Sugar Rush

“That was before I saw the X-rays.” Dr. Michelson frowned at her over the top of his bifocals. “That break left a pretty nice tear, young lady. For it to heal properly you are going to have to stay off your feet.”

“Fine—send me home and I’ll stay off my feet.”

He huffed in disbelief.

Sophie frowned. That was the problem with a small, tightly knit community. Sometimes your neighbors and friends knew you too well. “But, Dr. Michelson, I have a business to run.”

“Well, it looks like Mae and Wayne are going to be on their own for a while.” Dr. Michelson continued to scribble something on his pad. “I’m confining you to bed rest for the next six to eight weeks.”

“Six to eight weeks?!”

“Sophie, I would appreciate it if you would stop screaming in my ear.”

“Sorry. Dr. Michelson, but we just signed this really important contract. Is there anything you can put on it to protect it? I know—maybe if I were on crutches or even in a wheelchair…”

Eric Michelson watched her for several seconds before crossing the room to pick up one of the X-rays. Holding it up to the light, he pointed to a blurry white patch. “See that? That is the broken bone. Because of its location the healing could go either way. If I set it and you keep it still for the next six weeks, it should heal completely and you will be as good as new. If not, the bone will not heal properly—and for the rest of your life, you will probably have chronic pain in your ankle. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not.”

“Then let me do my job. That bakery was standing long before you were born, and since I delivered you I can attest to that fact. Trust me, it will survive without you for six weeks.”

Sophie bit her bottom lip to keep from expressing her own doubts about that. Before she was born her grandmother was a young woman working alongside her new husband, helping to build their family business. But today, her grandmother was an eighty-year-old woman with a failing memory. And Sophie had noticed that a few times Mae seemed to just stop paying attention right in the middle of a conversation. But when Sophie had asked, Mae was too proud to admit that anything was wrong.

“Sophie,” Dr. Michelson said. He watched her with compassionate eyes. “You’re a grown woman. When I release you tomorrow you, of course, can do what you want. But I want you to understand the price you’ll pay for the stubborn streak you seemed to have been cursed with.”

She nodded. What was she supposed to say? Yes, Dr. Michelson, I want to be crippled forever. As much as she hated it, she knew she would take his advice. It was the only reasonable thing to do.

As he turned to leave, her mind was already calculating what needed to be done over the next six weeks. “I’ll go get you a room and let Mae know what’s going on,” he said. As he opened the door, Mae shuffled past him.

She wrapped Sophie in a tight hug, as if Sophie had been diagnosed with a terminal illness.

“The nurse in the hall said they were checking you in to the hospital.”

“Grandma, I’m fine.”

“I’m keeping her overnight to allow the cast to set, and afterwards, she’s going to be on bed rest for six weeks.” The doctor pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Mae, I need your assurance that Sophie will be off her feet for six weeks.”

Mae’s eyes narrowed on her eldest granddaughter, and she nodded with determination. “Don’t you worry, Dr. Michelson, she will.”

Sophie did not miss the small smirk on Dr. Michelson’s face as he glanced at her once more before letting himself out of the room.

“Grandma, I left my cell phone at the store. Can I borrow yours? I need to call Wayne and let him know what’s happening.”

Mae dug around in the bottom of her worn purse and came up with the small cell phone.

“Where is your leg broke exactly?”

“Actually, it’s the ankle. Thanks.” She turned it on, and the phone immediately shut off.

“Ankle? Never heard of anybody breaking their ankle.”

Sophie frowned at the phone and turned it on again. And once again it automatically turned off. Her lips twisted as understanding came. “When was the last time you charged your phone?”

“I don’t know.” Mae pulled a small stool closer to the bed. “Did you want me to bring you something to eat? Hospital food is so bland.”

“Um…no. Where’s your charger?”

“My what?”

Sophie frowned again. “Never mind.”

She settled back against the stretcher, deciding to just wait until she was assigned a room and call Wayne from there. But, unfortunately, the useless cell phone in her hand gave her a bigger and more immediate concern than the goings-on at the bakery.

