Carson picks up the Rhett Velvet and pops it in his mouth with a groan. “How do you make these so good?”
“It’s a gift. Has he put in an offer for this lot?” I ask.
“We have someone working on it.”
Fred makes a derisive noise.
“What? It’s only a matter of time. Despite who you may know at Crawford and Company, money is louder than friendship.”
Fred says, “We don’t just know someone at Crawford and Company, we know one of the founders. As a matter of fact, the whole family is super tight with Scarlett, so you just try it, buddy.”
Fred! I slap a hand over her mouth. Carson watches us, a half-smile on his face.
“It’s been great talking to you Carson, but we have to prep for an event tonight.”
“Do you?” He’s intrigued. “Which event?”
“Not telling you. We’ve given you enough for one visit.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Bye, Carson.” Fred closes the window on his surprised face and then turns to me. “Sorry. I get a little defensive and my mouth moves without my permission. But it’ll be fine. I didn’t give him much to go on. And you need to go home and get ready. I’ll head to the commissary and get the stuff to the event within the hour.”
“Thank you, Fred. You’re a life saver.” Literally. She does so much more than take orders on the truck and bake. She helps with social media, she does a lot of local deliveries, and she sometimes cleans and parks the truck at the commissary. Something we have to do every night, as required by the New York Health Department. Or as I like to call them, the people who bring on the pain and make things as difficult as humanly possible.
“Yeah, yeah.” She waves me off. “Make sure you put on extra makeup before you go tonight because you look exhausted.”
“Gee, thanks Fred. You sure you don’t want to come with me?”
“Nah. I want to be home when Jack gets off work.”
It must be nice to have someone to come home to. Once upon a time, I wanted it badly enough to date a whole variety of losers and users. It’s not like I have high standards, I just have a vision in my head of what my life would be like—if I had someone. Someone to snuggle with on the couch while we argued over what to watch on TV. Someone I could call up for no real reason, just to have a mundane conversation about my day, or the weather, or how I got scared again by that guy who hides in the bushes by Mullaly Park. All of those ordinary moments made worthwhile simply by sharing them with someone who actually cares.
At least I have good friends and For Goodness Cakes. That has to be enough.
Chapter Two
Chefs are nutters. They’re all self-obsessed, delicate, dainty, insecure little souls and absolute psychopaths. Every last one of them.
–Gordon Ramsay
Guy
I push open the heavy wood door to Decadence and stalk through the empty dining area to the kitchen where about a half-dozen staff are laughing and talking.
One of them, the line cook, spots me at the door and his mouth slams shut. One by one, the rest of the group ceases conversation until only one employee is still laughing. After Julio nudges him with a shoulder, he turns and the laughter cuts off abruptly. He stands up straight, face pale, eyes on his feet. He’s the newest hire. Julio’s cousin. He vouched for him and now they’re both downcast and subdued, as contrite as a couple of five-year-olds caught with their hands in the cookie jar.
“We’ve got one hour to prep. Get to work,” I bark.
They immediately follow my bidding, feet scampering, dishes clanking faster and louder.
I head back to my office. Just outside the door, my assistant is sitting at his small desk, typing away at his laptop.
“Carson. Go find out something useful about that food truck.”
“On it, boss.” He gives me a jaunty salute and exits with almost too much haste.
Either he can’t wait to get away from me, or those cupcakes are that good. The thought does nothing to ease my foul mood. Carson has been too willing to drop everything and rush over there.
I sit on the leather seat at the small desk and sort through the invoices Carson left in the tray on the corner, organized exactly the way I like it, by date and location. I check e-mails, responding to some marketing questions and forwarding requests for meetings to Carson for scheduling.
My alarm goes off at precisely five o’clock. I have to call the girls since I’ll be home late, but first….
I pace out to the kitchen where the staff is busy and bustling, no more laughter and chatting. Quick and efficient movement, just like it should be.
I can control everything except the owner of that damn food truck. I can’t even talk to her.
My phone dings with an incoming text. It’s from Emma, a series of random emojis. I send some back and then pick up the phone to call Clara and check on the girls.
Clara is a part time nurse and caregiver. She helps me with my sisters’ care and therapy and shuttles them to and from school when I can’t. She’s been a godsend—finding someone who can help watch over the girls and help Emma with various therapies was a true blessing.
While we’re talking, Carson comes back in and sits at his desk outside my office and types furiously on his computer.
What is he doing?
Carson stands up and grabs something off our communal printer outside my office. Without making direct eye contact, he walks in and sits carefully in the chair opposite my desk, setting his notepad and printed materials in his lap, and waiting until I’ve finished my conversation.
“Well?” I ask after I’ve hung up with Clara.
“I found . . .” He sighs and meets my eyes. “I knew Scarlett had an inside connection with someone at Crawford and Company. But now I know who it is.”
“Who?”
“Marc Crawford. His family are the original owners.”
“How is that possible?” A two-bit chef, buddies with someone like that? Anyone can throw a small cake together and hack some frosting on it.
“About a year and half ago, there was an article.” He sets papers in front of me. It’s a printout of an article from the gossip website Page Seven. It’s about Gwen McDougall, current fiancé to Marc Crawford. Marc’s family owns Crawford and Company. I skim down the article, something about Gwen rescuing another woman from being drugged by a date.
“That’s her.” Carson points at a small, grainy, black and white photo of two women.
“Who? Gwen?”
“No, well, yes. The tall one is Gwen. The woman she’s standing with? That’s Scarlett Jackson.”
I consider the poor-quality photo. Can’t make out much more than a petite frame and small nose. The rest is a bit of a pixelated blur. Can’t even tell the color of her eyes.
“So, you’re saying she knows Marc’s fiancé, but Marc doesn’t even work there anymore.” I rifle through the stack of new invoices set at the corner of my desk, searching for the ones from Crawford and Company. I’m sure I have the name of a rep somewhere…. I can hound someone about this, I’m sure of it.
Carson rolls his eyes. “It’s a good thing you have me because you know nothing about anything important. Marc’s still invested in the company. There’s still some other connection, through Marc Crawford, and Scarlett has it.”