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CHAPTER4
Enteringthrough the back of the newest Pastry King still under construction, Lauren was greeted by the piercing clamor of a table saw. She moved through the brand new kitchen they’d renovated first and beyond the doorway they’d covered in plastic panels to keep the dust at bay.
“That’s some serious progress, Papi,” Lauren shouted over the noise to her father, his tall frame bent over the work table as he cut a piece of lumber.
At the sound of her voice, he turned off the machine and popped his safety glasses on top of his grey head. “Hi, honey.” He walked around the mess of wood and tools to give her a hug. His Vote Carla Machado for Councilwoman t-shirt was soft against her cheek.
Lauren squeezed him back. “I thought there were going to be a few guys helping you today.” She glanced around the construction zone that would one day be the modern face of the bakery.
“They never showed up,” he replied with a shrug.
Lauren dropped her bag on an overturned bucket and picked up a pair of work gloves and safety goggles. “Well then, it’s a good thing I wore close-toed shoes,” she joked.
Jose smirked. “This isn’t how a corporate boss is supposed to behave.”
Tucking her t-shirt into her jeans, Lauren laughed. “Yeah, well, it’s worked out pretty okay for you.”
A few hours later, a sweaty Lauren picked up her dinging phone. She smiled at the message from Jenny before turning to her dad who was busy repairing the sheeting covering the reclaimed wood floors they’d installed themselves.
“Papi, be nice, okay?”
He looked up from where he was using blue painter’s tape to stitch together a gash in the thick plastic. “I’m always nice.”
Lauren winced. “Just don’t tease her so much, okay. She’s trying.”
Jose stood to continue preparing the space for the mural installation. When she’d been unable to find the right wallpaper, she commissioned an artist to paint a bold backdrop for the entire bakery. With a rich, dark blue as a base, there would be bright green palm fronds and the occasional bright pink flamingo. Like Miami Vice but modern, Lauren hoped for vibrant results. Something to stand out from the zillion other Cuban bakeries.
“It’s not my fault her parents didn’t teach her how to be Cuban,” Jose decided.
“Now you sound like Mami,” she replied as she started for the front door covered in brown paper like the rest of the store front. “She grew up in L.A. It’s just not the same there. You can’t expect everywhere to be a mini-Cuba.”
“Says the girl pouring her heart and soul into trying to revitalize Little Havana,” he joked. “Listen, she’s a nice person. I just don’t know if she’s the one for you. You’ve got big plans, mi amor. Don’t you want someone who understands?”
“She gets it, Dad. She doesn’t have to speak perfect Spanish to get it.”
Jose put his hands up in defeat. “I’ve got your back, honey. Whatever you decide. But your old man has these gray hairs for a reason. I’ve learned a thing or two over the years.”
Lauren smiled as she turned several deadbolts. “Did you just miss the opportunity to say that the devil is wiser because of his age and not because he’s the devil?” She recalled one of her dad’s favorite Cubanisms. They never quite translated right.
Lauren opened the door.
“Hi!” Jenny, her dirty blonde hair loose under her shoulders, greeted her with three iced lattes in a carrier. “I brought fuel,” she added before kissing Lauren on the cheek.
“Thanks babe. Let me just wash my hands.”
“Hola Jose,” Jenny’s accent sharpened the consonants too much, but her enthusiasm made up for the deficiency.
While Jenny chatted to her father, Lauren washed her hands in what was going to be the bathroom, but was currently just a spigot and a covered hole in the cement subfloor. When she returned to the front of the shop, her dad was showing Jenny the progress he’d made on the counter they were building from wood salvaged from an old church before it was demolished to make room for another high-rise.
“Jenny, I want to show you something,” Lauren called, gesturing to the plastic covering the entrance to the kitchen.
“Okay,” she replied with a smile before slipping through the plastic.
“Let me just grab my coffee,” Lauren said before walking over to where her father had grabbed her drink out of the carrier.
With a grave expression, he took a dramatic sip of the national chain’s creation.
“Dad don’t,” Lauren whispered, her eyes wide in warning.
