Cause For Alarm by Erica Spindler Page A

that her mother had been killed in a traffic accident, and her father had left New Orleans to become artist-in-residence at an art colony north of San Francisco. Though they spoke often and affectionately, geographical distance kept them from spending much time together.
    No, after watching her parents Kate had decided on a degree in business and had relegated her beloved art to a hobby. Now, instead of on gallery walls, her stained glass creations hung in every window of The Bean. She created them because she loved the craft. Not for money. Not for recognition. Now and then she sold a piece, and when she did she was pleased. It was freeing not having to deal with the pressure of having to sell.
    Kate knew how lucky she was. She could have been stuck working nine to five, pushing papers in a job she derived little pleasure from. And doing it day after day, just to keep a roof over her head.
    And she would have, and made the best of it, because she was a practical person.
    Something Luke had never been able to understand.
    Funny, she thought, picturing him in her mind’s eye. They had both come from low-income homes, both had attended Tulane on scholarship. Yet Luke had been determined to stick to his dream of being a novelist. He had refused to even consider journalism or copywriting. He had believed in himself that much.
    What would it be like to have that kind of confidence? she wondered. To have that much courage?
    The woman and her children served, Kate motioned to her managers. “If I can trust you two to keep your conversation respectable, I’ll be in my office working on payroll.” Kate looked from one to the other. “That is, if you want to get paid today?”
    â€œGo…go.” Blake waved her toward the back. “I’m broke.”
    Marilyn clucked her tongue. “You need to manage your finances better. There will be a tomorrow, you know.”
    He sniffed. “Words of wisdom from the queen of the college loans.”
    â€œScrew you.”
    â€œSorry, darlin’,” he drawled, “but you’re not my type.”
    â€œYou don’t have to worry about me keeping it respectable, Kate,” Marilyn said, looking pointedly at Blake. “ I have the ability to think about other things.”
    Kate threw up her hands. “You two will never change. I’m going to stop trying, just don’t scare all the customers away. Okay?”
    Not waiting for a response, Kate made her way to her office, checking supplies as she did, making notes of what she needed to order. The time cards were stacked neatly on her desk, waiting for her. With a sigh, she took a seat and got to work.
    She had only been at it a few minutes when Blake tapped on her open door. “We have a problem.”
    She looked up and motioned him in. “What’s up?”
    â€œIt’s the baker. Again. He didn’t show Saturday. Consequently, we were out of half our pastries before the after-movie crowd even arrived.”
    â€œDid you call?”
    â€œOf course.” Blake frowned. “I got the machine. Twice.”
    â€œAnd he still hasn’t called back.” She made a sound of disgust. “How many times does this make?”
    â€œFour. The jerk.” Blake lifted the heart-shaped paperweight from her desk, weighed it in his hand and set it back down. The Baccarat crystal heart had been a gift from Richard last Valentine’s Day. “I really hate irresponsibility.”
    Kate smiled. That’s what made him such a good employee. “I’ll take care of this, Blake. There are other bakers in town, and we’re going to find ourselves one.”
    â€œThank God.” He wagged his finger at her. “And this time you’re not going to listen to any sob stories, right? It doesn’t matter if his dog died or his wife left him, he has a commitment to us and our business. You’re much too nice, you know.”
    A notorious soft touch, that