As Beautiful as the Bay Read online

  She glanced around Sam’s garden, at the plastic table and chairs on the deck, the lopsided umbrella, the pair of gumboots by the door. He would have to do some preparation here, too. Although he probably wouldn’t. If it didn’t have flour in it and a sprinkling of cinnamon on the top, he wasn’t interested. A woman would have to roll in raisins and cover herself in maple syrup to get him to notice her.

  She smiled at the thought of him licking it off, then scolded herself for thinking about Sam and sex in the same sentence. No good would come of that fantasy.

  His love for baking was at such odds with his lackluster attitude where his business was concerned. She’d tried to talk to him about ways he could improve, but he’d shown no interest. She didn’t understand. He could start making filled rolls and sandwiches, and provide a muffin and sandwich cart to businesses in the area—nobody else provided that kind of service, and he’d make a killing. There were lots of places he could advertise the bakery, from local radio to community boards in neighboring towns, but he’d just rolled his eyes when she’s tried to suggest it. His breads were too basic, the bakery itself outdated. He was happy with what he had, he’d told her, and so was the community. That made no sense to Ginger. Why settle for average when you could push for magnificence? He’d only entered the awards to annoy her—he had no great drive to win. It made the fact that he would likely gain the popular vote even more frustrating. He shouldn’t win just because he’d been born in the bay and it was a family business. It was his father and his grandfather and their descendants who’d done all the hard work—Sam was just surfing the wave they’d started. Innovation and recent growth should count for more than history.

  Still mumbling to herself, she stopped at the back door to the house and knocked.

  “Come in,” a voice called out.

  She pushed open the door. “It’s Ginger. May I come in?”

  “Of course. Come through.”

  She went into the kitchen and placed the pot she’d bought in the fridge, then went into the cozy living room that Sam shared with his dad. She’d first met the old man when she’d come to see Sam to ask whether he would be interested in supplying the daily bread for her restaurant. Sam had been helping his dad in the garden, and George had immediately taken to her, and she to him.

  He reminded her of her father—what she could remember of him, as she’d only been three when he’d left England to return to New Zealand. Or maybe he was just like the image everyone had in their head of an ideal father—warm, friendly, jovial, and tough when he needed to be. Whatever the reason, they’d gotten to talking about pastry, and she’d called in a few days later to deliver some new crab vol-au-vents she’d made for him to try. He’d suggested she add some locally-made cream cheese to them, and they were so good that since then, she’d called in to see him once or twice a week to chat, often to bring him samples of her cooking.

  “Morning, sweetheart.” He was sitting in his armchair in the living room, toasting his toes on a log fire.

  “Good morning, George.” She went over and bent to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ve left some seafood chowder in your fridge.”

  “Ooh, lovely. I’ll have that with a crusty roll for lunch.”

  She smiled. “I thought you might still be in bed.”

  “Once a baker, always a baker. I still wake up at four every morning.” He grinned at her. “Have a seat, and help yourself to coffee.” There was always a pot of coffee on the hot plate.

  Usually, she didn’t have time to stop, but it was cold outside and she had a few minutes to spare. She poured herself a small cup and perched on the sofa opposite him. “I’ve never understood people who lie in bed until late. I’ve always been an early riser.”

  “You’d never believe it now,” he told her, “but Sam used to be a nightmare to get out of bed. I had to use a shoehorn to get him up before midday when he was a teenager.”

  “Really?” She laughed at the thought. “It wasn’t in the blood, then?”

  “The waking up early certainly wasn’t.”

  Ginger sipped the coffee, trying to picture Sam as a teenager, all floppy hair and attitude. No change there, then. Her lips twisted wryly. “But I’m guessing the family love of baking was?”

  George shrugged. “Well, it was his older brother who was the real baker.”

  Ginger’s eyebrows rose, both at the word ‘brother’ and the word ‘real’. “I didn’t know he had a brother.”

