I definitely don’t have the knack.”

  “That’s how I feel about patisserie,” Hamish said. “The knack—that’s exactly the right word. It’s like my brain isn’t wired to make petite, precise cakes. I’m not neat enough. I don’t have that delicate touch you need to get all those details right.”

  “Patisserie is like a distant dream to me,” I replied. “I can’t even get a simple loaf to rise properly.” My insecurity was getting the better of me. Why was no one else fazed by bread week?

  “Nonsense, Poppy,” Florence said. “You’re a super baker—surely something as simple as bread can’t elude y
ou?”

  I shrugged, embarrassed to admit that it had.

  I directed the attention away from me and onto Gaurav, asking about his plans for tomorrow. He was making a savory soda bread with beetroot and caraway seeds.

  “I discovered that using yogurt mixed with a spoonful of milk, rather than buttermilk, works really well in this combination. I roast the beetroots with a little honey glaze to sweeten them up, and that complements the caraway perfectly. The loaf is a lovely pink color.”

  I was impressed. After experimenting all week with flavor combinations, I’d decided that my best chance of success was to keep things simple and classic with an Irish soda bread recipe.

  “I’m worried that it might be a bit boring,” I confided to Gaurav, “but if I get it right, then the caramelized onions and cheddar will be warm, earthy and wholesome.”

  He nodded. “Nothing wrong with sticking to a classic, especially if you don’t feel like bread is your strong suit.”

  But as I listened to the others talk about their signature bake, I realized I was the only one playing it safe. Florence was making a lemon and black pepper loaf, which sounded incredible; Hamish a bacon and rosemary combination, which sounded lovely. No one seemed even remotely as nervous as me, which, of course, only heightened my nerves even further.

  Luckily, all talk of bread ceased as our main courses arrived, and the table went silent for a moment, feasting on that first sumptuous bite of their chosen dish. As usual, I was ravenous, and the parmigiana was the perfect antidote to a day’s hard work. I took another sip of red wine and listened to Florence gossip about a date she’d been on in the week. I’d no idea how she found the time for romance. Or Gaurav, either. Had everyone had a dose of some confidence potion this week? Wasn’t I supposed to be the one with the potions?

  It was only after I’d scraped every last morsel from my plate that I noticed Eve had left her usual position behind the bar. She was sitting at a table in the corner, hunched over what looked to be a deck of cards.

  Florence followed my gaze. “Tarot!” she squealed. “I didn’t know that Eve read tarot cards.”

  “Neither did I!” I said, equally surprised. Eve had kept that talent quiet.

  “Let’s go get a reading,” Florence said, pulling on the sleeve of my cardigan.

  “I don’t think I want to know what’s in my future,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, but I meant it. I had enough visions of my own to contend with.

  But Florence, being Florence, wouldn’t take no for an answer. She dragged me over to Eve’s table and, with a charming smile, asked if we could join her.

  Eve obliged and pulled out two chairs. She said Darius had begged her for a quick reading after she’d revealed she read tarot. “It’s a family tradition,” she said, smiling, a playful look flitting across her face. “Have you ever had your cards read?”

  I shook my head. The world of tarot cards was one I knew very little about apart from what I’d seen in the movies, which was mostly images of swirling incense, candles, beaded curtains, glass ceramics and death cards. I’d thought of tarot readers as mysterious and elaborately dressed—not my lovely down-to-earth Eve.

  “Me first,” Florence called out. “I’m wanting to know what—or who—is in my stars.”

  “Och, me too.” I turned to see that Hamish, Gaurav, and Darius had joined us.

  “You’ve drawn quite a crowd,” I said to Eve.

  She laughed and agreed to do one or two cards for everyone. “But not a full reading. We’ve still got work to do, Darius! This pub won’t run by itself.” Darius chuckled and agreed they’d get back to it in five minutes.

  The others pulled up a stool, and Eve began to shuffle the cards. The cards were larger than I imagined a tarot deck to be and were obviously well-loved, as some of the edges were bent and beaten up. I suddenly felt nervous, although I couldn’t think why.

  Don’t let the week get to you, Pops, I admonished myself. You need to keep something in the tank for the weekend.

  Eve glanced around at her rapt audience. “You must think of a question that you’d like to ask the cards—just one, and then I’ll pull one card from the deck.”

  Florence, ever dramatic, let her eyes flutter and took a deep breath in.

  “Now remember that the cards are a practical guide to help you create your own future,” Eve said, lowering her voice. “You are in control. The cards work with whatever energy you bring, and whatever your current circumstances, the future can always be changed. Tarot is about intuition, learning to listen.”

  “Got it,” Florence said with a grin.

  “Are you asking if a tall, dark, handsome man will walk into your life? Because I can answer that one for free,” Darius joked.

