Page 92 of Morally Black Betrothal
Simone’s cheeks flushed, and she gave a tight smile that even I could see was designed to mask her discomfort. Simone was too sweet to lie. And yet, what should have been a clear liability only made me like her more.
“Eh, what can you do? Sometimes secrets can be fun and sexy.” Pearl seemed oblivious as she adjusted the collar of her no-nonsense shirtdress and waved us into the shop.
Simone glanced up at me, and we exchanged our own secret smiles as we followed.
“How are you? It’s been a few months, I know.” Simone looked back at me. “Pearl and I usually have a standing appointment on Mondays to test recipes.”
“It’s my day off,” Pearl added before giving a big sigh. “Been all right. You know how it goes.”
“So, how is…everything?”
It didn’t take a detective to understand Simone was asking about the shop’s finances. Considering we were the only ones in here, I had a feeling they weren’t great.
This time, Pearl’s sigh ruffled the collar of her dress. “The kids don’t want traditional desserts no more. Restaurantsneither. It’s either that ‘molten’ chocolate garbage in mason jars or fancy fusion crap blending five different recipes into one. Whatever happened to classics, I ask you?”
Simone took Pearl’s hand and squeezed, and I fought the sudden urge to make it twenty million instead of ten.
And yet, I had the distinct feeling that no matter how much money I gave her, it would never actually go toher, but to others she wanted to help.
“So, what can I get you two?” Pearl moved behind a glass counter full of Italian pastries. One tray was filled with cannoli shells, several dipped in chocolate or pistachios. There was another shelf of cheesecakes and two others with a variety of small cakes and desserts.
Simone rubbed her hands together as she looked. “I think a pistachio cannolo and…” She looked up at me shyly.
“Whatever’s the house special,” I replied.
It was the right thing to say.
“Coming right up, kids. You take a seat. The one in the window.”
“You really want cannoli? Out of everything she has in that case?” I asked after Simone and I sat down at the table Pearl had indicated.
“I actually do like the classics. Sometimes things are better when they are simple.”
“‘Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication’?”
“That’s well put.”
I shrugged. “That’s because Da Vinci said it, not me.”
She chuckled, and I sat back, enjoying the way she seemed to relax here. Was that because it was closer to the way she was in her home, covered in flour? Or because she could see now that I liked the place too?
“Tell me about how you started baking,” I said.
That shy smile returned. “My mother taught me when I was little. I still use her original sourdough starter, the one she got from her mother, who got it from hers. It has to be at least seventy-five years old.”
I blinked. “Do they live that long?”
“Oh, yeah. There are some in San Francisco that have been in use since the mid-1800s. And I read about someone who extracted some from a four-thousand-year-old Egyptian artifact and actually made bread with it.” She hummed with a curious kind of excitement. “I wonder if it was any good.”
Her curiosity was contagious. “Explains your thing for heirlooms.”
“Baking ones, I guess. Anyway, when I was little, my mom and I took a trip to Boston, and she brought me here to see what a real master can do. What can I say? I fell in love.”
“With baking or Boston?”
Her smile seemed to come from somewhere deep inside. “Both.”
We sat quietly for a moment, and it wasn’t unpleasant. Simone wasn’t the type of person who was uncomfortable with pauses. She was at ease in her thoughts.
