Bet on My Heart

“Ooh. The new in place. You are moving up in the world.” Hazel helped Hendrix adjust the dress.

Hendrix stepped back to view herself in the full-length mirror clamped to the wall. Nice. A little nip at the waist and it would be perfect. She twisted and turned to see herself fully. “I’m going to wear this swing dancing next week. And I have just the right shoes for it.” She’d found navy blue platform shoes in a sale bin at a resale store in San Francisco a couple years ago and she’d been saving them for just the right dress.

She wondered if Donovan did swing dancing. That would be a hoot, watching him trying to keep up with her doing the Lindy Hop or the jitterbug. She did a couple steps of the Lindy Hop and watched in satisfaction at the way the skirt flowed around her long legs in just the right wave action. This dress was perfect. She twisted her hips in a couple more moves and grinned at Hazel.

“I’ll take it.” She had room on her credit card and with the new job she would be able to pay the card next month and still indulge herself.

Hazel helped her out of the dress and back into her own clothes. She fondled the dress as Hazel folded it and led her to the front of the store.

She walked out into the blazing Reno sun ready to take on the culinary world.

* * *

“The guests at table five are demanding to see the executive chef,” the hostess, Rena Masters, said as she ran through the kitchen.

Donovan took off his apron and made his way through the kitchen and out into the restaurant to table five, wondering if they were complaining or complimenting. It was always a crapshoot.

“Are you the executive chef?” a woman demanded. She was in her early sixties with snow-white hair and a lovely face that owed its youthfulness to genetics rather than Botox. The man with her was distinguished-looking. He nodded politely after a smile.

“I’m Donovan Russell,” Donovan said.

“I’m Lenore Abernathy. This is my husband, Bruce. You’re apple custard tarts are divine. I’ve never had one so amazing before. How much do I have to pay you to get this recipe for my restaurant?”

Donovan reeled. The whole restaurant community knew who Lenore Abernathy was. Her restaurant, Piquant, was world famous. “It’s a secret recipe.”

She stared at him and he tried not to quake. “I would kill for your secret recipe.”

Donovan was too stunned to think straight. “Um...” How would he tell her that he had no idea what his new pastry chef had put in the tart?

“Donovan Russell,” Bruce said. “I know your name. Don’t you own Le Noir in Paris?”

“I did. I sold it to come to Reno and help my grandmother out.”

Lenore nodded sagely. “I read about your grandmother. She won this place in a poker game.”

“That’s my grandmother.”

“Bruce and I are on our annual food tour,” Lenore explained. “And I need this recipe. I will be happy to call it the Russell tart.”

“I don’t know if I want to be a tart,” Donovan said.

Lenore stared at him, eyes wide with surprise, and burst into laughter. “I do like a man with a sense of humor.” She pointed at the empty chair across from her. “Sit down. Let’s talk food.”

Donovan couldn’t refuse. She was authoritative, a bit too much like his grandmother. He couldn’t say no to one of the most successful restaurateurs in the United States. He sat down and tried to figure out what he was going to say to her. He couldn’t say he didn’t know what Hendrix had added. And he couldn’t just make something up and expect Lenore to be satisfied. She was astute, shrewd and a woman of substance. She would know he was lying.

“As you know, recipes are sacred,” he began.

Her eyes narrowed. “Piquant is not only known for its dinners, but its desserts. And my clientele also buys my upscale frozen foods. I want to try this out in my restaurant. Who knows, it might make its way into the frozen food section of your favorite supermarket.”

Donovan listened, thinking hard. His grandmother had told him food would bring people in. People came for the gambling and stayed for the extras. Having the tart featured at Piquant would also put the Mariposa on the map of food connoisseurs looking for the newest food experience.

He had two thoughts. First he had to sample the tart. Second he had to talk to Hendrix and find out what she did.

“I need to think about this and talk to my grandmother.” And he should probably talk to a lawyer. He’d developed the basic recipe, but Hendrix had added to it, which he figured would make them co-owners. The whole idea was too confusing to think about at that moment.

“That’s good enough,” Lenore said. “My husband and I are leaving tomorrow, but we’ll be back later in the summer. I will admit we love this hotel. The service is exceptional and the spa is to die for. Who knew I would find this gem in Reno? We’ll be in touch.”

