Chapter One
They say that things are not always what they seem. For a long time, I might not have agreed when it came to my idyllic hometown of Ashland, Oregon, where neighbors helped neighbors and there was a strong sense of community spirit. But my perspective shifted a few days before Halloween this year when a strange turn of events left me unsettled and made me question whether I was sugarcoating the details of my life in our little corner of the Siskiyou Mountains.
The first sign that something wasn’t quite right started amid the pre-holiday frenzy. We had been preparing for the upcoming ghoulish festivities at Torte, my family’s bakeshop. Halloween in Ashland was like stepping onstage at one of the most elaborate productions in the Oregon Shakespeare Festival (known locally as OSF). Perhaps it was due to the creative and artistic types drawn to the Rogue Valley or that OSF had an entire warehouse dedicated to costumes ranging from Greek and Roman times to the Renaissance era, full military regalia to 1960s beehive headpieces, and everything in between. The company rented costumes to theaters of all shapes and sizes as well as for film and TV. Living in a thespian mecca meant that All Hallows’ Eve might be the biggest holiday of the year.
Kids and adults alike would spend hours crafting unique and clever costumes for the celebration. That was my favorite part of the Halloween parade—everyone participated. In fact, to call it a parade didn’t really do the event justice. It was more like a costume street party. And Torte was right in the mix.
We would close shop to join in the revelry and then, as soon as the parade spilled into the plaza, reopen to serve sweets, coffee, and snacks late into the evening. Trick-or-treaters would receive special Halloween goody bags, a longtime tradition at Torte. Mom and Dad had started the trend back in the bakeshop’s early days. They had partnered with other family-owned businesses in town to offer a safe space for little witches and pumpkins to traipse from storefront to storefront in search of treats. Every business in the plaza embraced the experience. Next door to Torte, at A Rose by Any Other Name, Janet would hand out bunches of colorful lollipops tied with silky ribbons to resemble a bouquet of flowers. Puck’s Pub offered red-and-white-striped bags of cheesy and spiced popcorn. The bookstore gave every youngster a free comic. There was always a long line at the Green Goblin at the end of the block, where servers roamed the sidewalk with trays of their signature garlic fries and lemon aioli dipping sauce.
At Torte we packaged hundreds of Halloween treat bags filled with our classic sugar cookies designed to resemble candy corn, ghosts, and spiders. We also included cider spice mixes, Frankenstein and eyeball cake pops, and mummy munch—our Halloween take on trail mix, with crumbled pieces of shortbread, toasted nuts, coconut, pretzels, and orange and black M&M’s.
In addition to the treat bags, our pastry cases would be stocked with chocolate cupcakes featuring fluffy buttercream ghosts, tiered cakes with festive Halloween sprinkles, and cauldrons filled with decadent custards. Many customers had already put in special orders for parties, but the parade and subsequent street fair would bring in thousands of costumed tourists to our little hamlet, and we wanted to be prepared to keep them fed and happy throughout the evening.
On a blustery late October morning, I made my way along Main Street while the last of the stars flicked overhead. As was typical, I had snuck out of bed while Carlos was still sleeping. After pulling on a pair of jeans, tennis shoes, and one of our new Torte hoodies, I tiptoed downstairs and left him and Ramiro a note letting them know that I would see them later. Ramiro had been living with us since August. He was doing an exchange year at Ashland High School and, unless he was a master of deception, seemed to be fitting in seamlessly. His classes were going well, his soccer team had qualified for the state championships, and he had a date for homecoming.
I had been nervous about whether the transition from Spanish to American schools would be difficult and whether things between us would feel awkward or forced. I wanted Ramiro to know that he was welcome and would always have a place with Carlos and me. Fortunately, his easygoing attitude abated my fears. It was as if he had grown up in Ashland with the way he had almost instantly made friends and learned his way around the Alice in Wonderland trails that connected from our house to Lithia Park and all the way to Mount A. Watching him compete in his red and white Grizzly gear brought back many happy memories of my time at Ashland High School, running cross-country and helping build sets for our theater projects. Ramiro had yet to experience an Ashland Halloween, though. He had looked at me skeptically when I told him that the entire town plus a few thousand extra visitors would be in costume. I’m sure he thought I was exaggerating. He would have to see for himself.
