For Love and Pastry

Chapter Four

The next morning, the shop was redolent with the scents of chocolate and hot peppers when Sam showed up an hour before opening. He bent over a thin tray filled with a layer of dark chocolate scattered with chunks of pecan, and breathed deep.

"Chocolate chili pepper bark?"

Clara nodded as she checked the flame under a double-boiler. "I thought we could make a few dozen of those chocolate-covered jalapenos you've been wanting to try out, too.  Look through the basket in the pantry and pick out some nice ones we can dip whole. I'm still not sure they'll sell but - -"

"Oh, they'll sell. Trust me." He watched her for another minute before a big grin split his face. "So, you and Brittany made up, huh?"

Clara stuck her nose in the air and ignored the wiggling eyebrows and suggestive leer. "Go wash your peppers, Sam, before I decide to dip something else in the chocolate pot."

"That would sell, too," he said, only half-joking. Clara snorted, because she knew he was right.

"Get to work, pervert."

Customers were already waiting outside when they opened the doors at 9:00 am, and the brisk pace continued from there. She and Sam took turns serving at the counter and working in the kitchen, and made lunch out of thick slices of spinach quiche and sliced apples, grabbed when they could. It was mid-afternoon before business slowed to a trickle and Clara felt comfortable sending Sam out to deliver weekly orders of cookies and pies around town. She was re-arranging the stock of croissants and scones to cover up empty spaces in the display when the bells on the door tinkled again.

As did almost every customer who entered the bakery, the elderly couple stopped to inhale the mouth-watering scents of sugar, cinnamon and fresh bread.

"Oh, something smells wonderful. Harold, doesn't something smell wonderful?"

The old man, stooped with age but still head and shoulders taller than his tiny companion, grunted. "Smells like all the stuff Doc Hayes said you couldn't have."

"Pshaw. A few bites here and there never hurt anyone." Round blue eyes set under pure white hair as light and airy as cotton candy twinkled at Clara. "Eudora Webster. My sister told me that we just had to come here before we left today. I can already tell that she was right."

Charmed, Clara stepped out from behind the counter and offered her hand. The cool fingers that clasped hers felt as fragile as a bird's wing. "I'm grateful for the recommendation. May I ask who your sister is so I can tell her thank you?"

"Althea Foster. She's his sister, really." The woman gestured toward her husband, who had wandered away to look over the stack of artisan breads near the window. "But when you've been married for 53 years, family just sort of blurs together."

The name conjured up the image of a sweet but somewhat scattered old lady who had a tendency to call several times in one day to place the same order. "Yes, Mrs. Foster. She likes to have profiterole for her bridge club."

"Those cream things?" Eudora spread a wrinkled, beringed hand across her chest, closed her eyes and gave a little shimmy. "Mmmmm. Sinful!"

Despite his meandering trek through the shop, Harold proved he was keeping one ear trained on their conversation when he called out, "You can't have one!"

"I know that!" Eudora shot back. After a quick glance toward him, she leaned toward Clara with a conspiratorial air. "I already had a teensie-weensie half of one at Althea's."

Clara winked in solemn partnership. "My lips are sealed."

Leaning over to see past Clara, Eudora scanned the display cases behind her. "Althea also told me about those cake things you make, the tiny little bites shaped like lollipops?"