Donovan knew when he’d been dismissed. He stood, thanked them both and retreated to the kitchen. He needed to talk to his grandmother, as well.

Having Lenore Abernathy want to add his dessert to her menu was an incredible opportunity. Yet, he was annoyed with Hendrix for doing exactly what he’d asked her not to do.

He grabbed an apple custard tart on his way through the kitchen. In his office, he sat at his desk and stared at it. The tart looked innocent enough and it was beautiful. Creamy custard bathed the apple slices arranged in a circle. A golden raisin anchored the center with two crescent shaped kiwis forming the leaves. The tart was a work of art. How had Hendrix found the time to do this? She was only one woman working the whole shift alone.

His brother Scott walked into his office, a half-eaten brownie in his hand. “Hey, bro. When did your dessert skills get so good? This is damn snacky.” He held up a brownie.

“I can make a dessert.”

Scott studied him. “What you can do with a steak is akin to Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel. But desserts? Not so much. Do not make me remind you of the ‘what’ cake.”

Donovan almost shuddered. He remembered the “what” cake too clearly. The “what” cake was Donovan’s first attempt to make a cake by himself when he was eight years old. Everything had gone according to the recipe, but when he took the cake out of the oven, the top layer looked more like a ramp than a perfectly domed cake. He tried to use icing to correct the slant, but the icing turned out too wet and kept sliding off. Miss E. wouldn’t allow them to waste the cake and made them eat it. Donovan’s oldest brother, Hunter looked at the cake and said, “what cake is that?”

“I’ve improved.”

“Right.” Scott just grinned.

Donovan grabbed the brownie and took a bite. The flavors practically exploded on his tongue. The brownie was a light yet dense chocolate extravaganza with undertones that made his mouth water. The basic recipe was his, but she’d added something to it. What was the last bit of flavor? Maple! No, not maple. Caramel? Maybe. And a touch of something else he couldn’t identify. Damn, the brownie was good. More than good, decadent. More than decadent—it was food fit for the gods.

The woman could cook. First her tart was going to put him on the foodie radar and now her brownie was touched by hands of angels. If this was only a small indication of what Hendrix was capable of, he was going to have to live with her kookiness.

“I have to get two more to take home to Nina,” Scott said.

“Nina is going to spin this, isn’t she?”

“This brownie is going to be on a billboard.”

Donovan could see the billboard in his mind and tried not to shudder. He did like his soon to be sister-in-law, but her mind never shut down. Donovan had already had one meeting with her in which she’d lain out her campaign to make the restaurants a five-star attraction. Nina was a bulldozer, jamming ideas at him every chance she got, making him want to run back to Paris.

His food had been the star of his restaurant in Paris. His reputation was his food. He wanted it to be the star of the casino, but Hendrix’s desserts were eclipsing him. First, Lenore Abernathy and now Scott raved about the desserts but said nothing about the food. He would have to up his game. His food needed to outshine the desserts. How? He didn’t know yet. His philosophy was all about slow and steady winning the race. When he developed a dish, he spent days thinking about it and weeks experimenting. His process was drawn out, painstaking and emotionally exhausting. And in one week, Hendrix, who just seemed to throw things together without thinking, had bested him.

Scott punched him on the arm. “Where did you just go in your head?”

“Thinking. Thinking...about...scallops.” He wasn’t certain he could tell his brother his ego had just gotten a big old kick in the butt. That would be unmanly.

“Really. Scallops. You didn’t have a scallops look on your face.”

Donovan frowned at his brother. Finally, he shrugged. “Since we’re grown-ups, I’ll confess. Hendrix Beausolie, the new pastry chef, made the brownies. And her desserts are better than my food and I don’t I like it.” His ego was definitely taking a huge hit.

Scott grinned. “That’s my brother—always has to be the prettiest one at the dance, or no one is going to have any fun.”

“I’m not going feel ashamed that my ego is dented. Maybe a little healthy competition is just what I need.” In school, his instructors had told him he had a gift for food. He’d studied hard and worked hard developing his technique. To have another person with no formal training and a haphazard approach outshine him was just plain insulting. In Paris, he made it to the top in a city of outstanding chefs. Reno wasn’t exactly the food Capitol of the world and he hardly expected to find any real competition. He’d accepted the challenge of building a dynasty with his family because he’d known, despite his reservations, that his grandmother was on to something.