Neighbors had already decked out porches with carved jack-o’-lanterns, black and orange twinkle lights, and skeletons. If Ramiro had doubted me, he need only take a stroll through the plaza. Downtown, with its vintage Tudor-style homes and buildings, the Halloween theme continued. Scarecrows, bats, and creatures that go bump in the night were propped in front of restaurants and shops. Silky gold banners announcing the parade hung from the antique lampposts that lined the street. There were window displays with retro candy, advertisements for a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show at the movie theater, and jewel-toned masks for sale at the costume shop.
I was glad for my hoodie as the breeze kicked up leaves on the sidewalks. A faint hint of woodsmoke lingered in the air. There was nothing like Ashland in the fall. To be fair, there wasn’t a bad time of the year to visit our village nestled amongst the endless mountain ranges of the Rogue Valley, but autumn put on a glorious show of color. Every tree in the plaza looked as if it had been painted by hand. Deep maroon, mustard yellow, and burnt orange leaves glowed under the dimming starlight. I drank in the view and the early morning calm as I crossed the street in front of the police station and headed toward Torte.
Our family bakeshop sat on the corner of the plaza. Its cheerful red and teal awning and large bay windows always brought a smile to my face. I paused for a minute to take in the Halloween window display that Steph, our cake artist and a recent college grad, and Rosa, our dining room manager and part-time baker, had created. They had turned the bakeshop’s front windows into an inviting and slightly spooky scene. Black and white bunting and twinkling lights hung from the top of the window, below which hung a six-foot-wide spider’s web. Steph and Rosa had stretched fake webbing from it in each direction, creating a gauzy effect. Cake stands at the base of the window displayed skull-shaped Bundts, and red velvet cakes pierced with bloody knives. Somehow, they had managed to strike the right balance of whimsy with just a touch of creepiness.
The vibe on the plaza was the same. At this early hour, fading moonlight illuminated the trees, casting moving shadows on the ground. The Lithia bubblers gurgled steadily. A crow circled overhead, cawing its morning greeting. Most of the other storefronts were still dark, except the Merry Windsor Hotel, which looked like it should have been named Hotel Transylvania instead, with its crumbling faux-stone façade and dusty windows. Nothing about the dilapidated exterior, however, was an effect for Halloween. The owner, Richard Lord, just refused to spend a dime modernizing the hotel.
I made a mental note to tell Steph and Rosa how much I loved their display as I continued downstairs, unlocked the basement door, and went inside. Being the first person in the kitchen helped set the tone and center me for the day. My first task was to light a fire in our wood-burning pizza oven. Almost immediately the basement began to warm and the scent of applewood wafted into the workspace. Mom and I had designed the commercial kitchen with stations for baking, decorating, and making our savory breakfast and lunch items. I loved our modern revamp with bright overhead lights for the painstaking task of piping detail work on cakes and the easy flow between baking and prep stations. Prior to expanding downstairs, our entire operation had been crammed into the original kitchen upstairs. By far my favorite thing about the basement space was the exposed brick wall and wood-burning pizza oven that our contractor had unearthed in the remodeling process.
After hanging up my coat and turning on the lights, I didn’t bother to brew a pot of coffee, because I knew that Andy, our head barista, would be arriving soon. Instead, I washed my hands, tied on a fire-engine–red Torte apron, and gathered the ingredients I needed for devil’s food cupcakes. I wanted to get a head start on our specialty bakes. We had multiple orders for dozens of custom Halloween cakes, cookies, and cupcakes. The baking was relatively easy, but the task of piping dainty bones or devil horns would be much more arduous. If I could get all of the baking done before Steph and Bethany arrived, that would give the cupcakes and cookies plenty of time to cool before they began to work their buttercream and royal icing magic.
I began by incorporating vegetable oil and sugar into our industrial mixer. Then I added vanilla and eggs. I sifted flour, baking powder, salt, and dark chocolate in next, alternating with a splash of buttermilk and espresso powder. Once a thick chocolate batter had formed, I scooped it into cupcake tins lined with blood-red and ghostly white wrappers. We would use the devil’s food cupcakes for a variety of Halloween designs, including actual devils made with a chocolate ganache glaze and pieces of red licorice for the horns. White meringue ghosts would top some of the cupcakes, and others would get drizzled with melted white chocolate spiderwebs.
As I was sliding the first batch of cupcakes into the oven, Andy came in through the basement door, the howling wind following after him. He clenched his stocking cap and tried, unsuccessfully, to smooth down his unruly hair.
