Tasting Love’s Delight (Preview)

Chapter One

May 1890

Constance, Washington State

It should have been raining but the sky was the clearest it had been for days. Henry Blackwood felt utterly betrayed by it. Today was his father’s funeral and the least the weather could have done was be as miserable as he felt. 

Standing beside him, his mother took his hand in one of hers and gave it a squeeze. Her poor arthritic fingers felt knobby, the joints swollen and painful. It had gotten so much worse in the last couple of days since Henry’s father had passed away. 

It was the shock of the whole thing, or so the apothecary said. After all, no one had expected Robert Blackwood, a fit and active man who was not yet sixty years old, to drop dead of a heart attack. Henry certainly hadn’t expected that. His father had been fit as a fiddle. And yet there he was in a coffin being lowered into the rich earth of their hometown, Constance, in the Willamette Valley. 

Pastor Gibson said his final words and that was it, Robert was gone, deposited in the earth for the worms to feed on. Henry wondered if his father would mind. As a baker he had always told Henry that feeding people was his greatest joy. He wondered if his generosity extended to the lowliest of God’s creatures. Of course, there was no way to know and no way to avoid it either. Robert would be hosting a last meal regardless of his views on the subject. 

“Here they come,” his mother whispered, her head down, her gaze on the hole in the ground that now held her husband. 

Henry couldn’t think who she was talking about until he looked across the grave to where the others who had gathered for his father’s funeral stood. They were making their way around to where he and his mother stood with stolid good will. The looks on their faces made him wish he was anywhere but there. 

For Henry grief was something private and personal. How could anyone understand his pain? How could anyone fathom what it meant to him to lose the man who had taught him to ride a horse, to eat with a knife a fork and to bake. Admittedly, Henry lacked the flare of imagination that had made George such a roaring success. He had other qualities that his father had nurtured and appreciated. 

He was going to miss him and now Henry had to put on a brave face for his father’s friends, and act as though the sun wouldn’t always be just that little bit dimmer, because Robert no longer basked in its rays. 

First up was Mayor Tidwell. He was a portly man of around Henry’s father’s age, yet he had surprisingly dark hair. There wasn’t a gray among them. It was glossy, black, and framed his face as though a team of skilled barbers had spent all morning on it. 

Dressed in a black suit of impeccable tailoring, the mayor walked up to them with his wife on his arm. Mrs. Tidwell was a darling. She was a good deal smaller than her husband, blonde, always well turned out and quiet but not mousey. If anything, she made her views known often with a soft word and a look. Henry knew that when it came to making policy in this town, if Mrs. Tidwell didn’t like the idea, it would never happen. 

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said, taking Henry’s hand in one of hers. Mrs. Tidwell smiled at him in a sad manner. “Your father was an upstanding businessman and a genuine leader of our community. He will be sorely missed.” 

“Thank you,” Henry said, nodding along with her. 

“I’m hoping that you will find your way to stepping up and taking his place in the community,” the mayor said. “Those are some big shoes but I’m betting you can fill them, eh, Henry?” He bumped Henry’s elbow with his own. It was an oddly familiar gesture for the mayor to use with someone like Henry. Or so Henry felt. He smiled, though, and tried not to look uncomfortable. 

“Hush, Arthur,” his wife scolded him. “Now isn’t the time. We’ll have you around for dinner one evening and then we can talk all this other business.” 

The mayor smiled and nodded, and they moved onto Henry’s mother. 

Next came Mr. and Mrs. Patterson who owned the leather goods store next to the bakery. They sold boots, belts, hats and the like, all made with the utmost care. Henry was wearing a pair of their fine boots now. His feet were extremely comfortable, even if the rest of him wasn’t. 

They expressed their deepest regret at his father’s passing and thankfully moved on. By the time half the town had walked by Henry, crying with him, expressing their shock and sadness, as well as their concern for his mother, he was ready to run for the hills. It was torture for a man who was not naturally demonstrative; Henry was not one for public emotions. Those were private to be had behind closed doors. Especially now. 

However, he’d been cried on so much he suspected his mother might need to wring him out. Which was a terrible thing for a man of twenty-six years of age to be contemplating. But to moan about the mourners would be childish and he was not like that. His father had touched all their lives in some way and that was remarkable. He had big shoes to fill. 

The last man in the line was someone that Henry didn’t recognize. He looked familiar, like Henry should know him but perhaps it was only his imagination. There was something about him that reminded Henry of his father. Perhaps it was the man’s dark hair that had the same kind of wave in it in the front that Henry had himself. But the eyes were different. Where Henry had inherited his mother’s green eyes, this man’s eyes were gray. 

