“No, of course not. They’re for the residents.”
“Look, I understand. You’re a growing boy.”
“I’m not a boy.”
She eyed him as though he was still wealthy, and that maybe he would be interested in an older woman like her. She was sort of sexy—in a cafeteria-lady-with-a-hairnet kind of way.
She handed him the empty tray. “Before you go—you wanna taste one of my cherry tarts?”
He wasn’t absolutely sure she talking about food, but he was still starving. “Sure. Why not.”
She went to get one and brought it back to him, smiling. “Hope you like it.”
He set down the tray and took the tart.
“Be careful—it might be hot.”
He took a bite. “Good.”
She smiled.
He stuffed the rest of it in his mouth and mumbled, “Very good.”
Her smile broadened. “Thanks.”
Navy began to choke.
“I’ll get you some water.” She ran to the sink.
His throat continued to tighten.
The cook returned with a glass of water, but Navy was gone.
He ran to his car and opened the passenger door. Then he popped the glove box.
It felt like there was a golf ball stuck in his throat.
Navy fumbled through the contents of the glove box. He yanked out the owner’s manual and flung it on the floorboard. Then a Dallas map, a pile of receipts and other paperwork. Finally the glove box was empty. Where is it?
Navy gasped for air. He would run back inside. They had nurses. They could help him.
He stood up and staggered toward the building. The cook ran out to help him. Everything began to swirl.
He passed out just before his face hit the pavement.
Chapter 2
Ginger Lightley walked out her front door at precisely 7:30 a.m. The chilly January breeze was stronger than usual this morning. She flipped up the collar of her wool coat and pulled the knit cap down over her ears. She enjoyed the four-block stroll to her little bakery on town square.
The old city hall sat in the middle of the inner square. The four-story red brick building and its east and west parking lots covered two city blocks.
A variety of attractive old shops occupied the outer square. The most popular destination was Coreyville Coffee Cakes. Ginger was the proud owner and creator of recipes.
Sometimes she missed the old days, when she used to fire up the ovens at 6:00 a.m., mix the ingredients, and bake dozens of cakes, alongside her dear friend and hard worker, Addie Barneswaller. Nowadays Ginger had several employees. Her only job was to create a new recipe each month.
Coreyville Coffee Cakes would not have been a success without Addie. She was black, six-foot-two, and weighed around 190 pounds—every ounce of it muscle. She looked more like a pro basketball player than a 61- year-old cake baker. Ginger had a hard time believing that they were the same age.
One time Ginger demanded to see Addie’s birth certificate. She just laughed it off as a nice compliment. Addie had eight siblings. That was a lot of kids for her parents to keep up with. Ginger wondered if the parents had lost track of some of their ages.
She would never forget the day they met. Addie had just started working in the cafeteria at the elementary school where Ginger was teaching second grade. That was twenty-nine years ago—right before the bakery was opened.
The first week of school, Ginger was escorting her class through the lunch line when one of the boys looked up at Addie and made an ugly remark about the chicken fried steak. Some of the other children started laughing. Addie slowly leaned over the counter and peered directly into the boy’s eyes with such intensity that Ginger half expected the kid to burst into flames.
Ginger considered intervening to save the boy, but the little brat had been driving her up the wall all morning. So, she hesitated. Then she saw the puddle which was beginning to form on the floor, between the boy’s shoes.
Addie told Ginger later that she felt bad about what happened. But from then on the children knew better than to smart off to the big scary cafeteria lady.
That afternoon Ginger overheard a boy warning his friends. “Don’t say anything to her. Don’t even
Ginger opened the door, anticipating the glorious aroma of freshly baked coffee cakes and perked coffee. There was nothing quite like that first whiff in the morning.
And there it was. It seemed even more intoxicating than usual.
All they had to do was get people into the shop. Once inside, it was nearly impossible for them to walk away without making a purchase. It wasn’t fair, really. Ginger almost felt like a drug dealer.
By the time the shop opened at 7:30, Addie and her new assistant, Lacey Greendale, had already baked dozens of the little cakes.
Ginger’s husband, Lester, God rest his soul, had never cared much for cakes. They were too sweet— especially the ones with icing. But then, as his 30th birthday approached, she had made up her mind to create a cake he’d love. She started with a basic coffee cake recipe and then tried to improve on it.
After throwing away several nine-inch round failures, she came up with the idea of mini-cakes. She ordered a special mini-loaf pan that was actually a set of six 4?-inch by 2?-inch individual pans connected by rods. It worked out great, allowing her to test six recipes at once.
Finally, after eighteen tries, Ginger had a masterpiece. She named it Sweet Ginger Cake. How could Lester resist a cake with
She held her breath as he took that first bite. To her, the cake was perfect. But she was still nervous about what he’d think. She couldn’t tell at first. He appeared to be trying to determine each and every ingredient. “Well?”
“Amazing,” he replied. “How did you do it?”
And that was how it all started. Ginger never had any formal training as a baker. Her only tools were a keen sense of taste and smell. She just kept experimenting until she got it right. That’s how she created all of her original recipes.
She closed the door behind her. There was already a line at the counter. Cheryl Iper was hurriedly accepting cash, checks, and credit cards. At the time they opened, most of the customers were on the way to work. Cheryl was doing her best to get them in and out as quickly as possible.
Ginger had never known anybody who could at the same time be so frantic yet cheerful, while spouting one- liners so fast that you’d never guess she’s a native East Texan.
“Good morning, Cheryl.”
“Morning, Ginger.”
Ginger walked around behind the counter and leaned in close to Cheryl. “Where’s Danny?”
Cheryl blushed. Danny was her twenty-one year old son. “He overslept. I’m sorry, Ginger. But don’t worry. I’ve got everything under control. I can manage until he gets here. And, of course, I’ll dock his pay.”
“That’s fine. I know you can handle it.” Ginger would have offered to pitch in, but she knew that would only make Cheryl feel more guilty about Danny being late.
