First Love

The Art of Making Doughnuts-2

“Up early to make the doughnuts.”

“Exactly.”

An image of him in an apron, flour dappling his cheeks, his beard, and his surprisingly well-developed forearms, flashes through my mind. I push it away. “Where’d you learn to make them?”

“The Culinary Institute.”

“That some kind of cooking school?”

He smiles. “Yeah. It’s a cooking school.”

“I see. They taught you well.”

“Thanks.” He leans back in his chair. “Enough about me. Why’d you decide to become a police officer?”

“The chipped beef.”

“What?”

“You asked what’s good. I like the chipped beef. Though you can’t go wrong with their chicken Parm.” I lower my voice. “And for dessert? Strawberry shortcake. Trust me.”

“Got it.” Pete’s eyes twinkle.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. I like a woman who knows what she wants. And who enjoys a fine dessert.”

I sip my water. Crap. This night is starting to walk like a date and quack like a date. Our waitress comes and I order the chipped beef, but instead of my usual ginger ale, I ask for a glass of merlot.

“Are you going to tell me why you joined the force, or are you intentionally avoiding the question?”

I purse my lips. I’m usually the one making inquiries around here. “It’s not as though law enforcement was a lifelong dream,” I finally say. “But I like to keep a certain order. And I like puzzles. Figuring things out. Police work seemed like a good fit.”

“Makes perfect sense.” Pete smiles and lifts his beer. “Here’s to doing what fits.”

I touch my glass to his. “Your turn. Why doughnuts?”

“Well, I always wanted to be either an artist or a chef. And in cooking school, they call it ‘culinary arts.’ I realized that desserts in particular can be a true art form. So, yeah, I guess you could say doughnuts fit.” He grins at our approaching waitress. “Here’s our food. That was quick.” He seems relieved at the interruption.

My years of dealing with the public have taught me when people have something they prefer not to share. Part of me wants to press him, but this isn’t an interrogation, it’s a—well, fine, it’s a date—so I let him slide.

Dinner is nice. Easy. Pete tells me about some crazy recipes he invented as a kid, and I share my best stupid criminal stories. We both order the shortcake. He insists on picking up the tab, and I let him. We end the night early, because even though it’s only eight-thirty, it’s already past his bedtime. He has to be up in seven hours.

Afterward, he walks me to my car.

“This was fun,” I say.

“Can I see you again?”

“Course you will. Tomorrow morning.”

Pete laughs. “I’ll have a raspberry cream waiting.”

“You’d better.” I click my fob to unlock the door. He opens it for me, and a weird vibe passes between us. “Thanks again for dinner.” I quickly hop in, pull the door shut, and wave goodbye.

Just because it was a date didn’t mean it had to end with a kiss.

* * *

“Well, well. What have we here?” Ed notices it the moment we walk through the door—a small vase with a spray of daisies placed at my usual spot at the counter.

“Shut up, Ed.” I shoot him a warning look.

He was full of questions on our ride over. I shared in great detail the delights of my chipped beef and strawberry shortcake but said little else about last night.

We take our seats while Pete finishes with a customer. He’s wearing a blue flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Did he notice me admiring his forearms last night?

He disappears into the back and returns with two doughnuts plated on jet-black dishes. My raspberry cream is surrounded by a dusting of powdered sugar, as though it’s floating amidst a midnight snowfall. A piece of art indeed.

I feel Pete watching as I lift the doughnut to my lips.

Soft, silky perfection.

Our eyes meet, and for a brief moment I regret my hasty departure last night. Any man who could create such a masterpiece is no doubt one heck of a kisser. I blink and look away.

“Tell you what. I have to make a call.” Ed stands and grabs his doughnut. “I’ll be in the cruiser if you need anything.”

I sip my coffee and listen for the bell above the door signaling his exit before taking another bite. “Amazing,” I say. “And the powdered sugar’s a nice touch.”

Pete grins. “Thought you’d enjoy a little something extra.”

I peel off a piece of the doughnut, swipe it across the plate, and pop it into my mouth. “Divine.” I lean back and point to the flowers. “Also a nice touch.”

“You like daisies?”

“Course I do. Who doesn’t like daisies?”

He laughs. “Fair enough.” He leans over as though he wants to say something, but the bell jingles, so he straightens and heads over to the register.

I dip another piece of doughnut into the sugar as I watch him walk away. A man who bakes and brings me flowers. So, what’s his flaw?

* * *

For the next few days, a string of car break-ins in the western part of the county keeps Ed and me busy. We have to grab our doughnuts and run, though I do notice that a fresh vase of daisies greets us each morning.

“What do you suppose a guy like that is doing in a place like this?” I ask Ed on Friday afternoon as we wind our way down a dirt road toward one of the break-ins.

“What guy?”

I square my jaw and stare out the window. He knows full well who I’m talking about. He just wants to make me say it. “Pete,” I mumble.

“Ah, Pete. As in, Not-a-Date Pete? As in, Everything’s-Coming-Up-Daisies Pete? Mr. Forearms Pete?”

My face burns. “Forget it,” I say. “You’re such a jerk.”

