Turning Up the Heat. Ashley Lister
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you to tell me what you think it needs.’
‘Pumpkin-pie spice and coffee?’
He lifted the muffin gingerly and sniffed the risen crust. In the morning light of the spice shop the sponge looked like dark gold. She could see the sprinkling of golden sugar crystals on the top and watched them sparkle brightly.
‘Pumpkin-pie spice and coffee is an adventurous combination, isn’t it?’
Trudy said nothing. She didn’t want to influence his opinion. She simply arched an eyebrow, turned and went over to the coffee shop.
She returned ten minutes later with two cappuccinos.
It pleased her to see that West had consumed half the muffin but she couldn’t bring herself to smile. He was shaking his head and she understood that something was wrong with the flavour. Something was clearly troubling him.
‘Where did you get the pumpkin-pie spice?’
‘Get it? I made it.’
‘That’s good. We can probably correct the error from there.’
If anyone else had told her she’d made an error in the kitchen, Trudy would have indignantly bristled and asked what qualified them to make such a bold statement. But no one knew spices better than Finlay West. If he said she’d made a mistake, Trudy was prepared to consider what he had to say and likely bow to his experience.
‘Are you telling me the error’s in the pumpkin-pie spice?’
She tore a piece of the muffin away and sniffed doubtfully. It had all the component parts she expected to encounter. It was fiery and sweet from half of the ingredients with a suggestion of something medicinal and bitter from the cloves.
‘What do you think is missing?’
‘It needs more cinnamon. It needs much more cinnamon.’
‘That’s all that’s missing?’
He shrugged. ‘At the moment you’ve got an even blend of allspice, ginger, cloves and nutmeg. But you’ve only got a similar amount of cinnamon in there too. Admittedly, your nutmeg could be fresher – but I know how difficult it is to get hold of fresh nutmeg. More importantly, most importantly for pumpkin-pie spice, there needs to be a greater cinnamon content.’
‘How much greater?’
He shrugged. Reached for a pen. Jotted down notes. He was shaking his head as he wrote and, when he broke away from writing to sip his cappuccino, she noticed he sluiced his mouth with the drink as though he was trying to remove the taste of the muffin.
Had it really been that unpleasant? She didn’t dare ask the question.
‘The recipe I’ve always used works with these quantities,’ he told her. He pointed at the scrap of paper as he reiterated the items. ‘You’ll need two teaspoons of ginger, two teaspoons of nutmeg, two teaspoons of allspice and two teaspoons of cloves.’ He paused to study her through the clear lens of his spectacles and said solemnly, ‘Added to that you need three tablespoons of ground cinnamon.’
The words sat between them like a challenge.
‘Three tablespoons?’ That was more than double the amount of cinnamon she’d been using. It was a ridiculous amount. ‘Won’t the cinnamon overpower the flavour of the spice?’
‘It’s cinnamon. Cinnamon never overpowers. It only ever sweetens.’
She studied him doubtfully as she sipped her coffee. It wasn’t that she doubted his judgement. But she felt sure that such a large quantity of cinnamon would only serve to dominate the mixture.
‘Try it,’ West insisted. He weighed a paper bag of ground cinnamon, twirled it once to seal the corners and then handed it over. Setting his shoulders into their usual confident pose he added, ‘Come back here and pay me for this once I’ve been proved right.’
Trudy took the note with West’s recipe and reread it slowly.
She trusted his judgement and ordered a couple of essentials for the recipe, whole nutmegs and allspice, which she knew were running low in the kitchens of Bill’s cottage. As soon as Finlay had organised them she placed the packages in the bag on her hip and finished her coffee. She was about to leave when the bell over the door rang.
A pretty young woman holding a baby stumbled into the shop.
‘Trudy,’ Imogen grinned. ‘You always look so good in your running gear.’
‘Imogen and baby Bill,’ Trudy returned. She plucked the baby from the young woman’s arms and cuddled him affectionately.
Baby Bill was a lively handful.
Large for his age, and blessed with painfully bright-red cheeks, he wriggled in Trudy’s arms and then tried to pull at the brim of her pink running cap. He giggled loudly whenever Trudy moved his hand away and pretended to scold him. As soon as he thought the punishment was concluded he would slap his hand back on the brim. She chastised him with mock ferocity and took satisfaction from the sweet sounds of his amusement.
‘You’re good with him,’ Imogen said. She took her coat off and hung it in the backroom of the shop. When she reappeared she asked, ‘Do you fancy a part-time job as a babysitter?’
‘Sure,’ Trudy said. ‘I’ll squeeze in a few hours of babysitting on those nights when I’m not running myself ragged around your father’s restaurant, or busting my backside over at Sweet Temptation.’
‘You think that’s hard work?’ Imogen asked darkly. ‘Have a child. Have a child and maybe work for a harsh and miserly old taskmaster who doesn’t appreciate your efforts. Then you’ll learn what real hard work is like.’
Finlay pretended to look shocked. He clutched Trudy’s wrist and said, ‘Did she just call me a miserly taskmaster?’
‘A miserly old taskmaster,’ Trudy assured him.
Finlay tutted. ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless shop girl.’
Trudy jostled baby Bill on her hip. He felt substantial and there was something comforting about his weight and the way he kept reaching for her cap and grinning his broad, innocent grin. Ignoring Finlay’s theatrical attempts to appear injured, Trudy turned to Imogen. ‘You’ve not yet been up to Boui-Boui.’ She tried not to make the words sound like an accusation.
‘No,’ Imogen admitted. She took the baby from Trudy’s arms and busied herself with checking on him. ‘Baby Bill’s not been up to travelling these last few weeks,’ she explained. ‘You know how kids get at this time of year.’
‘He’s a sickly child,’ Finlay added. ‘I think he gets it from that sickly specimen of a father he had.’
Imogen shot him a reproachful look.
Trudy tried not to smirk.
‘You must come and visit the restaurant soon,’ Trudy insisted. ‘It would be great to see you up there and I know Bill would really love to see how his grandson is developing.’
Imogen’s silence was noncommittal.
It stretched to the point of being uncomfortable.
‘Doesn’t Hart spend a lot of time in the city now?’ Finlay asked.
‘He’s there three days a week,’ Trudy said. ‘He’s usually away on Thursday, Friday and most of Saturday.’
Finlay nodded. ‘So, if someone wanted to visit Boui-Boui to see you, but to avoid Hart …’
Trudy fixed him with a venomous glare.
Finlay pretended to ignore her obvious anger.
‘… that person would be best visiting on a Thursday, a Friday or a Saturday.’ He paused and then smiled to himself. It was obvious that he was trying to contain a lot of mirth behind