Free One Taste of Scandal by Heather Hiestand

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    He righted her, laughing. “I do apologize, miss.”
    “Cross,” she said.
    “Here, I’ll carry that for you. You’re a bit delicate?”
    She stiffened. “Not at all, just new.”
    “You’ll be tough soon enough, or you won’t last,” Tom said. “They insist on hiring ladies here, but baking is heavy work and no mistake.”
    “I was meant to do the decorating,” she ventured.
    “Ah. Maybe when you’ve learned the basics.” He broke into a whistle.
    “I expect so.” She sighed, pointing him to the table in front of their mixer. Benny had taken away the dirty beaters as promised, so she opened the cabinet and pulled out a couple of bowls, a knife and a spoon, as well as new beaters. The mixer was still set to “warm” and she wished she had another set of hands to set the lever and scrape down the bowl but she managed well enough.
    When the butter and eggs looked well creamed, even she had to admit the machine did its job very quickly. She had brought double what she needed, afraid she’d make a mistake, so she found another bowl and made a second batch. Betsy would be pleased to have twice as much since they had so many orders coming. She set her bowl of chopped butter and sugar under the beaters and used her elbow to set the machine to “mix.”
    This machine didn’t drum too loudly, unlike others she could hear farther down the cavernous room. In fact, she picked up the beat and began to hum an old Arthur Lloyd tune as her gaze wandered.
    One of the bakers caught her eye. He waggled his ears at her. She turned away, horrified, and saw her batter needed scraping down. Feeling quite competent, she balanced the bowl against her chest and managed the entire process without having to turn the mixer off. She started her tune again, tapping her foot against the floor.
    When the creaming was done, she worked her way through the first batter, then the second, her arms starting to ache. Benny waddled by, glancing at her curiously. He probably did not appreciate her not very musical humming. If only she could remember the actual words to the song, but they’d lost the sheet music when they moved three years ago. The piano had been sold soon after.
    Unexpectedly, her tune went funny. She tried to pick up the rhythm again as she rebalanced and pulled the wooden spoon from her pocket. Her song no longer fit. When she put the spoon into the bowl, she noticed the beaters had slowed down. She smelled burning, then a loud popping noise sounded and the machine jerked.
    She glanced from side to side, wondering if she should run away. No one was watching. She pulled the bowl away, sidling back to the table, then, gathering her bravado when nothing else happened, went back to it, put her hand to the lever and shoved it all the way to “off.” Sparks burst from between two panels.
    She cried out and backed away as a lick of flame poked its way out of the top of the machine. The rude baker ran at her. She froze, terrified, but he went right past her and kicked open the back of the machine. The flame doused and smoke rose into the air. They both coughed.
    “Good heavens, woman!” shouted a man in a checkered waistcoat, dashing down the room. “Who are you and what have you done?”
    “I’m Miss Cross, new to the Fancy.”
    “Who is your supervisor?” he roared.
    “Miss Popham?” she ventured.
    He pointed a finger. “Go. Now.”
    She swallowed hard, doing her best to hold back tears, and grabbed her bowls, ignoring the trays and containers. At least she could rescue the cake batter. She crept away, sniffing, and expecting to be fired.
    “We’ll have to call in Lewis Noble,” said the man who’d ordered her away. “Go tell Mr. Hales.”
    “Yes, sir,” said the rude baker, rushing past her as she made her slow way down the hall with the heavy batter.
    When she reached the Fancy, she had to set down the bowls to open the door. Betsy stared at her in the doorway.
    “Your arms are shaking! Why do you have