“Whew, it’s really kicking out there.” His youthful cheeks were flushed from the wind. He yanked off his coat and hung it on the rack near the door. “If it keeps up like this for the rest of the week, the trick-or-treaters might get blown away.”
“Somehow I don’t think they’ll mind.” I smiled and then turned to the pantry to get the ingredients I needed for our pumpkin cream cupcakes. “As long as there’s candy, right?”
“Fair point, boss.” He licked his index finger and pressed down a strand of wild hair.
Andy had taken to calling me boss instead of Jules or my given name, Juliet Montague Capshaw. I didn’t mind. I knew it was a term of endearment, and quite honestly, growing up with such a Shakespearean moniker had its own issues. These days I appreciated that my namesake was arguably the most romantic heroine in all of literature, but there had been a time when I was convinced that I was destined for a life of unrequited love, thanks to my name.
“When I was a kid I didn’t care if it was pouring rain on Halloween,” Andy said, coming into the kitchen. “Give me the candy, and I’m good.”
“Same here.” I set pumpkin puree and a trio of spices on the counter. “What’s on the coffee menu?”
Andy had been roasting his own beans lately. After much deliberation, he had decided to take a break from college and football to focus on his passion—coffee roasting. Mom and I supported him by sending him to regional training and serving his specialty roasts. Part of me worried about him giving up the stability of a college degree, but then again, I had followed my dream of going to culinary school and becoming a pastry chef. That choice had sent me around the world and landed me back in Ashland. I’m a firm believer in living authentically and pursuing a passion. Andy had won a number of roasting competitions and installed his own setup in his grandmother’s converted garage. He was definitely on his way to something bigger, but in the meantime, I was so glad that we were the beneficiaries of his quest for the perfect brew.
“I’m not going to give anything away yet, but let’s just say that I have a few tricks up my sleeve.” He winked and rattled the container of beans he had brought from home before heading upstairs.
“Am I going to get to taste these tricks?” I called after him.
“You know it. Hang tight, I’ll be down in a few with my mysterious brew.”
While he went upstairs, I returned my attention to the pumpkin cupcake batter. No Halloween pastry case could be complete without pumpkin on the menu. For these, I whipped butter and sugar together until the mixture was light and fluffy, then incorporated the pumpkin puree, spices, eggs, flour, salt, baking powder, and sour cream to give the cupcakes a slight tang. Once the cakes cooled, we would core out the centers and fill them with our cream cheese frosting. These would be finished with cinnamon buttercream and topped with pumpkin-shaped candies.
While I waited for Andy’s coffee of the day and the rest of the team to arrive, I managed to finish a vat of the day’s batches of dough for sugar cookies and snickerdoodles as well. There was nothing quite as satisfying as checking off tasks on my morning to-do list.
Sterling and Steph showed up about thirty minutes later. They had been living together for a while, and I was curious about what would be next for the young couple. Sterling had worked as our sous chef, and his skills continued to blow me away. Steph had graduated from Southern Oregon University in June with a degree in design. Buttercream had been her muse lately, but I had a feeling that like Andy, they were destined for their own culinary adventures. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I knew I had to appreciate every moment with them.
“I love the new tattoos,” I said to Steph. “They’re perfect for Halloween.”
She tapped a skull cupcake on her forearm and then shot Sterling a triumphant grin. “That didn’t even take a minute. I win. You’re making dinner tonight.” Her violet hair was styled in two braids tied with black rubber bands.
“I always make dinner,” he countered.
“We had a bet how long it would take for someone to comment on my temporary tattoos,” Steph said to me.
“Those are temporary? They look so real.” I leaned in to get a closer look. Steph’s left arm sported a collection of tattoos, both baking and Halloween themed. An anatomically correct heart with tendrils of purple and red veins with tiny heart shapes stretched from the top of her right shoulder to her elbow. “Wow, that heart is incredible.”
Steph’s eyes sparkled beneath a layer of black and violet eyeshadow that perfectly matched her hair. “I was going to save this reveal for Bethany.” She patted her arm. “I wear my heart on my sleeve. Get it?”
“Well done. Well done.” I clapped.
Sterling rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie to reveal his collection of skin art. “I told her once she goes temporary, she’s going to do the real thing.”
“Never.” Steph made a slicing motion across her neck. “Just the thought of a needle makes me want to pass out.”
Copyright © 2023 by Katherine Dyer-Seeley.