Crazy Blood

Chapter Fifteen

By the dawn’s early light, Wylie let himself and the girls into Let It Bean. It was the Fourth of July. Even in summer the mountain cast its cold shadow on the town, and Wylie saw his breath in the air as he stepped into the still-unwarmed bakery. It smelled as it always did: of roasted coffee, warm cream, baked spices and yeast and flour mixed into a sweet, invisible, almost narcotic cloud. He flicked on the lights and set the thermostat and stepped into the walk-in refrigerator for a supplies check.

The girls worked by rote, too: Beatrice to the grinders and Belle to the steamers, then teaming up to make the breakfast burritos and get them into the electric warmer.

As always, all hands gathered side by side at the racks to appraise the pastries that Steen and Kathleen had created the night before. They were competitive about their baking — Kathleen self-taught; Steen formally trained in his native Denmark. Besides the usual staples, they found peach preserve/whipped peanut butter croissants; whiskey/apricot and Brie Danish; and a dozen dark chocolate/Tabasco-raspberry scones. Kathleen and Steen had arranged and labeled them.

“Mom thought up the peanut butter ones; you know that,” said Bea. “And Dad the spicy raspberry.”

“Maybe we could just split one of the croissants?” asked Belle. “I mean, three ways?”

Wylie ate his third in one bite, poured a double shot of espresso, just said no to the cream. He went to the front of the shop, which was just now growing light with the sunrise. The windows were festooned with posters for local events, the newspaper racks ready to be filled, the furniture straightened up by Kathleen and Steen the night before.

He turned on the baseboard heaters, lights and lamps, and suddenly he was twelve years old, doing this exact thing on his first official morning shift thirteen years ago, thinking that he would spend many hours of his life in Let It Bean. It was exciting to be part of the family business, though he had to get up awfully darned early. He was a quiet boy, serious, tall for his age and slightly rounded by the endless pastries that a two-baker family produced. He looked at his reflection in the window, watched it morph from a twelve-year-old to a twenty-five-year-old.

“Here we go again,” said Beatrice, setting out the cup lids and napkins and insulators. “I hope it’s a good day. I’m afraid what Gargantua is gonna pull on us next.”

“Fear not,” said Wylie. He wadded up some newspaper and set it in the fireplace, covered it with kindling, and made a tepee of logs on top. The cold newsprint resisted the match; then a good orange flame climbed up.

He knew that today would be busy in town and they should be able to sell coffee and pastries as fast as they could serve them. In a little over an hour, Kathleen would be here for the seven o’clock bulge. It would take all four of them to service their customers, if today went the way Fourths always did. Biggest day of summer, easy.

But Gargantua Coffee had launched their “Gargantua Froth of July Blowout,” which was half off all purchases, with Gargantua paying the sales tax, too. Swag giveaways, drawings for snowboards, skis, mountain bikes, apparel. Portion of Proceeds Benefits Mammoth Ski Team! They’d taken out ads in both local papers, and Wylie had seen the Mammoth cable channel and the Weather Channel running more ads for the Froth Blowout.

Not only that, he thought, looking out the window, but every streetlight stanchion in town was draped with banners, many of them featuring the Gargantua gorilla logo, writ large. What had riled Wylie the most was the cute yellow Piper Cub that had towed a Gargantua Froth of July Blowout sky banner back and forth over the mountain for the last three days running. Wylie had watched it, fairly sure he could shoot it down with his M16, so plump and slow and incredibly annoying it was.

“We took out ads in the Mammoth Times and The Sheet,” said Bea. “They were only six-by-six. I designed them.”

“I saw them, Bea. I liked the way the steam became the words.”

“Gargantua is gonna kill us.”

“We’re going to do what we do,” said Wylie.

“Another of your random optimisms,” Bea said. “Like Dad would come up with.”

“I hope he slams a homer out there today.”

This would be Steen’s first day with the Little Red Pastry Shed, which he had gotten permission to set up in the Mammoth Sports parking lot. The lot was where all the store’s bikes were racked for rental and sale, and plenty of tourists were sure to come by. Steen was expecting substantial sales, which would cover the time and material for the cart, and pave the way for profit.