“My condolences,” the man said. He had rough hands that showed the scars of a million minor burns. Henry knew those scars and had a few of his own. It came from being careless around a hot oven. 

“Thank you, Mr.…” 

“Mr. Brendan Nugent,” the man said. “You don’t know me, and sadly, I never got to know Mr. Blackwood.” 

“Oh?” Henry asked. What a strange thing to do, coming to the funeral of a man he’d never met. 

“Yeah, I guess you’re wondering why I’m here,” Mr. Nugent said and rubbed the back of his neck with a hand. “See, I’m new in town but I heard a lot about your father. He’s quite famous in baking circles. I was wondering, what’s going to happen to the bakery now? Will you be running it?” 

Henry had given this a little thought but not much. Without his father in the kitchen baking, there wasn’t a business to run. His father had been exceptional. He had been taught by his grandfather back east in Philadelphia to make bread, cakes, buns and more. He had a talent for it that far exceeded merely being able to learn a skill. He was an artist and had taught Henry’s mother to bake and do the fine sugar work for the cakes. Henry knew he should sell it but hadn’t made up his mind. The bakery was a part of the family.

“It’s a bit soon,” Henry said. “I haven’t given it that much thought.” 

The man nodded and looked around as though expecting someone to come to Henry’s aid. There was no one. Henry’s mother was talking to her sister Teresa. 

“Yeah, I guess it is a bit,” Mr. Nugent said. He chuckled. “See, funny thing. I’m a baker too.” 

“Is that so?” Henry asked. Maybe this was his lucky day. If he could find someone to do the baking, his mother’s hands being too painful, he might be able to keep the bakery open. “We might be looking for a new baker.” 

“Oh, no, I’m not looking for a job. I have a business partner and we’re looking to open a bakery,” Mr. Nugent said. 

“In Constance?” Henry asked. Was this man insane? The town wasn’t big enough to have two bakeries. It didn’t have two of any business. 

Mr. Nugent nodded. “So, I was wondering if you might want to sell your bakery to me?” 

“What was that?” 

Henry’s mother’s voice cut through the air like a hot knife through chocolate. She stormed over to where Henry and Mr. Nugent were talking. “What is this about selling the bakery?” 

“Nothing, Mother,” Henry said, trying to placate her. “This gentleman just asked if we would be interested.” 

“And what did you say?” she asked. There was a lot of hurt in her eyes and Henry couldn’t figure out if it was because of the possibility of him selling the business, or if it was just residual from the funeral. Perhaps it was both. Regardless, it was the wrong time for that discussion. 

His mother seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion. Shaking her head she said, “No, sir. I think is most thoughtless of you. My husband has barely touched bottom in his grave and you’re here trying to buy up his life’s work. Shame on you! There is a time and a place for such discussions, and neither are now!” 

Henry knew what she meant but it sounded odd and clumsy. His mother dissolved into tears, burying her face in his chest as she clung to him. His Aunt Teresa came and put an arm around his mother’s shoulders and led her away. 

“She’s right,” Henry said. “I won’t be making any decisions today.” 

“But you’ll keep me in mind if you do decide to sell?” Mr. Nugent asked. 

Goodness he was pushy. 

“Yes,” Henry said, thinking that would be the best way to get rid of him. 

Mr. Nugent nodded. “Again, I’m sorry for your loss.” 

Henry didn’t believe him but accepted his condolences and watched the man walk away. 

***

Despite having an excellent memory in general, Henry could never quite account for the next day in his life. It seemed to go by in a blur of tears, some his, some his mother’s, and a lot of food. People kept arriving with more of it, tons of it, as though there was an army that now needed their bellies filled in their house. It was ironic since the opposite was true. They hadn’t gained a person but had in fact lost one. They should need less food. 

It was on the morning of the second day, while Henry was considering having a strange mostly bean casserole for breakfast that he realized he would have to do something. He couldn’t mourn any more. He had to get out and decide what to do with his life now. 

His mother seemed to have reached the same decision. She came striding into the kitchen, her jaw set in determination. 

“You are not going to sell the bakery to that man,” she said, emphatically slamming a hand on the table. 

Henry regarded her as she rubbed her hand, knowing the arthritis must be throbbing now. 

“Mother,” he began. 

“Don’t Mother me!” she snapped. “We aren’t selling. To anyone!” 

“But think about it, how will we run the store?” Henry asked. “I can bake the bread, that’s no problem, but the cakes. What about the cakes? Who will bake them?” 