Hunter and Scott thought Miss E.’s winning the Mariposa was a fluke. Donovan, being the youngest, had spent a lot of time studying his grandmother. He’d watched Miss E. manipulate them all into getting what she wanted. There would never be a middle-of-the-road goal for the Russell clan.

He’d watched his grandmother channel them all into the careers they’d entered once she’d figured out where their interests lay. Kenzie and Hunter were the artistic ones. Scott had had the potential to be either a cop or a master criminal, but Miss E. put him on the right road. And as for him, she’d known he enjoyed puttering with food and tastes. Even as a child, he loved to cook. She was a good cook herself, but her food was an expression of her love for her grandchildren, rather than just a skill set.

He wondered what food meant to Hendrix. Donovan got pleasure out of watching people eat his food and be transported by the combination of tastes and the artistic presentation. He suspected Hendrix wasn’t interested in watching people eat, she wanted to play with tastes more to amuse herself than for accolades. And she liked to eat. He’d seen her dip a finger into batter and taste it. He’d also noticed how she made small samples for herself, which she also ate before she pronounced whatever cake or pie or tart she’d made good enough to be served to the public.

He had to find out what she was doing, how she was doing it and how to channel her technique so that it would benefit everyone. She’d bruised his ego, but his ego wasn’t a fragile thing. Cooking wasn’t for sissies. One of his teachers at the Cordon Bleu once told him, to ensure success in this business you to have skin as thick as your ego is big. And Donovan had a very thick skin.

Chapter 4

Hendrix parked her car across the street from Mitzi’s bakery. She sat for a moment deep breathing, trying to get up the courage to pick up her last paycheck all while avoiding Mitzi’s two daughters.

Mitzi was only in her early seventies, and there was still a lot of life in her. Mitzi hadn’t wanted to retire, but she’d had a ministroke and seen the writing on the wall. So Hendrix had made an offer to buy half the bakery and Mitzi had accepted. Mitzi made plans to do some traveling, but then she’d had a major stroke and lapsed into a coma. Lisa and Susie had promised they would keep the bakery on its feet, but then told Hendrix the buy-in deal was off because there was no physical contract to support her assertion that Mitzi wanted to sell her half the bakery. Hendrix had been furious. To have her dream within reach and then removed had left her ready to spit nails. Instead, she’d walked out and never returned.

She felt guilty for jumping ship. She owed Mitzi, but she couldn’t stand Mitzi’s daughters and knew her heart wouldn’t be in her baking. And not loving her work would be worse than making crappy food.

Hendrix pushed open the door. The overhead blower, designed to keep flies out, activated.

The bakery wasn’t large. Five small tables were arranged along the window in the front with the bakery case. The register and prep area took up almost the entire back half of the room. No one stood behind the register and Hendrix tried not to frown. Lisa and Susie should have known better than to leave the register untended. Mitzi had been robbed once by a man who’d simply reached over, pushed the open button and grabbed the tray when the drawer slid open.

Besides the smell of yeasty baked goods, the added aroma of coffee filled the room. A couple of Mitzi’s regulars sat at the tables. They all turned and looked at her.

“Hendrix,” Josie Richland yelled. “Are you back? Please say you’re back. Please, please, please.” She folded her hands in prayer. Josie was a tall, slim woman in her midthirties with pale hair bleached almost white by the sun. Her skin was an attractive tan, testament to her many hours a week jogging so she could eat Hendrix’s champagne cake.

Hendrix was too surprised to say anything. She just shook her head and stared at the other woman who ran across the old tile floor to fling her arms around Hendrix.

“What’s wrong?” Hendrix said.

“The champagne cake sucks. The strudel is obnoxious and the cupcakes are like rocks. The only decent thing here is the coffee. Mitzi and you aren’t here anymore, and the bakery is sliding into oblivion.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Please tell us where you’ve landed so we can change over. We’ve just been hanging around hoping to catch you.”

“I came to get my last check,” Hendrix explained. “Where is everyone?”