She knew her grandmother would insist on driving herself home, instead of waiting for someone from the store to come get her. She glanced at the window, where the light was already beginning to fade. “Maybe you should get going. It’s getting late.”

“No, I’ll stay until they get you settled in for the night.”

That’s what I was afraid of. She twisted her lips, considering whom she could call or depend on to come if they said they would, and out of her large family there was not a single one. It would have to be someone from the store.

Sophie had bought the phone cell for Mae almost six months before, after having one of the greatest scares of her young life. She was working in the store late one night when Lonnie called and told her that Mae had not returned from a church revival she’d attended earlier.

Sophie called the police, and, being a small town, they were able to put out an all-points bulletin for the surrounding areas right away. Mae was found over an hour later in the next county over, almost a hundred miles away.

Once they got her home, a very shaken-up Mae explained that after coming out of the church, she must’ve taken a wrong turn in the dark, and before long she was completely lost.

That was the first time it really hit home to Sophie that what she’d assumed was a small problem could, in fact, be dangerous. So she had purchased the phone so her grandmother would always have a way to get in touch with her. But what use was having the phone if Mae never bothered to charge the thing?

A short while later, Sophie was settled into her room for the night and Mae was still sticking stubbornly by her side. Sophie glanced at the window nervously and noticed it was now completely dark.

And almost as if they shared the same mind, Mae announced that she was about to head home, just as Sophie knew she would. “Grandma, I really wish you’d wait for Wayne. He’ll be here any minute.”

“Why would I wait for Wayne? I drove my own car, remember?”

Just then, they both heard a slight knock as Wayne entered the room, proving once again why he was indispensable. Sophie frowned, as the harsh smell of marijuana preceded him. But she was so happy to see him that even his irritating recreational activity could not ruin it.

“Wayne! Am I glad to see you,” Sophie said, grinning widely. Wayne paused as if surprised by the greeting.

“Damn, girl, what are they feeding you?” He reached up, gently touching the IV bag.

Sophie laughed. “Nothing you’d be interested in.” She tried to discreetly tilt her head in her grandmother’s direction. “Grandma was just leaving.”

Wayne’s eyes narrowed briefly on her face, and then he quickly turned to Mae. “Um, Mama Mae, can you wait a couple of minutes? I was really kinda hoping you could give me a ride. I caught the ten-twelve here and that was the last bus of the night.”

With a heavy sigh, Mae sank back down in the large chair beside the bed, with her worn purse across her lap. “Fine, Wayne, but I want to get home by eleven to see Murder, She Wrote. So, hurry up.”

Sophie looked at Wayne and hoped he could see the gratitude in her eyes. Her grandmother would have someone in the car with her until she was within two blocks of her home.

With that weight off her shoulders she settled back into the hospital bed. “Okay, Wayne, here’s the deal. That order for Centerfield has to be delivered by seven in the morning. Please make sure Dante understands that. He cannot be late. This is our first order with this school, and we have to be able to give them the same level of service they received from Fulton.” Now for the biggie, Sophie thought. “I should be back at the store by noon, but just in case, we have a new—”

“No, you won’t.” Mae was shaking her head in a slow way that sent a bad feeling down Sophie’s spine.

“What’s that, Grandma?”

“I said no—you will not be back in the store by noon tomorrow, or noon the next day, or the next. You heard Doc—you are on bed rest for the next six weeks.”

“Whoa, six weeks?!” Wayne gave a slow whistle. “What about all these new contracts you’ve stolen from Fulton?”

“I didn’t steal anything; we won those bids fair and square. And I will be back tomorrow.” She shifted in the bed to face her grandmother, and given the quiet resolve she saw reflected in the brown eyes she loved, she wondered if this was an argument best left for another day. “Grandma, I know Doc means well, but we both know it is impossible for me to take six weeks off right now.” She reached out and took her grandmother’s hand. “We have just taken on three of our biggest contracts ever. This is our chance to prove to the family once and for all that the bakery is not a waste of money.”

Her grandmother’s lips tightened and she quickly nodded in agreement. Sophie knew that this was the one argument she would not resist. Five years ago when Sophie’s parents, along with her aunts and uncles, came together to try and force Mae to sell the bakery, only Sophie had stood with her.

