The Semi-Sweet Hereafter Read Free Page A

punching people. But in this case, he’d only snooped. On Travis.
    He’d gotten woefully little information, though. Darn it. “Speaking of which, I’ve been wondering,” I pressed, seizing the moment, “what kind of dog do you have, Travis?”
    A moment passed. Nada. I should have expected that, I guessed. Then I realized the phone had gone dead in my hand.
    There was no service on the platform. Foiled again. Even the London Underground was stymying my efforts to find out more about Travis. I sighed and queued up along the yellow line with everyone else, headed to Primrose to set Phoebe’s mind at ease.
    * * *
    By the time I made it to Chelsea, the tony neighborhood not far from the Thames where Primrose drew crowds every morning, I regretted my earlier shopping expedition. Sure, I’m strong. I can hoist burlap bags of cacao beans and handle heavy stainless steel sauciers in a restaurant’s back-of-house with the best of them. But even in a typically cramped bakery kitchen, it’s possible to turn around. That wasn’t true of an Underground train during rush hour. I’d gotten a lot more intimate with my fellow travelers than I wanted to be. Stepping aboveground afterward, I exhaled with relief and headed for the chocolaterie-pâtisserie.
    I’d been consulting at Primrose for a couple of weeks now. Phoebe had entrusted me with a set of keys and access to the shop’s secret recipe journal—a notebook full of various bakers’ formulas, its pages splattered with cream and dusted with cocoa powder. Most establishments treated their “books” with utmost secrecy, but Phoebe had practically thrown Primrose’s at me.
    She’d been desperate to sort out Primrose’s quality problems. Lately, the shop’s sweets hadn’t been sweet enough, their cakes hadn’t been tender enough, their chocolate treats hadn’t been creative enough. Those issues, combined with competition from newer artisanal chocolateries, threatened to squash Primrose’s longtime supremacy in the neighborhood.
    Like many of my clients, Phoebe had come to me via referral. I had a feeling my previous consultee might have been a little too effusive in his praise, though, because Phoebe seemed convinced I could work miracles at her shop.
    I was convinced I could, too, of course. I’m generally pretty confident. Honestly, all Primrose needed were some new suppliers and a few technical improvements—tweaks I could easily teach the staff, given time. But usually it’s best to manage clients’ expectations. I didn’t want Phoebe thinking I could turn her ramshackle team of bakers into geniuses overnight.
    I’d come pretty far in tutoring them—in getting a feel for what was working well at Primrose (brownies, fudge) and what wasn’t (cookies, single-origin bars, cakes). But the staff were green. I’d need more time to achieve a full turnaround.
    As expected, Primrose was locked up tight. The shop’s brick walls and Georgian façade stood sturdily against the encroaching sunset, an event that streaked the sky orange and lent a faint rosy glow to the neighborhood. On the corner, locals gathered for a pint, most of them standing outside the pub chatting. In the distance, I heard cars and Routemaster buses roaring down Chelsea Embankment. Here, though, everything was peaceful.
    I hadn’t really expected anything else. The problems at the chocolaterie-pâtisserie didn’t include rampant carelessness, despite the mistakes Phoebe had alluded to with Hugh Menadue, one of the apprentice bakers. Overall, Primrose was a cozy and inviting shop. Its café-style tables and chairs were immaculate, its floor spotless, its windowpanes streak-free. Through those windows, in front of me, passersby could be lured inside with views of cocoa-marbled “slices” (Britspeak for pieces of cake), malted chocolate cream pies, semi-sweet