  “His name was Ian,” George said softly. “He died in a car crash a few years ago.”

  Ginger stared at him, shocked. She’d known that Sam’s mother had passed away when he was young because she’d asked him, but he’d never mentioned a brother. “Oh, George, I’m so sorry.”

  He sighed. “It was a shame, because Ian would have been the one to take over after me. He felt it in the heart.” He tapped his chest.

  She gave him a curious look. “What do you mean, in the heart?”

  “You work with food. You know. It’s not just about providing something to sate hunger. Cooking is about touch and smell and taste, about combining the right flavors and textures. There’s a whole philosophy behind creating a meal. It’s about feeding your family, and providing for your loved ones. And baking is the same. Corn is grown in the fields, and when you grind it, it carries with it the memory of summer, the sound of birdsong. When you make the bread, you’re communicating with nature.” He leaned forward while he spoke, and his eyes were alive with the memory of his work.

  A lump formed in her throat. They were fanciful words, but they rang true for her. Often, when she was busy, she couldn’t think of anything other than completing orders and making sure the dishes got to the table on time. But occasionally, before the restaurant opened, or when she got home and cooked for herself, she liked to take her time over preparing ingredients. Her mind would often wander then as she thought about where the vegetables had been grown, and gave her thanks to the animals who had given their lives to supply meat for the table.

  “And Ian felt the same way?” she asked George.

  “He did. When he was five, he was with me in the kitchen here, at home. I was showing him how to make some simple oatmeal cookies. And while he was mixing the dough, he said he could feel the sun and rain that the oats had soaked up when they were growing. I knew then that he was going to follow in my footsteps. Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be.”

  “So what about Sam?” she asked curiously. George was obviously very proud of his eldest son. She hadn’t missed the fact that he was often impatient with his younger son. Maybe it was because Sam wasn’t ambitious, or perhaps George just didn’t think he was any good at the job.

  He leaned back in his chair. “He took a Diploma in Baking in Wellington. Worked in a few bakeries there and in Auckland. And then he landed a job on a cruise ship.”

  Ginger’s eyes widened. She’d assumed Sam had been in Blue Penguin Bay his whole life. “Seriously?”

  “I know, crazy eh? Talk about highfalutin ways. The bay was never good enough for Sam. He worked on the Pacific Islands cruises for a year, and then he transferred to the world cruise ships. He travelled all over the world for five years. He loved it, for some reason.” George’s face showed that he couldn’t understand it in the slightest.

  Ginger was completely taken aback. “So he worked as a baker on the ships?”

  “He was a pastry chef. He made desserts, cakes, and pastries. He made the best profiteroles I’ve ever tasted,” he admitted, somewhat reluctantly.

  “I didn’t realize,” she said softly. She’d thought Sam’s skills extended to loaves, rolls, and muffins—not that there was no skill involved in making them, but she hadn’t imagined him to have the finesse to make delicate pastries. She’d been convinced that the practical, somewhat arrogant man whose laidback approach irritated her beyond all measure had no soul, but George’s words implied the opposite.

  “It sounds like the job of a lifetime—why on earth did he come back
here?”

  “To look after me,” George said. He leaned back in his chair and flexed his right hand several times. “A year ago, I had a stroke. I’m numb down most of my right side, and this hand is almost useless.”

  Ginger’s jaw dropped. Jesus, why hadn’t Sam told her any of this? “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “You didn’t, love; it’s okay. Sam insisted on coming home and taking over the place, and living here with me. Maybe I should have argued more. The truth is that I’m glad the bakery stayed in the family, and I like having him home. He tells me he’s happy here. I only wish it were true.” He gave her a lopsided, sad smile.

  Ginger’s throat tightened with emotion. It must have been such a difficult decision for Sam. “Aw, he seems happy, George. And anyway, surely he could make some of his cakes and pastries at the bakery, if he wanted?”

  “Couldn’t do that,” the old man said. “All or Muffin sells good, hearty food. The folks around here wouldn’t buy fancy stuff.”