At the time, the bakery was losing more than it was taking in, and no one wanted the responsibility of taking it over after Mae died. So, they’d gotten together and devised a plan to convince her to sell the store she’d opened over fifty years ago with her husband, Earl.

Unlike most of the family, Sophie understood that to Mae the bakery was more than just a means of revenue. It was the center of her life. She and Earl had managed to raise six children on the income from the bakery. When they first started off as a young couple unable to afford a home of their own, they’d converted the two small storage rooms in the back of the store into a living space. Sophie knew that the small building held more than just ovens and freezers to create pastries. It held the vast majority of Mae’s lifetime of memories.

That was why Sophie had fought tooth and nail against her own parents to keep the bakery open. Against the combined stubbornness of Sophie and Mae, the family had not stood a chance and had finally given up.

And now, almost five years later, Sophie saw the chance to prove to all of them that she and her grandmother had been right to keep the store open. Now they had an opportunity to grow it into something more than a neighborhood donut shop, and she was not about to let a broken ankle get in the way.

Mae clutched her purse, obviously torn between her own desires to prove to her children that she was not a helpless old lady and the need to protect her granddaughter. “But, what about your ankle?”

Realizing she was winning the argument, Sophie sat up a little straighter. “I promise to sit with my ankle propped up, and let Wayne, Dante and Lonnie do the work. But, I need to be there.” She snapped her fingers and turned back to Wayne. “When Dante comes back from his deliveries in the morning, can you have him clean out the apartment in the back? I’ll move in there temporarily, and that way you won’t even have to worry about moving me back and forth from the store.”

Mae frowned. “I don’t know if I like the idea of you being there alone at night.”

“Grandma, I’ve already spent many nights there alone working on the inventory. It will be fine. The important thing is getting these orders filled on time, make a good impression on our new customers, and at all costs keep the bakery running smoothly. Wayne can you look in the office and double check the permits and make sure it’s still coded for residential?”

“No problem.”

Later she would blame the combined problems of a stubborn grandmother, and too many meds, but for whatever reason it wasn’t until after Mae and Wayne had left that Sophie realized she’d forgotten all about the new baker flying in tomorrow.

Oh, well, she thought with a yawn, she’d be back in the store before his flight arrived. And he would need a ride from the airport, so that would give her time to prepare everyone. It would be fine. She yawned loudly again, as the painkillers took effect. It would all be fine.

Chapter 3

As Eliot entered the front door of Mayfield Bakery the next morning he collided with a thin teenager with a severe case of eczema.

“Excuse me” the boy called out, as he hurried away, his arms laden down with boxes.

Eliot turned and watched as the boy climbed into a beat-up, old van with a slightly confused expression on his face. Stepping outside, he glanced up at the sign that read Mayfield Bakery. He’d checked the local business directory on his laptop and this was the only Mayfield bakery in Selmer. This had to be the place.

He went back inside and glanced around. The glass counter was filled with fresh baked pastries, loaves of bread, cakes and pies. He closed his eyes and took in the delicious aroma. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d actually been inside a real bakery.

Fulton Foods, although considered a bakery, was in fact a large industrial machine that happened to produce baked goods, but it was not what Eliot considered a bakery. This was a bakery.

A breeze blew by him as the boy came back through the door. “Someone will be right with you,” he called over his shoulder, as he disappeared into the back.

Eliot stood in the middle of the vinyl floor, studying his surroundings and trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Could this possibly be the same Mayfield Bakery that had stolen three of his top contracts? Was this the Mayfield Bakery that was giving his uncle indigestion? Was this the newest threat to Fulton Foods? He almost laughed out loud as he shook his head in relief. Getting rid of this little shop was going to be a piece of cake—no pun intended.

The teenage boy came charging back through the store, his arms once again laden with boxes. This time he was followed by a short, chubby girl, also carrying a stack of boxes. She smiled at Eliot as they went by. She had a girlishly cute, light-brown face, but there was a blankness to her brown eyes that Eliot noticed right away.

