J.M. Jeffries - Bet on My Heart

For the next few hours, she made cakes, rolled out dough for pies, peeled fruit for fillings, made custard and crème brûlée. She filled the ovens with the aromatic smells of a dozen different pastries. On the side, she made cupcakes. Her special cupcakes filled with nuts, vanilla, cinnamon and a touch of ginger. She could do most things Donovan’s way, but she needed one thing for herself.

The door opened and Donovan stepped into his office. A small, white-haired woman accompanied him. She had the look of an empress with her head held high, her brown eyes soft and mysterious and her tiny, slender figure elegantly dressed in a blue silk, formfitting sheath. The woman was so different from her own grandmother, Hendrix paused in rolling out the dough for another pie to stare.

The elderly woman approached. “You must be Hendrix. Donovan has done nothing but rave about your baking. When do we get to try something?”

“Hendrix, this is my grandmother,” Donovan explained.

“Everyone calls me Miss E.,” the tiny woman explained.

Hendrix watched as Miss E. eyed a nearby cupcake. Hendrix had been decorating them with white icing and little fondant butterflies. Mariposa did mean butterfly, didn’t it? she thought. She would have to get a Spanish-English dictionary and check.

“Here.” Hendrix thrust a cupcake at Miss E.

Miss E. grabbed the cupcake, peeled the paper wrapping away and bit down into it. A surprised look appeared on her face. “This is wonderful. Are they going to be on the menu today?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to cook up something that—” Hendrix caught herself in time “—that...was a little different.” A little unexpected , she mentally added. She’d followed Donovan’s directions, but the cakes and pies were dreadfully average. She’d resisted the desire to inject surprising ingredients to alter the flavors—almost. She couldn’t help adding a little something extra to his apple-custard tarts and chocolate mousse.

“We discussed the menu,” Donovan said with a sharp glance at Hendrix, who fidgeted, scratching at her wrists.

“Are you allergic to anything?” Hendrix asked Miss. E.

“No food allergies.” Miss E. broke off a piece of the cupcake and handed it to him. “Try this.”

As he popped it into his mouth, Hendrix thought about running away and hiding.

He chewed and frowned. He chewed a bit more. “This is good.” His sharp glance took in Hendrix’s face.

“I’m trying,” Hendrix burst out. “I’m trying to cook the cakes and pies you wanted, but I can’t. They’re boring. They’re too conventional. They’re—” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said in a little voice.

Donovan stared at her. “You can do better?”

Hendrix swallowed hard. Why couldn’t she just stay silent for a change. “Your recipes are fine. I made them.” She opened the refrigerator to show the pies and cakes cooling on different shelves. “Try one. You’ll see.” She started scratching again.

“You’re scratching. Why?” Miss E. frowned at her.

“This jacket itches. It’s driving me crazy.”

Donovan frowned. “It’s just a cotton jacket.”

“It’s not my cotton jacket.” She bit the inside of her lip. “Mitzi always let me wear my own jacket.”

“This is a perfectly acceptable jacket,” Donovan said.

“It’s not you. It’s not the jacket. It’s me. It throws my Zen off.” Now he’d really think she was a nut job.

“Donovan,” Miss E. said, resting her hand on her grandson’s arm. “Leave her alone. If she wants to wear her jacket, let her. Who’s going to know? She can wear a tutu and combat boots for all I care, I just need another cupcake”

Hendrix brightened. “Combat boots? Awesome.”

“No combat boots,” Donovan snarled at her.

She took an involuntary step back. “Fine, just my jacket...please. I’ll leave the combat boots at home.” Not that she had combat boots, but the idea was intriguing and Mitzi would have let her wear them if she’d insisted on it. She shrugged out of the jacket relieved to escape from the itching. She would bring her own jacket tomorrow—she cringed—assuming there was a tomorrow.

“Have you ever done a wedding cake?” Miss E. asked.

“I’ve done several different themes, wedding cake pops, wedding cupcakes and a seven-tiered marble cake.” Weddings at casinos had become quite popular. Did the hotel have one scheduled?

“Scott, another of my grandsons, is getting married. When you have time, his bride-to-be, Nina, and I would like to discuss a wedding cake.”

Hendrix grinned. “I love doing wedding cakes.” Her champagne cake was perfect for a wedding. She could use pink champagne and decorate it with roses and daisies...her imagination began to soar. “I can cook up some samples for you try.”

Miss E. grinned. “We’ll be in touch.”

Donovan’s mouth was compressed in a hard line and he didn’t look happy. Hendrix went back to her triple chocolate-nut brownies completely forgetting him as thoughts of how she would decorate the wedding cake floated through her mind.

* * *

“I don’t think she’s going to work out,” Donovan said to his grandmother in the hall after he closed the door so Hendrix wouldn’t hear. Not because of her cooking, but because she was too much of a distraction. He found himself thinking about her at odd times and he didn’t like it. When he was in his kitchen, he needed to think about food, not some cute pastry chef and her cupcakes. Did he just think that? He did. She would have to go.

“She’s going to be just fine.”

“Grandma, it’s my kitchen. You told me...”

“I know what I said, but if you don’t keep that young woman around, I will be unhappy. People are going to eat here just to have one of those cupcakes.”

Donovan glared at her helplessly. “But...”

“You used to be so experimental and creative in your own cooking. I let you have fun in my kitchen, even though sometimes I was cleaning goop off the ceiling at three in the morning. Maybe it’s time you cleaned someone else’s goop off the ceiling.”

“Miss E...”

She held up her hand, her voice firm. “Just let’s see how this works out.”

“I’ll be repeating those words to you when the kitchen catches fire.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong, Donovan? You used to be so much more carefree in the kitchen.”

“Guests have certain expectations,” he replied. “They like conventional and don’t like surprises.”

“This hotel is about gambling. Everything else is gravy. If the extras can attract people, then the percentage that comes in for those cupcakes will also drop money in the slot machines. We’re in the business of providing the fantasy, and food is as much a part of the fantasy as the gambling. When people feel special, they spend money. I want them to spend all their money here, not across town at some other casino.”

“I’ll keep her on a trial basis.”

Miss E. patted him on the shoulder. “Of course you will. She’s going to work out and she’s going to surprise you in a way you’ll never expect.” With that parting shot, she stepped into the elevator and waved merrily as the doors closed.

He returned to his office, his thoughts a jumble. Hendrix stood in the middle of the kitchen looking oddly hesitant.

Without preamble, he said, “My grandmother loves your cupcakes.”

She nodded. “Awesome. But you’re not so sure, are you?” She pointed at him, a spatula in her hand. “You’re still on the fence about me. You think I’m weird, quirky and kooky.”

“I try not to judge.” Even to his own ears, he sounded defensive. Usually he was decisive and at times uncompromising when it came to food, but this woman put him off his game. The decision to hire Hendrix was either going to rock his world or blow up in his face.