“Lisa is God knows where. Susie’s probably in the alley smoking. Billy is in the back getting beans for a fresh batch of coffee. And don’t worry—we were watching the register for him. I know you always said never to leave it unattended. Though I doubt there’s much money in it.” Josie looked sad.

Billy pushed through the double doors leading into the back carrying a bag of coffee. “Sorry it took so long. Lisa and Susie haven’t ordered supplies for over a week. This is the last bag.” He held up the coffee. His gaze lit up when he saw Hendrix. “Are you back? Cause if you aren’t, you need to find a way to get me out of here.”

Billy attended Reno Community College and studied restaurant management. Hendrix was never sure how he would get a job with his dark Goth look, tats and piercings, even if he did have charm and he was the best assistant baker she’d ever had. What that man could do with bread was what Miles Davis did with a trumpet. Sheer heavenly magic.

In the past week, her desserts were proving to be very popular, and eventually she would need an assistant. Billy would be great. He didn’t complain about the four-to-noon work hours or the hot ovens or even the occasional burns. As long as she worked around his school schedule, he was good to go.

She would talk to Donovan. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Where do you work now?” Josie asked.

“At the Mariposa.”

“I’ve heard they have this famous Parisian chef overseeing the restaurant.”

“Yeah,” Hendrix said, “with his big Paris ego.” Should she have said that?.

Josie laughed. “Has he tried your champagne cake?”

“He has...”

“And that wasn’t enough for him to put up with your...eccentricities.”

“We’re still learning to dance,” Hendrix admitted.

“I thought I heard you out here,” Lisa called out from the back. She pushed through the half doors that led to the baking area. Unlike her mother who was comfortably round and soft, Lisa was all thin, hard edges. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back from a narrow face and her dark blue eyes glared at Hendrix suspiciously.

“I came for my check,” Hendrix explained.

Lisa opened the register, pulled the drawer out of the tray and took out an envelope. “Here’s your check, but you need to tell us where all the recipes are before I give it to you. Especially the champagne cake. We can’t find anything.”

“You can’t withhold my check.” She snatched it out of Lisa’s hand.

“If you walk out of this store without giving me the recipes, I’ll cancel it before you can get to the bank.”

Hendrix’s eyes narrowed. “You realize that’s against the law. And I have all these witnesses.”

Josie gave Lisa a death stare and even Billy puffed up his chest preparing to go on the offensive.

Lisa seemed unimpressed. “So sue me.”

She turned to leave. “Bye.” She wasn’t going to be intimidated by this woman.

Lisa grabbed her. “Where are the recipes? They belong to this bakery.”

“The recipes belong to me. And you can get a champagne cake recipe off the internet if you need one.”

Lisa’s blue eyes tightened. “You developed them while you worked here, which means they belong to us.”

“No. They’re mine.” Hendrix pointed to her head. “But they could have been yours if you’d taken my offer and let me buy half the bakery.”

Fury filled Lisa’s eyes. “Those recipes are mine.” She turned and stomped toward the back.

Josie grinned. Billy looked as if he wanted to hide somewhere. He needed this job and he wasn’t about to antagonize Lisa too much. Hendrix patted Billy’s shoulder. “We’ll be fine. I’ve only been there a week, but once I’m settled in, I’ll see if I can get you a job in the restaurant.”

Billy nodded and returned to making the coffee.

Josie looked around. “I kind of hate leaving this place. We had some good times here, but it appears to have turned into a hostile customer environment.”

“You all need to come over to the Mariposa,” Hendrix told the few people left in the bakery. “I’ll cook you up something special. We have a cute little diner that serves the best hamburgers in town.”

“We’ll see you there,” Josie said after giving Hendrix a hug.

A few of the other customers nodded.

Hendrix felt bad about the decline in the bakery. She’d put a lot of work into the place and loved it. With Mitzi unable to communicate, her two daughters had decided to keep it all. The bakery had made good money. But from the look of it now, it was barely breaking even.

She was angry and sad—sad for Mitzi and angry with her daughters. They had taken a successful business and scuttled it. Hendrix knew Lisa and Susie thought if they could get her recipes they could lure back customers. They didn’t understand that the bakery was more than just cakes, doughnuts and pies—it was customers, atmosphere and soul. The food had been the heart and Mitzi had been the soul.

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