“I will,” she said, sticking out her jaw in defiance of the obvious. 

“Really?” he asked and cocked his head on one side. The casserole was not appetizing. It hadn’t been the night before and it still wasn’t now. He pushed it away. “With whose hands will you do this baking and fine sugar work?” 

His mother glared at him. “I know I have arthritis, but I can manage. If we soak my hands in hot water, and rub that salve on from Mr. Chesterton, I can do it.” 

“I don’t think there is an apothecary on the planet that could make your fingers do now, what they used to do,” Henry said sadly. “Oh Mother, I would love to keep the bakery. But how can we when neither of us can bake like my father?” 

His mother sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know.” She sagged into the seat beside him. “But we can’t sell to that fellow you spoke to at the funeral. He’s a shark, a bad man, I can feel it. There’s something in his eyes.” 

Although Henry had the utmost respect for his mother as a person, her proclamations about someone’s worth, based on her gut feeling, never held much water with him. He believed in giving people a chance to prove themselves and had been working on a plan to convince this Mr. Nugent and his partner to become partners in the bakery. 

“Promise me you won’t hire him or sell to him,” his mother said. 

Henry nodded. “I won’t, I promise.” It wasn’t a lie. He had no intention of doing either thing. 

Still, he felt somewhat guilty when twenty minutes later, he left the house and went in search of Mr. Brendan Nugent. 

Constance was a logging town. Nestled on the edge of a vast forest, the town had made its money supplying timber to places near and far. It was thanks to this industry and the local farmers, that the town was booming. 

In the last couple of months, there had even been talk of a coal mine opening in the hills to the north which would bring in even more people. They weren’t far from the railway lines and close to the river. Several residents owned the mills that processed the trees into usable planks and logs and so on, and that brought in revenue. Henry knew all this because he’d used his hometown as a case study while studying business in Boston. 

It was a good investment to have a business here, especially one that was already established and so on. Henry would emphasize that when he spoke to Mr. Nugent and his business partner when he tracked them down. 

It took him over an hour, but he finally found them on the opposite side of town. They were sitting at a table in the Flying Squirrel’s restaurant. As the local hotel, the Flying Squirrel was a popular meeting place. Henry realized he should have tried there first and not last. He’d tried the saloon, the bathhouse, and a host of other places before the Squirrel. 

He spotted Mr. Nugent and another man sitting at a table near the entrance. They were talking and toasting something over a glass of wine. 

“And here’s to skimming every last dime off the top,” Mr. Nugent said, with a chuckle. 

“And off the bottom,” the other man said. They clinked glasses. 

The hairs on the back of Henry’s neck stood straight up. What were they toasting? Had he come too late? And what was this talk of skimming dimes off the top and bottom? It couldn’t mean what he thought it meant. Could it?

“Oh, Mr. Blackwood,” Mr. Nugent said, rising from his seat as Henry approached. “It’s good to see you.” 

Henry realized he should have turned around and left. He suspected that Mr. Nugent was not an honest, upstanding businessman, but a cheat. He didn’t want anything to do with him. But it was too late now. They had seen him. He would have to go and speak to them. 

“Yes, it’s good to see you too,” Henry said smiling and offering his hand to shake. 

“This is my business partner, Mr. Weis,” Mr. Nugent said, indicating the table’s other occupant. He was older than Mr. Nugent, who seemed to be around Henry’s age. Big and blonde he occupied the space he was in completely. 

He towered over Henry as he shook his hand. “Good to meet you,” Mr. Weis said. “Sorry about your father.” 

“Thank you,” Henry said. 

“What brings you here? Are you meeting someone?” Mr. Nugent asked. 

Henry shook his head. “I was passing by and spotted you. I thought I’d come over and see how you’re settling in.” 

“Really?” Mr. Nugent asked. “I think we’re doing just fine. We signed the lease on a bakery of our very own.”

“You did, where?” Henry asked, his curiosity getting the best of him. 

“Right here, seems there is a building that was just dying to be converted into a bakery,” Mr. Nugent said. 

“The old candle store,” Mr. Weis said. “They were dying to sell.” 

“They were?” Henry asked. He knew Mr. Palmer and couldn’t imagine him selling to anyone. He began to understand his mother’s unease with this man. Coupled with Mr. Weis something radiated off them that was not pleasant. 

“Well, congratulations,” Henry said, before looking at his watch. “Well look at the time. I’m afraid I must be going.” 

“But you just got here,” Mr. Weis said. “Have a drink with us.” 