  It dawned on her that Sam’s reluctance to branch out might not be of his own making. Maybe he’d purposely kept his products the way they’d been made for years for his father’s sake. Perhaps he’d discussed with George bringing in a few changes, and George had been dismissive, or maybe it had even upset the old man.

  A thought came to her then. “What do you think about him entering the Gold Food Awards?”

  George frowned, impatience flitting across his face. “I don’t know why he bothered. We don’t need a seal of approval to know how important we are to our community.” Then he blinked. “Well, that’s not to say I don’t understand why you entered. It’s more important for a restaurant—you’re expected to have awards and stars. But we’re not a fancy eating place. We serve good, solid food for good, solid folk. Nothing more.”

  “That’s true, but winning would get you noticed,” Ginger pointed out. “It’s a prestigious award.”

  “Prestige doesn’t pay the bills. We do just fine the way we are.”

  Ginger nodded and put down her coffee cup. “You certainly do. Well, I’d better be going. I have lots to do.”

  “Of course. Don’t let me keep you.” He lifted his face for her kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  “It’s no problem—I love to see you.” She gave him a wave. “I’ll be back in a few days with some new little pies I’m trying out.”

  “I look forward to it. See you, love.”

  She washed up her cup, stepped out into the sunshine, and began to walk back to her car.

  So, Sam had given up his dreams and ambitions to come home and run the family business for his father. Why hadn’t he told her? On more than one occasion, she’d scolded him for being mired in the past, and mocked him that she was going to help drag his business into the twenty-first century. Shame swept over her. She had to learn not to jump to conclusions so quickly. Once again, she’d made a judgement about someone without knowing all the facts.

  And yet, he hadn’t said anything to put her straight. He could easily have told her the truth, but instead he’d taken her scolding and teasing with an insouciance that infuriated her. He knew he made her mad—why didn’t he just tell her the truth?

  Because he enjoyed annoying her—that’s why. He liked the spark that jumped between them when they argued. It excited him.

  She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket, the bright spirits she’d felt slowly dissipating like the early morning mist. She couldn’t blame herself for jumping to conclusions when other people refused to give her all the facts—she had to fill in the blanks herself. Was it her fault if they were wrong?

  She was done with men who prodded and poked her like a steak on the barbecue. If she was ever going to date anyone again, it would be a man who was gentle and kind, and who didn’t get turned on by provoking her into arguing with him.

  If she ever dated again. It was a very big if. The frustration and embarrassment flooding her reminded her of how bad she’d felt after what had happened with Jack in England. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—go through all that again. She was done with men, period.

  No matter how much they smelled of muffins.

  Chapter Five

  The exhibition center heaved with people, despite the rough weather.

  It had been raining solidly since Saturday morning, and now, on Sunday afternoon, the rivers had swollen and there was talk of flooding in some low-lying areas. Sam had half expected the organizers to cancel the awards, but so many businesses were attending that it would have taken a huge effort to reschedule, and the weather forecasters had promised the worst weather would hit on Monday, so in the end they’d decided to go ahead. Consequently, the hall was filled with stalls, and the place was packed with people trying out the different food and wines, and listening to the live band playing on the stage.

  “Looks like we’re in for a rough one.”

  Sam turned to see Jace Hart, an up-and-coming lawyer from the nearby town of Kerikeri. Six-foot-four and built like an All Black player, Jace wasn’t from the bay, and Sam had only known him since he’d returned home a year ago. He didn’t know much about Jace’s past since he didn’t like to talk about himself, so he was a bit of a mystery. But Sam didn’t care, provided the guy continued to play lock in their local rugby team.

  “Hey, Jace. Yeah, talk about rain, eh?”

  “It’s the wind I’m worried about.” Jace was eating what looked like chicken satay on a stick from the stall run by the local Thai restaurant. “If it starts whipping up the waves, I could be in for a wet night.” Single, hardworking, and with a well-paid job, Jace lived on the Kerikeri inlet, in a beautiful house right on the water’s edge. “I’m surprised there’s such a big turnout, considering.”