The commotion and clatter of the back kitchen was easily heard from where he stood. He wondered if all that industrious noise was the result of their newfound business.

“Can I help you?” An older woman appeared in the entrance leading to the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. A slight smudge of flour smeared one cheek, and her gray hair was twisted and pinned on top of her head.

There was something instantly familiar about her untidy appearance. She looked like just what she was, someone’s grandmother baking goodies. Or…someone’s mother.

It suddenly hit Eliot why she seemed so familiar. He could remember many days coming home from school and being greeted by his mother looking just this way, right down to the flour-smudged cheeks.

He felt a rock drop to the pit of his stomach, because deep inside of him he knew without a doubt that this was Mae Anne Mayfield. Uncle Carl had sent him to destroy his mother’s reincarnation. His lips twisted in frustration, like he didn’t already have enough reasons to burn in hell.

“Are you Mae Anne Mayfield?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“I am.” She’d started walking toward him when someone called to her from the back to the store.

“Mama Mae! I need your help now!”

Putting up a finger meant to hold him in place, she turned and scuttled back into the kitchen. Eliot waited a few seconds before following.

Slowly he entered the kitchen, not sure what to expect. He was shocked to find a small space crammed with new equipment. Everything from shiny, new reversible dough sheeters and dough rounders to bread slicers and stainless-steel preparation tables. The only things that looked worn and well used were two large convection ovens and the small, white kitchen stove against a far wall. On the opposite wall was a third, newer-looking double-decker oven, and a large, burly man was bent over and was peering inside the bottom oven.

“Damn this thing.” Wiping his hands on a rag, he leaned back on his knees and looked up at the older woman. “I told Sophie I didn’t trust that salesman. This thing is a piece of junk.”

Behind him the teenage boy reappeared. “Wayne, I’m four boxes short!”

“I’m trying to—” The man at the oven turned to the boy and caught his first glimpse of Eliot standing in the middle of their kitchen. His dark eyes ran over Eliot’s long length in one swoop, and then narrowed in suspicion. “Can I help you?”

The older woman turned to him, as well, surprised to see him in the kitchen. They were a study in contrast—the unsuspecting curiosity in her eyes and the wary distrust in his.

For reasons he would never understand, instead of simply announcing who he was and why he was there, he began to pull off his jacket. “I think I may be able to fix it—temporarily at least.”

“Wayne,” the teenager called to him again, “We are four—”

“I heard you the first time, Dante! But until I can get an oven going, you’ll just have to wait. Now get the rest of the order loaded up.”

“Why don’t you fire up one of the other ovens while I try to get this one going,” Eliot offered, as he kneeled beside him.

Without a response, Wayne jumped up and rushed across the room to start one of the newer ovens.

Just then a phone rang loudly, somewhere in the back. “I’ll get it,” Mae said, wiping her hands on her apron as she hurried off.

In his peripheral vision, Eliot saw the teenagers rushing back and forth, loading their arms with the full boxes and carrying them outside to the van. Obviously, they were on a tight schedule to get out an order and he had a pretty good idea which order it was. Tuesday was Centerfield’s delivery day.

As he rolled up his sleeves, he considered how easy it would be to sabotage the oven and make the delivery incomplete and late. That alone might be enough to make the school cancel the new contract.

Reaching back in the oven, he found the coil he was looking for. Just as he’d suspected, it had dropped down and was causing the food to cook unevenly. He pushed it back up, a trick he’d learned in his first year working in Uncle Carl’s factory.

Once he pushed the coil back into place he sat back on his heels. “There, that should hold long enough to finish your last batch. But you’ll have to have a repairman come in and fix it permanently.” He glanced over to find Wayne watching him carefully. Despite his offer to help, he could tell the man did not trust him. “With that oven, if you turn up the heat about two degrees per square inch for every fifteen minutes of cooking time left, it will finish in half the time.”

Movement caught his eye, and he realized the chubby girl had come in and was standing in the doorway, watching him with her blank doe eyes.