Ed laughs and punches my arm. “I’m teasing,” he says. “But what do you mean, a place like this? Jackson County’s nice.”

“Course it is, but he told me he grew up wanting to be a chef, and he’s obviously talented, so why the Gas-N-Grub? Shouldn’t he be at some fancy restaurant in the city?”

Ed slows down as a groundhog skedaddles across the road in front of us. His expression is thoughtful. “Maybe he’s only good at doughnuts. Maybe he can’t hack the pressure of the kitchen in those highfalutin places. Or maybe he simply prefers our fine country air.”

I nod. “I suppose.”

Ed offers a sly smile. “On the other hand, could be he’s a mobster who’s left behind a trail of bodies to enter witness protection.”

It’s my turn to punch him in the arm. “Jerk.”

* * *

That night I return to my puzzle. I’ve completed the most colorful parts of the luncheon, leaving a mass of black, gray, and white pieces. This is where every nuance of shade counts and the shape of each piece comes into play. I’m so engrossed in cobbling together the shrubbery beyond the balcony that I startle at the sound of my phone.

Who could that be?

It’s a strange number, so I answer with a gruff, “Hello.”

“Hello. I’ve been trying to reach you about your car warranty.”

I laugh, and my pulse jumps at the sound of Pete’s voice. A glance at the clock tells me it’s almost ten. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“Why’s that?

My question is greeted with silence.

“Hello?”

“Sorry. I’m here.” Pete clears his throat. “I can’t sleep because I’ve been getting up the nerve to call you.”

“What? Why on earth would you be afraid to call me?”

“I don’t know. You haven’t spent much time in the store this week.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s because I’ve been busy. Police work is about more than eating doughnuts, you know.”

“Fair enough.”

“Well, here we are,” I say after another long pause. “You’ve called and I’ve answered. Now what?”

He chuckles. “I guess now comes the part where I get up the nerve to ask if you’ll come with me to the Greenfield Farmers Market tomorrow. There’s a new fruit vendor I want to meet.”

I grip the phone and glance at Mildred. She’s rolled onto her back, stomach exposed, not a care in the world. “I suppose I could. What time?”

“Is eight too early? I want to beat the crowds.”

“Eight works.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up then. Good night.”

Pick me up? He disconnects before I can protest. I scoop Mildred up and whisper in her ear, “He’d better come bearing doughnuts.”

* * *

Pete knocks on my door at two minutes after eight holding not only a doughnut but an armful of long-stemmed daisies. I invite him in while I prepare a vase.

Mildred wraps herself around his leg, and he busies himself with petting her until he spots my puzzle. He straightens and walks over to it. “Nice,” he says, giving it a tap. “These folks were Renoir’s friends.”

“I know.” I decline to mention that I learned this a week ago, from the side of the box. “You like Renoir?”

Pete nods. “Sure. And this one’s a favorite in restaurants…food, wine, friends.” His voice is soft, his expression wistful.

I eye him carefully as I fill the vase with water. “Have you worked in many restaurants?”

“A few.” I wait for him to elaborate, but instead he turns to me and flashes a smile. “Let’s get going.”

When we arrive at the market, most of the vendors are putting the finishing touches on their displays. Baskets full of fresh produce offer a carnival of colors, textures, and aromas rarely found in the Shop Rite frozen food aisle. Pumpkins, rutabagas, peaches, pears. I pause at a booth offering handmade soaps made from goat milk and inhale the scents. A raspberry-infused bar calls to me, and I reach for my wallet, but Pete takes it from me and pays for it.

“Thank you.”

“Thanks for coming.”

“This place is amazing.”

He smiles. The market clearly is as familiar to him as it is foreign to me. He guides me past a local butcher and a vendor selling organic dog biscuits to a tent teeming with fruit bins.

“This place sells wild fall berries,” he says. “Thought I might expand my repertoire.” He plucks a ruby-colored berry out of a basket and offers it to me.

I eye him warily. “You first.”

Pete shrugs and pops it into his mouth. “Mmm. Perfect.”

“What is it?”

“Burberry. They’re seedless, so it shouldn’t take much labor to blend them into a cream.”

He offers me another, and this time, I try it. The berry bursts in my mouth with an intriguing sweet-tart combo.

“Well?”

“Not bad.”

“Good enough to make the switch?”

“From raspberry? Not a chance. But others might go for it.”

Pete laughs as he scoops some into a bag and dings a bell by the register. A woman emerges from the other side of the tent. “Good morning.” She offers a broad smile. “Welcome to Wild and Wonderful. Can I help you find anything?”

Pete sets his bag on a scale. “Just these for now, though I may be back next week to try your gooseberries.”

The woman rings him up but pauses before handing him the receipt. “Hold on. Do I know you?”

Pete shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure? I never forget a face, and you seem familiar.”

Pete grabs the receipt and backs away. “We’ve never met. Thanks for the berries.” He places his hand on my back, turns, and practically pushes me out of the booth.

“Wait. I know who you are.” The woman calls after us, but Pete speeds up, rushing us past all the vendors to his car.

He’s quiet on the drive back. I wait until we’re parked at my townhouse to question him. “What was that about?” I ask. “Who was that woman?”