  “Me too. I guess the prospect of good food and wine overpowers the fear of nature.”

  Jace grinned. “Are you heading to the front? I think they’re going to start making announcements soon.”

  “Yeah.”

  The two of them began to slowly make their way toward the front of the hall. “Have you got a stand here?” Jace asked as they threaded through the throng of people.

  “Yep, on the right-hand side. Piri and Ally are running it. We’ve already sold out of most of the muffins already.”

  “I’m hearing a lot of good talk about the bakery,” Jace said. “Think you stand a chance?”

  “Nah. Not flashy enough.”

  “It’s not about being flashy.” Jace sidestepped a couple of kids running by with ice creams. “There are a lot of factors involved in making the decision, including product range, friendliness of service, and how long the business has been operating. The food is important, but so is the business itself. All or Muffin has been around for a long time, and it’s well known throughout the Northland.”

  “Maybe,” Sam said, surprised at the pride he felt at his friend’s words. They paused at the edge of the crowd, looking across the sea of tables, already packed full of people. “Dad didn’t want me to come,” Sam confessed. “He thinks I’m being foolish, entering the business in the awards.”

  “Really?” Jace’s eyebrows rose. “Why?”

  “He’s of the opinion that if you don’t enter, you can’t lose.”

  “If you don’t enter, you can’t win either.”

  “I know that, and you know that...” Sam sighed. “Since he had his stroke, he’s clung even harder to the old ways. Twenty years ago, I could have understood it, but now there’s so much opportunity to try new things, and he won’t have any of it.” His jaw tightened as familiar frustration swept through him.

  “Most people hate change,” Jace pointed out. “And the older a person gets, the less likely he or she is to embrace it. At least he let you change the name. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I first saw the new sign.”

  “Pankhurst Breads didn’t do it for me.”

  “I love All or Muffin. It’s a great name.”

>   “Thanks.” Sam grinned.

  Jace smirked and pointed at Sam’s T-shirt. “You’re certainly bringing a young, dynamic energy to the business.”

  Sam opened his mouth to reply, and then his gaze fell on Ginger Cartwright, sitting with her sisters and Mac on a table to one side. It was the first time he’d seen her since she’d come into the bakery on Monday morning. For a moment, nobody else in the room existed. Her beauty radiated out from her, casting the rest of the hall into shadow. She’d clipped up her blonde hair this afternoon, and she wore a pale green top that complemented her coloring perfectly.

  “Wow, who’s that?” Jace asked from beside him.

  Sam blinked and looked at him, then followed his gaze. Was he staring at Ginger, too? But no, he wasn’t—Jace was looking at the girl winding her way back to the table, carrying a couple of bottles of cider. Wearing a long cream boho-style dress, she wore her hair in a loose braid that fell almost to her waist.

  “That’s Sandi Cartwright,” Sam said, his lips curving up.

  “Fred’s sister?” Jace asked. He’d handled the legal side of things when Mac had discovered his father had forged Harry Cartwright’s will.

  “Yep. And that’s Ginger, their other sister.” Sam nodded toward the strawberry-blonde.

  At that moment, Ginger looked up at them, catching them both staring at her. She glanced at Jace, then back at Sam, and heat flooded his body at the memory of being close to her in the bakery, and of how close he’d come to kissing her.

  Her unsmiling gaze cooled his ardor somewhat, though, and when she eventually looked away, Jace gave a low whistle. “Medusa over there just turned you to granite. What have you done to deserve that?”

  “Not as much as I’d like,” Sam replied glumly.

  “Come on.” Jace walked on, throwing over his shoulder, “I want you to introduce me.”

  Sam muttered under his breath, but followed his friend up to the table where Mac, Fred, Ginger, and Sandi were sitting. They looked up as the guys approached.