Henry smiled his most winning smile. “I would love to. Let’s meet sometime this week and you can tell me all about it. Right now I’ve got a lot to do to get the bakery open again.” He had to force himself not to run out of the Flying Squirrel. 

This was terrible, what could he do? He couldn’t let those two men have the only bakery in town. They would cheat the good people of this town. Henry’s father had always seen it as his duty to supply them with fresh bread at reasonable prices. He would churn in his grave if Henry let Mr. Nugent take over. 

But Henry was woefully unprepared for this. He would need a good man, a good baker to take over running the kitchen. Henry could still do the accounts and run the store. But where would he get a pastry chef from? Someone who could do all the fine work, the cakes and the tarts, the chocolate and sugar work. Where could he find someone like that? 

And then it came to him. He would put an advertisement in some of the papers back east. He would have a new baker in a matter of weeks. 

 

Chapter Two

May 1890

Constance, Washington State

The smell of burning sugar wafted through the compartment and Collette La Rue looked up from her book. It was a recipe book and for a while she had mistakenly thought she was dreaming about the smell. She certainly had drifted off for a moment in her seat, the book on her lap. 

It wasn’t her imagination though. Someone was going to have a hard time later cleaning the pot the sugar was in. When it burned it glued itself to a surface and was almost impossible to get off again. 

Putting her book into her handbag and slinging it across her body, Collette decided to take a walk through the train. She enjoyed doing that; it being the only exercise there was to have while travelling. Sitting for so long made her feel like a boiling pot with the lid held on too tightly. 

She followed the smell. 

It was coming from further down the train. She had a decent ticket, though not first class, which was all the way in the back. She had been told that was to avoid filling rich passengers’ lungs with smoke and streaking their faces with soot. 

The burned sugar smell was coming from down that way though. 

Collette walked along the corridors, sidestepping to avoid people going in the opposite direction, her hands in her skirt pockets, seeming to be on a lazy stroll. 

It didn’t take long to sniff out the kitchen and find the offending pot. 

“You can’t be in here!” A voice, deep and commanding boomed at her. 

“And you shouldn’t be burning sugar,” Collette said, picking up a dish towel and removing the pot from the range. 

For a mobile kitchen, it wasn’t bad. It wasn’t as big as the one back home in the boulangerie in Brooklyn. 

“What was that?” the man asked. He towered over Collette but being a woman in this business, she was accustomed to large men thinking they could intimidate her. 

“I said that you shouldn’t allow the sugar to burn like that when you’re making caramel,” she said. “Why was no one stirring it? It goes from perfect to ruined in a matter of seconds.” As she spoke, she found a new pot, the sugar, and some water. She put them all on the range, testing to find the spot on the surface that was just warm, not hot and letting the mixture heat up slowly. 

“My grandfather always said that the trick to good caramel, to really good caramel, is a little butter, cream and some salt at the right time,” Collette continued. 

“Who the heck are you?” another man in chef’s whites asked. 

“Collette La Rue, one of the pastry chefs from La Petite Patisserie in Brooklyn, New York,” Collette said, continuing to stir the mixture in the pot. 

“I’ve heard of the place,” the one chef said. “You worked there? I thought they were all men?” 

Collette chuckled. “A common misconception. My sister, my mother, father, and myself, we all worked there, together.” 

“But not now?” the other chef asked. 

Collette swallowed. The sugar was melting nicely. For a moment she stared at the mixture, her heart aching just a little. She didn’t want to think about why she was on this train. Instead, she smiled and shrugged. “Family. You know how it is. Anyway, I wanted to spread my wings.” 

And that wasn’t a lie. That was how she had ended up on this train, wanting to spread her wings. To explore options in the world of pastry and what one could do with it. Like covering a cake with a thin layer of chocolate over the buttercream frosting. Or adding a filling to the cake that when one cuts a slice, came spilling out. Or adding a mousse and chopped nuts to the filling. So many options which had never been tried because it wasn’t traditional. 

But no time to worry about that now. The caramel needed attention. 

Collette worked quickly, stirring, adding the ingredients as they were needed. She was in her element. It had been a week and a half since she boarded the train and started her journey out west. As far west as one could go without boarding a ship and sailing off to parts unknown. Washington State certainly was parts unknown to her. She’d been a New York City girl all her life and this was daunting. Having something to do was good. 

The caramel was done. It was creamy, of the right consistency and it smelled perfect. 

“There you go,” she said, smiling as she turned to the two stunned chefs in the room. “Your caramel, chef.” 

“Um…thank you,” the biggest of the two said. 

