A Wood-Fired Christmas (Mistletoe Kisses)

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

LACEY COULDN’T READ Ezra’s face, but Uncle Barrett thought he was wonderful. Uncle Barrett also had… Well, opticians around the world would love to patent his rose-colored glasses, so you never really knew what Uncle Barrett was seeing versus what was there.

Still, when Lacey had learned about the operation of Lovelace Pizza, Uncle Barrett had kept answering her questions with, “You’ll have to ask Ezra.”

Ezra had looked like joy itself when she’d first seen him through the shop window, music vibrating the chilly glass while he moved with a fluidity she’d never expected from someone manipulating doughy circles on what was, in effect, a big wooden oar. That whole kitchen, and only one man—but he dominated it. He dominated it with his music and his voice and his movement, the way he managed the phone and the oven and the pizzas all at the same time.

At least, he’d looked like joy until the moment Uncle Barrett said she’d be taking over. Then he’d looked like revulsion.

Lovelace Pizza seemed indistinguishable from every other hole in the wall pizzeria Lacey had graced during high school, college, and the three years afterward. When her marketing job had announced layoffs, Uncle Barrett had offered this place to her, but what had she gotten herself into? It had two tables, two stools by the counter, a website that made her phone shed sparkling electronic tears, and an order system older than her freshman dorm at the University of Maine in Bangor.

What Uncle Barrett did have, however, were meticulous records. When Lacey had a financial question, he produced the answer within seconds, so she’d known from the start exactly how many employees they had (as opposed to how many they could afford) and what they spent on product versus what they took daily in sales, how many pizzas they made per day (that was capped, for some reason,) and so on.

It was the other stuff Uncle Barrett couldn’t answer, like when she said, “Why don’t you use more fresh organic produce?” and “Why don’t you sell things other than pizzas?” and “Where are you advertising?” Even after her freshman year of college, she’d known the importance of advertising, and yet, somehow, Uncle Barrett didn’t.

Still, Lacey could make this work. Within a year, she’d have it operating in the black, and it would be the first place anyone in Hartwell thought about when they thought of pizza. Next time, it wouldn’t be a local newspaper that voted them best in the region. They’d be getting write-ups in magazines or even camera crews from TV shows.

Uncle Barrett took a phone call, so Lacey returned to the counter. Ezra was cleaning equipment by the sink. She said, “You run the place solo?”

Ezra had a voice dusky as a sunset. “Usually. There’s a part-timer, but when he’s here, he runs it solo, too.”

Lacey said, “George?”

Ezra’s voice flattened. “Greg.”

She nodded. “Why only a hundred pizzas a day?”

Ezra looked annoyed. “That was Barrett’s decision before we even opened. A hundred doughs a day, and then we close.”

Lacey said, “Don’t people get upset when they call and they can’t get a pizza?”

Ezra looked over his shoulder. “That’s what I said, but Barrett wanted everything laid back. If they want something from us, they call it in early.”

Lacey’s nose wrinkled. Ezra added, “Since he wouldn’t budge on the hundred doughs a day, I made it a selling point.”

This was what Lacey meant about the rose colored glasses. If the place was hopping, why not sell two hundred pizzas? Although Ezra kept calling them “doughs,” so maybe she should, too. Instead of pressing on that, she said, “Why do you keep calling it Loveless ?”

Ezra laughed for the first time. “You want the classy answer, or the real answer?”

Lacey tilted her head. “The real answer isn’t classy?”

“When you’re talking to a newspaper, the answer is, it’s ‘Loveless’ because that’s how the poet Robert Lovelace is pronounced.”

Lacey said, “Except it’s Barrett Love-Lace, so…”

Ezra gave a quick roll of his eyes. “The real answer is, when you’re in the middle of the dinner crush and getting a phone call every two minutes and a pizza coming out of the oven every thirty seconds, people hear you answer the phone with ‘loveless’ and it turns out, Maine-ahs think that’s funny.”

Lacey’s mouth twitched. “You could correct them.”

“I’m not fighting a customer about something that unimportant, and I’m a Mainer, too, so I also think it’s funny. Last Valentine’s Day, I did a one-day special on an actual ‘loveless’ pizza. Personal pan sized.”

Lacey snorted. “What on earth did you use for the toppings?”

“Sadness and spite,” Ezra said because just then the phone rang, and he took another order.

Uncle Barrett, of course, had called it ‘Love-lace’ Pizza every time he called it anything at all. Usually, though, it was “my pizzeria” because he was tickled that he actually owned one.

Sadness and spite, though… Anchovies and pineapple would give a lovely sense of salty tears and acidic loneliness while being nauseating enough that no one would order the thing. Fun as a menu option, less fun from a profit and loss perspective.

Ezra told the caller, “Ready in twenty minutes,” and returned to assembling pizzas. He was fast, rolling them round, tossing the dough overhead a few times, then covering it with a ladle full of sauce. On went the cheese. On went the toppings, one after the next. Into the oven went the first, then the second, then the third. Every motion was smooth, almost prescient. His hands moved without him checking what he was grabbing.

For a “Loveless” pizza, Ezra still seemed to love what he was doing. Lacey already liked the shop, and she’d only been here fifteen minutes. He’d worked here for years, so love would make some degree of sense. Wouldn’t you have to love it to trudge to work every day in a building like this?

But how much more could this operation become? Why weren’t they selling wings? Why only two little tables? Why not have outdoor seating and more menu options?

As Ezra slid a pizza into the wood-fired oven, Lacey mused, “We could add more toppings to the menu.”

Ezra’s face tightened, but he said nothing.

Uncle Barrett returned. “Oh, good, you and Ezra are getting to know one another. Ezra’s our backbone, and you’re going to take over as the head, so I think we’re good.”

Ezra glanced up. “And the arms and legs?”

Uncle Barrett chuckled. “That takes care of itself. What matters is, the bones are good, and you two are going to make this a success.”