Molly's Garden. Roz Denny Fox
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at his lower lip. “I don’t recall him asking about money. Not usual. But he didn’t strike me as a man with champagne tastes. Know what I mean?”
“Okay. Suggest the same rate I paid Ramon. If he wants more, go up fifty dollars a week. But that’s tops. If he’s good with that and can work tomorrow, no need to let me know. If he backs out and I have to juggle my workload again, put a note on my kitchen door. I don’t know how late I’ll be at Tess’s. She’s offering bread and wine.”
“Your papa would like seeing you get out with friends your age. But he would’ve liked it better if you were going out with a young man.”
Snorting, Molly handed back Adam Hollister’s application. “Don’t you be stepping into Dad’s shoes and giving me a hard time. Maybe I’ll choose to remain single.”
The old man, who’d been like a grandfather to Molly, raised an eyebrow but ducked back into the office without saying another word.
Molly went to the house with Nitro, stopping to cut and bag stalks of dill from the herbs lining her front porch. She added rosemary and thyme to the burlap bag. That barely left time for a speedy shower.
After dressing, she worked equally fast and tossed together ingredients for a summer salad. Placing the bowl on ice in a small cooler, she pocketed dog treats and left the house with twelve minutes to reach Tess’s.
The freeway made the drive easy. Still, she was a tad late. Because her windows were rolled down, she smelled the fresh bread when she turned onto her friend’s street. There weren’t a lot of homes nearby, but the people living closest must drool a lot, she thought. Few things set a person’s taste buds tingling as did warm, fresh bread.
She parked behind Tess’s car, collected everything and clipped a leash on Nitro.
Tess had already thrown open her front door, greeting Molly with a hug as she crested the top step. Her friend’s chubby three-year-old beagle barked and dashed out to rub noses with the much taller Doberman, who acted silly again, the way he had with Adam Hollister. The big dog scooched toward Coco on his belly, uttering what could only be described as crooning. “You ham,” she accused him as she and Tess laughed.
“I thought my last batch of bread would be out of the kiln out back before you got here,” Tess said. “I’ll pour us each a glass of Mom’s sangria and we can let the dogs run in the backyard while we wait. It feels like ages since we even talked.”
“It all sounds heavenly. I’ve scarcely sat down all day.” Molly handed Tess the burlap bag of herbs and followed her through the dimly lit living room into the bright, cheery kitchen. Molly had only been here once before.
Now, as Tess poured wine, Molly opened her cooler and stored the salad in the fridge. Then she unhooked Nitro’s leash. It took about ten seconds for the dogs to dash out through the doggie door, and for Molly to wind his leash through the handles of the cooler. Straightening, she noticed the wall of floor-to-ceiling metal racks filled with cooling loaves of bread.
“You’ve been baking up a storm.” She accepted the glass of chilled sangria from the woman who was four years her junior, six inches shorter but much curvier. “Cheers,” Molly said, touching the rim of the stemware to Tess’s glass.
“I’m making up for lost time. When I visited my family as long as I did, I put a dent in my bank account. Let’s go outside.”
Tess elbowed open the back door and the smell of baking bread wafted in on the evening breeze. A red glow flickering in the domed wood-fired oven emitted enough light to make the porch feel cozy.
Molly sat on the bench that flanked a rustic table. “How do you know the right amount of wood to make bread bake at the temperature you need?”
“Practice,” Tess said, taking a sip of wine. “Also, when I had the stove built I installed temperature gauges in the fire box and the oven. See that digital readout? The oven is basically like one my grandmother would have used in Sicily, but with modern bells and whistles.” She went over to check both gauges. Returning, she sat and said, “A few more minutes and I can pull the loaves. Is that long enough to tell me who in the world beat up your truck driver and why?”
Molly heaved a sigh. “I still don’t know. Ramon didn’t recognize any of his assailants. The local deputy claims they have no suspects. Between us, I doubt he’d tell me if they found the culprits... Has anyone objected to how you sell your bread?”
“How so? I’ve got two types of ovens, which lets me operate under cottage food industry laws. Why would they object? Who objects to you selling organic vegetables? Wait, don’t answer. Let me pull out the loaves first.”
The dogs raced up the steps and flopped near Molly, who took two treats from her pocket and fed one to each dog.
“Where were we?” Tess asked, stepping over Coco to take her seat.
“Discussing the harassment of my drivers. I’m disheartened after talking to Deputy Powell. He insinuated that locals think I hire undocumented immigrants, or at least supply them with food. He didn’t mince words when he said I should be more circumspect about which hungry families I give produce to.”
“Why is that their business? It’s your food. If I didn’t take pre-orders, which pretty much ensure I sell out every time, I’d donate leftovers. Also, are they leaning on the big ranchers or area builders? For sure they don’t check status when they hire.”
Molly shrugged and dipped a slice of orange out of her glass and ate the pulp.
“What are you going to do about a driver?”
“With luck, Henry’s hired a guy today who answered an ad I ran. I didn’t interview him, but we spoke. He’s...well, he rides a Harley, dresses like a biker and doesn’t strike me as the type to take any guff.”
Tess grinned.
“So, tell me. It’s not my imagination that your tone changed when you described him. I take it he’s hot?”
“Don’t be silly.” Molly sipped her wine. “When do we eat? The smell of your cranberry bread makes me want to tear into a loaf right now.”
Tess hopped up again to check. “The bread is cool enough to move. But don’t think changing the subject will make me forget about your hot biker guy. I’ll ply you with more of Mom’s wine.”
“I didn’t say he was hot. And one glass is my limit. I’m driving.”
“Hot was implied. I understand if you want to keep him for yourself. How old is he, out of curiosity?”
Molly jumped up and stepped over dogs to help carry in the rack. “Honestly, Tess, did I even say he’s single?”
“A motorcycle jock? Of course he is.” The younger woman juggled her end of the rack, walking backward into the house.
“Hey, that’s judgmental! I’d say he’s close to forty. At that age—if he’s single—he’s probably divorced. Enough about my maybe new driver. I’ll get the salad. I see the table is set.”
“Spoilsport.” Tess sighed. “My mom bugged me about not having a man in my life while I was visiting, so it’s been on my mind. She thinks twenty-eight is over the hill. Of course she was married at seventeen and had me at eighteen. And at forty-six, she’s outlived three husbands. Preferred older men.”
“Wow, don’t tell her I’m thirty-two and still single. She’ll think I’m a bad influence.” Molly held up a cruet filled with oil and herbs she found in the fridge. “Is this the dressing?”
“That’s a new recipe I got from Aunt Luisa. And grab the blue container, will you? I whipped some butter with fresh berries.”
Molly eyed everything once it was on the table. “I wish I liked to cook. For me it’s a chore,” she said, sitting. “My dad hired a cook. I tracked after Dad with the cattle, in the barn, riding horses. I was too much of a tomboy to care