“We don’t usually make caramel,” the other man said, as though apologizing for getting it wrong. “It’s this princess from some or other European country who’s onboard. She wants this caramel topped cake dessert this evening which we’ve never heard of.”

“We’re steak and potatoes kind of guys,” the other chef said. “And we’re darn good at it.” 

“I’m sure you are,” Collette said, her tone sincere. They had the look of chefs and sauciers about them. 

“Well, now, she wants this cake thing for dessert and the conductor came in here with the recipe for it which is frankly confusing…” the other chef said. “Have you ever made a dessert like that?” 

“Can I see the recipe?” Collette asked. 

She was handed a card. It had a recipe written in the neatest, smallest handwriting that Collette had ever seen on it. The name at the top of the card was Dobos Torta. 

“Ah,” she said. “I’ve never made one, but I have read the recipe before.” 

“You have?” they asked. 

She nodded. “It’s a Hungarian dessert. All the rage overseas if the magazines are to be believed.” 

“Think you can do it?” the first chef asked. 

Collette considered it. It was a six-layer sponge cake, put together with chocolate buttercream and covered with a hardened layer of caramel which kept the cake moist for longer. 

“Yes, I believe I can,” Collette said. 

“Excellent, get rid of the bag, grab an apron and get cracking,” the first chef said. “We still have a whole meal to get out.” He offered her his hand to shake. “I’m Chef Jude and this is Chef Brian.” The other chef nodded. “And the torta is all yours.” 

“Thanks,” Collette said, grabbing an apron and getting to work. The caramel was sadly going to waste. Instead, she poured it into a greased sheet pan, added some chopped nuts and let it dry out. 

Then she got to work on the torta. 

It was the happiest Collette had been in a long time. Whipping up her signature sponge, which always came out fluffy and moist was a dream. Making the buttercream was hard work, with all the whipping, but worth it and her second batch of caramel, made to harden quickly, was perfect. By the time the cake was assembled, it was a masterpiece if she said so herself. 

“Gosh!” Chef Jude said, smiling. “That looks good.” 

“Thank you,” Collette said. 

“Say, you fancy a job on the train? We could use someone with your skills right here,” he said. 

Collette chuckled and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I have a job waiting for me in Constance.” 

“Too bad,” Chef Jude said. “You have a real talent. If that job doesn’t work out, don’t worry, I can get you hired here in a blink.” 

It was good to know. Collette was nervous about the job, which she had applied for by letter. Yes, her references were impressive. She hadn’t only worked in her family’s business, but at a few other pastry shops around New York. She had worked tirelessly to get to the point where her grandfather hadn’t been able to fault her baking. And that was saying something. He always found something in every dish to comment on. 

For the rest of her journey out west, Collette worked in the first-class kitchen, whipping up desserts. They had a cold room and she made enough to keep them in delicacies for at least half the trip back east. 

However, when the day came to depart, she was quite sad about it. 

“We are going to miss you, Chef Collette,” Chef Jude said. “You’re an artist.” 

“A true artist,” Chef Brian said. 

“I will miss you both too,” she said. She would. They had been good friends to her on this journey. But she had to hold her head up high and face the next step in her life journey. 

***

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“Tasting Love’s Delight” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Collette La Rue, a talented pastry chef with a troubled past, sets out on a journey to find her own path in life after being expelled from her family’s bakery following a conflict with her sister. When she stumbles upon Henry’s advertisement for a pastry chef, it feels like a chance for a fresh start. Little does she know that her arrival in a small town will not only change the fate of the struggling bakery but also weave a thread of love into her own complicated story.

Can Collette overcome the scars of her past and seize this opportunity to find not only professional success but also the love and acceptance she craves?

Henry, burdened by the sudden loss of his father, finds himself thrust into the overwhelming task of running the small-town bakery. However, the arrival of Collette brings more than just culinary expertise. A glimmer of hope emerges as their shared passion for baking sparks a connection that transcends the confines of the kitchen. With her exceptional culinary skills and an unwavering determination to prove herself, Collette could be the key to breathing new life into Henry’s bakery…

Will Henry, a successful businessman, discover that there’s more to life than just financial success?

As Henry and Collette join forces to save the bakery from impending doom, they find themselves caught in a whirlwind of emotions. With a rival bakery determined to undermine their efforts and tear them apart, will their budding romance survive the heat of the competition? Can Henry and Collette rise above their personal demons and the external pressures threatening their dreams?

“Tasting Love’s Delight” is a historical western romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

Get your copy from Amazon!