Seeing the black grease smeared on his hands, Wayne offered his rag. Eliot took it gladly and wiped his hands, grateful for the knowledge his experience had given him. Despite the fact that he was Carl Fulton’s nephew, he had worked his way up from the kitchen like every other executive in the company.

“Who are you?” Wayne asked.

“I think he may be our new baker.” Just then, Mae slowly walked in. Her head tilted at an angle as she gave Eliot a curious look.

So the new baker was supposed to start today, Eliot thought.

Wayne turned to her in surprise. “What new baker?!” Behind him the teenage girl was folding a box together, and the boy was holding a piping hot tray of bread loaves between oven mitts. Both froze in their tracks, and all wide eyes were turned to him.

“Apparently, Sophie hired a new baker,” Mae continued. “That was the agency on the phone asking to have him call them when he arrived.” Then Mae glanced at Eliot, her eyes showing the first sign of suspicion. “They say they haven’t spoken to you since last week.”

Eliot shrugged as if it didn’t really matter, his mind working furiously, thinking how to use this situation to his advantage. The new baker would probably show up soon, but until then—whether he had a few minutes or a few hours—he could use the opportunity to learn as much as he could about the inner workings of Mayfield Bakery.

“Sophie didn’t say anything to me about any new baker,” Wayne insisted.

Eliot did not miss the slightly hurt tone of his voice. Who is Sophie? He wondered.

Mae looked up at Eliot in bemusement, then turned and hurried into the back office again. “I’m going to call Sophie and see what she has to say about all this.”

Thinking fast, Eliot called out to her, “Could you give me the phone number to the agency, so I can give them a call? I don’t have it with me.”

She motioned over her shoulder for him to follow her.

As he passed through the doorway, he heard Wayne mutter to himself, “He doesn’t look like any baker I know.”

Eliot pretended not to hear the remark, although he was pretty sure Mae Anne Mayfield was the only baker Wayne knew.

As they entered the office, Eliot noticed a large, heavy-looking book in the middle of the desk. It looked like an ancient relic with its worn cover, which was pieced and taped together in places. He saw the word recipes scribbled across the top in black marker, and suddenly realized he was looking at Mae’s recipe book.

There it was! Right there in plain sight for anyone to see…or grab. What professional chef in this day and age still used a recipe book? Most of the bakers he knew kept their recipes in custom-made software programs with two or more passwords protecting them.

For a baker or chef, their recipes were their lifeblood. For the very best, recipes were what separated them from the crowd. You did not leave your most precious treasure lying around in fat, album-styled books, Eliot thought.

Mae shoved a piece of a paper at him, and Eliot realized she’d been trying to give it to him for some moments. He accepted it with thanks, deliberately turning his back on the recipe book.

He started to leave the office, but she grabbed his sleeve to stop him. “I’m sure Sophie is going to want to talk to you.”

Damn. Who the hell is this Sophie anyway?

Nowhere in his research had he come across that name. Eliot stood nervously by her side as Mae dialed the number. The mysterious Sophie could ruin everything with one word. Particularly if she was the person who had actually hired the real baker. His eyes strayed back to the recipe book. This was crazy. Why was he even playing this game? Because you want her recipes—that’s why.

“So, the bakery business must pay pretty well outside Selmer, huh?” Wayne was leaning against the doorjamb with Eliot’s suit jacket in his hand. “Here’s your jacket. What’s that? A three-four-hundred-dollar suit you’re wearing?”

“I wanted to make a good impression,” Eliot said with a slightly lifted brow. Intuitively, he knew this man was going to be a problem.

“Good morning, dear. How are you feeling?” Both men fell silent listening to Mae, whose first concern was for her granddaughter.

Eliot glanced at Wayne in silent question.

“She fell yesterday and broke her ankle,” Wayne volunteered. “Otherwise, she would be here. Seems like Sophie is always here.”

“Oh, that’s great news.” Mae looked around Eliot to Wayne. “She said they are releasing her around noon. Can you pick her up?”

“Of course,” Wayne said without hesitation.

“Sophie, were you expecting a new baker to start today?” She glanced at Eliot. “Uh-huh…uh-huh…Well, why didn’t you say anything to me?”