Guilty as Cinnamon Read Online Free PDF Page B

it’s classic 1930s. LED, not neon, but it looks like it could have been there.” I fought to keep the pleading tone out of my voice.
    â€œBut it wasn’t. I’m sorry, Pepper.”
    I might hate hearing “no,” but I understand the need to maintain the Market’s historical character and appearance. Without it, the soul of Seattle would be one more outdoor shopping mall. But I’d developed an almost irrational craving for a classic Art Deco neon sign in place of the usual flat wood rectangle.
    â€œNot your fault.” I held out my hand. The tips of his fingers brushed mine, as if shaking hands would mean acknowledging he could have fought harder for an electric sign if he’d wanted to.
    Inside the shop, Zak came up behind me. “Pepper? Is this a good time?”
    The sign. The samovar. Lynette. The wonky wiring that had sent the chandeliers blinking. Could I please hide in my office and pout? Call Fabiola and whine?
    But when an employee needs to talk, then by golly, you’ve got to talk. Or listen, which is usually what they mean.
    â€œMy timing stinks,” he said, perched on the folding chair I keep in the corner, his big hands dangling between his knees. “Now that Lynette’s gone. But I’d already had two interviews when they called me in Tuesday morning and made the offer.”
    My ears pounded like I’d been underwater and surfaced too fast.
    â€œIt’s only assistant producer, but they train. It’s an opportunity I’ve wanted for a long time.”
    What had I just reminded myself about young employees following their passions?
    â€œYou know what it’s like for a musician and a painter,” he continued. “Tory’s getting shows and sales, and my band works steadily, but this is a great job. One of the best recording studios in the Northwest.”
    â€œCan you give me two weeks?”
    He nodded, visibly relieved. The space wasn’t big enough for him to stand and fold the chair at the same time, so he backed out, then stashed the chair. “Thanks, Pepper. You’ve been a great boss. I can’t tell you how much—”
    I held up my hand. Not to stop him from expressing his feelings, but to keep me from blubbering mine.
    *   *   *
    THERE is no accounting for taste. On some crazy days, we crave the comfort of scrambled eggs with tomatoes and fresh chives, baked custard with a sprinkle of nutmeg, or a gratin of macaroni and cheese with herbed bread crumbs.
    On other equally difficult days, only explosions of flavor and spice will do.
    So, after a day that left me a mountainous to-do list and zero idea where to begin, I drove to Lower Queen Anne, then traipsed up First Avenue North to meet Laurel for Indian food, still wearing my Spice Shop black pants and T-shirt. I’d never eaten at Tamarind, but Tamara’s mention of it had gotten me in the mood, and Laurel said his samosas and his paneer with peas and chile-tomato sauce were classic North Indian fare.
    Next to it stood the future home of Tamarack. At the moment, the space radiated negative charm. No quirky, appealing exterior features. Not even a handwritten sign announcing the coming attraction. The black-and-white hex tiles outside the door were dirty and chipped. Brown papercovered six windows trimmed in peeling white paint. An equally blank glass door stood slightly ajar.
    Curiosity called. I pushed the door open and took a step in.
    To a Big Empty. The interior had already been cleared, and framing for new walls had begun. A thick layer of grit covered the floor.
    â€œTamara?” I stepped over the threshold, greeted by a loud mechanical hum from the back. She wouldn’t be able to hear me. I squeezed between a pile of two-by-fours and a stack of Sheetrock. The place had potential—that deceptive, expensive word I knew well from my loft build-out.
    She hadn’t gone far—her green-striped tote sat on top of