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oven since my days in culinary school, and didn’t want to burn them.
    With the chickens complete and the appetizers prepped, I started on the final and—in my humble opinion—most important part of the meal, dessert. Lance hadn’t specified any special requests when it came to dessert. I wanted to make something that would pair well with the chicken and fit with his theme of rustic elegance.
    We had overprepared for the weekend. I had packed extra staple ingredients. Inspiration tends to strike when I’m baking and I wanted to be sure I had everything I might need on hand. I took a quick inventory of our supplies and decided on preparing individual bread puddings. We could bake them in the brick oven and serve them warm. In fact, we could create a grown-up bread pudding bar with an assortment of toppings. I could whip up caramel and hot fudge sauces, and have Sterling arrange a tray of fresh berries, nuts, cream, toasted coconut, and dates and golden raisins.
    Bread pudding is the ultimate comfort food. I cracked eggs into a mixing bowl and whisked them together. Fortunately, I had asked Sterling to toss in all the extra bread we had at Torte right before we left. Usually Mom donates anything that doesn’t sell to the homeless shelter—which usually isn’t much. I’d been saving day-old bread for the past few days knowing that it might come in handy this weekend.
    Sterling returned as I cut stale bread into cubes. “Everything okay up there?” I asked.
    He nodded, and walked to the sink to wash his hands. I smiled to myself. We had trained our staff well. “Yeah, it’s under control. Mercury is up there and Lance just arrived. Tony’s something, though.”
    “You can say that again.” I tossed the cubes of bread into a separate bowl.
    Sterling put his apron back on. “What should I do next?”
    “You want to cube this bread, and I’ll keep working on the base for the pudding.”
    “Sure. What kind of pudding are you making?”
    “Bread pudding. I’ll make a simple vanilla cream pudding and we’ll bake them in individual ramekins in the pizza oven.”
    “You’re in love with this thing, aren’t you?”
    “Is it that obvious?” I put my hand to my chest and batted my eyes.
    Sterling rolled his eyes.
    I turned and moved toward the stove. Making pudding requires constant attention. I whisked eggs and milk on medium heat, paying careful attention not to let the eggs scramble. “You have to whisk this like you mean it,” I said to Sterling. “If this gets too hot, you’ll end up with scrambled eggs.”
    “Maybe you’re onto something, Jules. Scrambled-egg pudding.”
    “Ugh.” I grimaced. The pudding was starting to thicken. I added vanilla and cream and continued to whisk until my arm ached.
    I was just about to take the pudding off the stove, when the kitchen door swung open. I froze in mid-whisk. I recognized the face and familiar Latin accent immediately. “Julieta,” Carlos, my estranged husband, said as I dropped the whisk on the floor.

 
    Chapter Five
    My knees buckled. I grabbed the counter to steady myself. The altitude must have been going to my head. Was I hallucinating? That couldn’t be Carlos standing in the doorway. Could it?
    “Mi querida.” Carlos looked concerned as he came closer. “Are you okay?”
    Sterling picked up the whisk and grabbed the pudding from the heat. I could feel my body start to sway. My heartbeat pulsed in my head. This couldn’t be happening. Carlos was supposed to be on a ship somewhere in the middle of the Mediterranean, not standing in the middle of nowhere in Oregon, wearing a thick high-neck cobalt cable-knit sweater that brought out the gold specks in his eyes.
    His relaxed cadence was so familiar. I wanted to rub my eyes.
    Sterling cleared his throat. “I’ve got to check on how things are going at the bar. I’ll be back in a minute.” He nodded a curt greeting to Carlos, gave me a knowing look, and left me standing with my mouth gaping