A few minutes later, when Wylie opened the front doors of Let It Bean, it was to the half-dozen hale locals who met there every morning. He held open the door and greeted most of them by name, making small talk while scanning the parking lot to make sure there weren’t more coming. He held open the door after the last regular drifted in. If you hold it open, they will come — but they did not.

Wylie’s sisters had learned their regulars’ habits by now, and set about filling the standing orders. Two customers did venture out for some of the new exotic pastries, one of them remarking that everyone would be at Gargantua today, trying to win prizes.

Kathleen came in at seven, but there was no bulge of customers at all, just a young tourist couple with twins in a double-wide stroller who told them Gargantua was too busy and the lines too long. The dad asked about fishing and the mom wanted to rent bikes that could pull baby carriers. They’d heard that bikes were being stolen in Mammoth a lot this summer. Wylie pointed out the Troutfitter across the street for fishing, and told them about Mammoth Sports, just up Old Mammoth — look for the Little Red Pastry Shed. He waited for them to make up their minds, looked back at Kathleen standing in the doorway to the kitchen. She was assessing things. Wylie hated the disappointment on her face.

The sun rose and the customers trickled in and out over the next hour. Only a few of the cutting-edge pastries sold — four burritos, some muffins. The customers just weren’t there. There was usually a nine o’clock bulge, too, especially in summer, when there were no ski lifts to catch. So maybe at nine things would pick up...

At one point, all four Welborn-Mikkelsens found themselves lined up with their backs to the rear counter, facing out toward the smattering of customers, with nothing really to do. Looking through the windows, they watched the vehicles coming in and out of the parking lot. Across the street, the pines were heavy and high and the sky was a chipper summer blue streaked with cirrus clouds. It would be dry and hot today.

“I used to think this was the worst place in the world,” said Beatrice.

“Oh, why is that?” Kathleen asked.

“Because all winter it’s so cold and so dark, and I have to be here so early.”

“Well, we have to be here,” said Kathleen.

“Yeah,” said Belle. “Then off to school, with your clothes stinking like steamed half-and-half starting to spoil. You get there all sleepy and you’re stuck all day. Classrooms too hot. Then home to homework, all afternoon. And in bed super early because the next day’s going to be the same. Cold, dark, work. Cold, dark, work. Steamed half-and-half. School. Homework. Morning. And you can’t work out early with the team when the snow is good, so you get stuck with slushy afternoons and weekend crowds. And you and Dad expect us to be great athletes. What a joke! Ask Wylie — he had to do it, too. No wonder he went to a war.”

“I know it’s hard,” said Kathleen.

“There’s something worse, though,” said Beatrice. “It would be worse not having a here to wake up for. Losing Let it Bean.”

“Oh, don’t even think that, honey! We’re doing just—”

Belle whirled around, turned her back to the customers so they would not hear. Her voice was a sharp whisper. “We’re dead, Mom! The numbers have been going down for a year. You know it. You think because you and Dad keep the books, only you and Dad know. But we know! We feel it every day. We see it every day! Then Gargantua shows up. Now they have a line out the door and halfway to Von’s. We’ve got this.”

Wylie saw his mother’s stricken look, watched her glance past Belle to the few customers.

“What we’re saying is this is ours and we want to keep it,” said Beatrice. “That no billion-dollar multinational has a right to take it away. And to make our dad have to go out and sell pastries from a street cart so we make enough money to live. And the new lease? And the roof at home? I hold Gargantua personally responsible even though he’s a gorilla.”

Eyes fierce but moist, Kathleen turned to the shelf of drink flavorings, fiddled with the bottles. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“Sure, Mom,” said Beatrice.

“Carry on, team,” said Belle, stepping to the counter to service a couple of fishermen who were looking at the Let It Bean staff with uncertain expressions. “Welcome, anglers!”

Wylie caught up with his mother in the kitchen. She was slamming around the pots and pans harder than she needed to, anger frozen on her face.

“Mom, what gives?”

“Rent doubles in November, if we stay here. Stan over at Mammoth Commercial told me that Gargantua has made an offer for this space. And he told me what it will take to beat them. I don’t know how the girls found out, but it’s a fact.”