  The glance she sent him in return should have come with a heat warning. Yeesh. Could someone get those two a room?

  Luckily, Eve ignored Darius and turned over a card.

  Florence glowed. “The Magician.”

  I studied the image, trying to figure out what it meant. The card was mustard yellow, a man in a white and red robe center stage, holding a scepter. On a table beside him was a gold goblet and some other items I couldn’t quite make out. It looked more mysterious than magical.

  “What does it mean?” Hamish asked.

  “The card has many meanings, but here I feel it is about manifesting your destiny,” Eve replied, her voice suddenly solemn. “Talent and power are at your fingertips if you put them to good use. You must keep your focus. It’s best to keep your imagination open with this card—that way, you let the magic in.”

  Florence didn’t say what she’d asked the card, but I guessed it was to do with her being a famous actress. The Magician must have been music to her ears. She smiled broadly, and Darius patted her gently on the shoulder.

  “Gaurav, what about you?” Eve asked.

  Florence switched seats, and Gaurav sat opposite Eve. He looked nervous, but Eve reassured him that nothing bad would come from the cards. As with Florence, she instructed Gaurav to think of a question he wanted to ask the cards. He smiled. She drew a card.

  “Oooh, you got The Lovers!” Florence squealed.

  Poor Gaurav blushed beetroot.

  “This card indicates a relationship coming into your life,” Eve said. “It might be romantic in nature, but not necessarily—it could be any relationship where good communication is involved. This card can also indicate a choice, and it’s here to remind you to follow your heart but not without examining honestly which path is best for you to follow.”

  Hamish nudged me and whispered, “That’s got to be about him and the bridesmaid, right? Sounds like a proper romance.”

  “You’re as bad as Florence,” I chided playfully. “And Lauren was the bride-to-be.”

  “I heard that!” Florence said. “Time for you to face the cards, Poppy. I can’t wait to see what you get.”

  I felt bad for implying that Florence was dramatic as I, too, closed my eyes and took a deep breath in. I was suddenly nervous. I thought I didn’t want to know the future, but as soon as I let myself relax the question came to me.

  “Done,” I said to Eve solemnly.

  She turned over the card.

  “That does not look good,” I said in a quiet voice. The card displayed a skeleton with a scythe.

  “The DEATH card!” Florence shrieked.

  “Now, now, calm down,” Eve chided. “The death card doesn’t mean death, though it can. It’s more complicated than that.”

  I swallowed. The babble of the room faded away into nothing until all I heard was the sound of my own blood pumping in my ears.

  “This is a card about endings, not the actual death of a person. It encourages you to allow the old to go out and let the new come in to make way for growth and transition. The card shows us that a new cycle is ahead for you, Poppy. It wants you to release your attachment to what was and welcome the transformation ahead.”

  “Um, okay,” I murmured, still t
ransfixed by the terrible sight of the skeleton.

  “Death of dreams, perhaps,” Eloise said from behind me. I turned to see her staring at the card with an odd expression on her face. I hadn’t heard her join us, but I wondered if she was thinking about her career. Had she once dreamed of being a famous baker and now found herself turning out croissants in an inn kitchen while a celebrity baking show was being filmed so near to her? That could be tough. I was even more grateful now that she’d put her own concerns aside to help me.

  Hamish tapped my arm. “Poppy, what was your question?”

  I gulped and then couldn’t help but laugh. “If I could survive bread week!”

  Eloise said, “Why don’t you draw another card?”

  “A good idea, dear,” Eve replied.

  Darius excused himself and said he’d have to get back to the bar.

  A little reluctantly, I took another card and turned it over. At the center of the card was a giant wheel, filled with symbols I didn’t understand. Outside the wheel were an angel, eagle, bull and lion, each with wings.

  “Ooh, The Wheel of Fortune,” Florence said.

  “That sounds better.” I hoped the wheel of fortune would put a good spin on my immediate future, but Eve looked serious. She played with her long, gray braid.

  “The Wheel of Fortune is reversed.” I saw what she meant. I’d pulled the card and placed it so it was upside down. But did that really matter? However, looking at Eve’s face, I got the feeling it did.

  Florence let out her breath. “Goodness, Poppy, whatever is on your mind is a real bummer.”

  Eve’s green eyes filled with worry, and I held her gaze, not daring to ask what it meant.

  “This is one of the most highly symbolic cards in the deck. In its reverse form, The Wheel of Fortune means that luck has not been on your side and misfortunes have been following you.”

  “You can say that again. Poppy’s always nearby when misfortune strikes around here,” Hamish said. “But what if it’s not as bad as it sounds? When tragedy does strike, you’re the one to put things right.”