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I don’t know what Mason is waiting for, even though I’m acing his quizzes. Today, the question was the ideal temperature for dry active yeast to proof and multiply, and when I said 105 to 110 degrees, he just threw up his hands and stormed back into the kitchen. I wish I could say I was smug or proud, but I’m frustrated that he won’t accept the fact that I know baking.
I can distract myself with the customers, though. Right now, I’m helping Christine and Kirsten, a mom and her eight-year-old daughter, pick out some sprinkle cookies.
“I don’t know which color I want,” Kirsten says.
“Hmm, that’s a hard choice,” I agree. “But do you want to know a secret?”
Her eyes widen and she nods.
I drop to a whisper. “The rainbow sprinkle cookies turn into unicorns in your tummy.”
Her mouth drops open. “Mommy, I want the rainbow ones!”
“Sounds good,” Christine says, winking at me. “We’ll take a dozen.”
I box up her cookies and ring her up, then wave good-bye. I start stacking napkins for the tenth time today when the bell at the door rings, and in walks a beautiful, classy woman with her brown hair tied up in a French twist and big sunglasses on her face.
“Hello, welcome to Cookies!” I say with a smile. “How can I help you?”
She takes off her sunglasses and smiles warmly at me. “You must be Madeleine.”
I tilt my head. “Yes, that’s me. Have we met?” The town of Brookhaven is super small, but I’m still new and trying to learn everyone’s names.
“Not yet. I’m Monica.” She puts out a hand, and I finally see the similarity between the woman in front of me and her son—Mason.
“Monica!” I shake her hand. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
“You, too.” She sets her bag on the counter. “Mason’s father and I just arrived from our trip to Paris, and I wanted to stop by and see how the bakery is running.” She looks me over and seems pleased with what she sees. “I was so grateful to find your profile online. You have such an incredible background. I hope you and Mason have been working well together.”
I shrug. “It’s going well.”
“How do you like the kitchen? Mason and I spent a lot of time handpicking each piece of equipment.”
“Oh, really?” I ask. Mason hasn’t talked much about how the bakery came to be. It’s just a quiz, then straight to work. “It’s beautiful.” And that’s all I can say truthfully, because Mason hasn’t let me do anything back there.
She tilts her head to the side. “Haven’t you been…working with Mason?”
While I don’t want to disparage my boss to his mother, she asked a direct question.“If by ‘working with Mason’ you mean standing up here, speaking to clients, and boxing up orders, then yes. I’ve been ‘working with Mason.’” I even use the finger-quotes.
“But…” She peers around me, even though the door to the kitchen is closed and she wouldn’t be able to see Mason. “That’s why I wanted you. You have experience. You can help balance him out.”
I snort. “That’s not how Mason sees it.”
She presses her lips together. “So you’re basically just working the front.”
“Yep.”
She sizes me up one more time, then pastes a smile on her face. “I think I’ll go see Mason and say hello. After all, I am the owner of the bakery. I’ll speak with you later, Madeleine.”
She’s the owner? Well, shoot. I’m half anxious, half excited that she’s going to have some words with Mason. But hopefully it doesn’t get me in trouble with him. He’s the one I really deal with every day.
I hear a muffled exclamation from Mason, which sounds like excitement at seeing his mom. As much as I’m dying to eavesdrop, I try my best to stay professional.
Try being the key word here.
I edge closer to the swinging door, pretending to rearrange the cookies that happen to be right within earshot.
“Why isn’t she working in the kitchen?” Monica asks.
