Page 3 of Worth the Heat
“Belly,” Arianna says quietly, her head tilted to the side, her eyes full of sympathy.
Walking to the sink in Rick’s kitchen, I wash the remaining glitter off my hands. “I want to find someone who accepts me as I am. Who sees me as a diamond in the rough. Who won’t say one thing and do another, especially not when they want to do my friends. I want what you and Gia have. The men who could see our chaotic family, with our demanding brothers and involved parents, and not run away screaming.”
“I know,” Arianna whispers, “I want that for you, too. The right man is going to come along, and he’ll be the lucky one who gets to experience how wholeheartedly you love.”
“I won’t hold my breath,” I mutter as I remove a small piece of folded paper from my pocket.
“What is that?” Ari asks.
“A note.”
“And it says what?”
“That he should probably get tested, because I know Amelia has herpes.”
“Seriously?” she gasps.
I shrug. “Who knows. But it’ll stress him out for a few weeks, until he finally mans-up and gets the tests. He probably has an STD too. Looking back, I don’t think she was the only one he was screwing behind my back.”
“Should you get tested?” Arianna wonders.
“Already did. But we always used condoms. The one silver lining to all of this, I guess.”
“Won’t the note really give it away that you destroyed his apartment?”
My eyes meet hers. “I really don’t give a fuck.”
As I march toward the door, Arianna’s loud cackle reverberates against the stark white apartment walls. “Kinda loving this zero fucks given attitude, Belly.”
Yeah, I kinda am too.
For as long asI can remember, I’ve wanted to be a pastry chef. Nothing made me happier as a child than helping my mom andNonnabake. I’d learn the changes they made to recipes, how to alter a recipe for high altitude baking, and listen to them gossip about everything in our small tourist town. Being the second youngest in our group of seven kids, I was used to falling through the cracks. When you have a brother with NHL aspirations, and a very sick sister, it’s rough. Add in the rest of the crew, and I struggled to find my niche. OnceNonnaasked me to help her bake biscotti, a traditional Italian cookie, I was fascinated with baking. It never ceases to amaze me how changing one ingredient can make a completely different dessert.
I found courses in Denver I could take after school, and beganselling baked goods from home in high school. I knew I wanted to enroll in a pastry chef program at a local community college, and while my family wasn’t rich, my parents made a deal with me that they’d match whatever I was able to save, which ended up being just enough for the program, course materials, and a new-to-me car to drive to and from the campus thirty minutes east of Eternity Springs. The best part about the program was the apprenticeship at the end, which led me to the Eternity Springs Bakery.
I’d known Norma Klein all my life, but had no idea she routinely offered her bakery for an apprenticeship. I was thrilled to learn from her, and she told me early on that she hoped to retire sooner rather than later. Coming straight out of the pastry arts program, I didn’t have two nickels to rub together, so I knew I didn’t have the money to buy Norma out immediately. She was patient, willing to work with me, and such a treasure to have the years we worked together.
I saved every cent that I could. I lived at home, rarely drove my car to save on gas money, and ate way too much Ramen once I finally moved out. In my spare time, I took on pet sitting opportunities, babysitting, and any odd job that worked with my schedule. I’d have worked myself to death had a massive weekly standing order not come into the bakery. A burly man picks it up every Friday morning, saying no more than five words to me at any given time, and always leaves a fifty dollar bill in my tip jar. Without fail. I gave up asking questions about the order when he ignored me on four straight Fridays. What the hell kind of acronym is RMRRMC anyway? I tried a Google search for it once, and nothing made sense.
That standing order was the game changer for me. Norma was adamant that I receive all the funds from it, as I was the one working two extra hours getting the order ready. Everything on the order fell under the quick and easy, so it wasn’t incredibly hard for me to get it all together. It was almost as if they had beentold what would take the least amount of time. Muffins, cherry turnovers, cinnamon bread, and coffee cake. I don’t mind baking all of these things, but I can dobetterthan those. One of my favorite things to make in the spring and summer is a strawberry lemon cake, with moist layers of cake separated by pickled strawberry jam, lemon cheesecake, and milk crumbs. But sure, let me whip up a triple batch of blueberry muffins.
As I stand in what is now my bakery, after finally taking over for Norma over five years ago, I lean over the counter as I plan next week’s menu. While I buy as much as I can from big box stores, I try to source tons from local farms and shops to ensure I’m putting back into the community that raised me. I vowed to continue on with many of Norma’s recipes, but did make one significant change. Eternity Springs Bakery was too boring. So many aspects of the town are pun-based, and I wanted my establishment to reflect that. Hence, the Bake, Batter, and Bowl Bakery was born.
Six small circular tables dot the exterior walls, and pale yellow paint covers the space. It’s soft, comforting, and homey. A very tacky chicken wallpaper adorned the walls of the only bathroom, but I removed that with Norma’s blessing very soon after beginning my apprenticeship. Eventually, I’d love to fully own this space, but right now, I’m content paying the rent to whatever commercial real estate person owns the building.
Looking at my watch, I sigh as I see I still have two hours before I can close. Most of my business happens in the first couple of hours I’m open, but stragglers trickle in throughout the day, especially in the summer months. When the bell on the door jingles, I straighten my back, pasting on a pleasant smile, ready to greet new customers.
“Hi, welcome in. What can I get started —” I begin, as a hand comes crashing onto the counter in front of me, right where myhead had been only seconds before. I scream in shock as Rick stands before me.
“What did you do with it, bitch?” he seethes.
“With what?” I stammer, clasping my hands together tightly. I hate confrontations.
“Oh, you’re gonna act dumb now?” Rick says, his eyes narrowing as he leers at me. “You never were the smartest broad, Izzy, but I thought you were better than this.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whisper. His eyes are wild. Hair in disarray, his skin looks clammy, with random sparkles of glitter catching the light occasionally. I bite my lip to refrain from giggling. I also have a habit of laughing when I’m nervous.
Rick leans in closer, and I don’t see the hand that quickly snaps up to grab my neck. “When you had your little temper tantrum in my apartment yesterday afternoon? There was a package on the counter. A very important package. I don’t know how the fuck you figured it out, but you better give it all back to me. I’ll fucking count every goddamn tablet if I have to.”
