Bubble Chum

by Wendy Meadows

  I finish just in time to hear his car pulling up to the curb. I snatch my knitted shawl and race downstairs just in time to open the door like I knew all along and had plenty of time to get ready.

  He smiles at me. “You look ravishing.”

  I blush—or is that all the running around I’ve been doing? I extend my hand to him. “Thank you. You look smashing, too.”

  He certainly does. He wears a tailored black suit with gold cufflinks and shiny polished black leather shoes. I’ve never seen him like this before.

  He offers me his arm and escorts me to his car. He seats me in the passenger side and gets behind the wheel. We start out of town on the highway and he heads toward the beach.

  I struggle to come up with something to say. “How was the hike?”

  He turns his piercing blue eyes on me. “Not as nice as this. I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

  I try to look away, but my cheeks burn. He can’t really mean that. “Did Pauline and Ariel get off to Hartford all right?”

  “Not quite. They had a flat tire, so I changed it for them before they left. Other than that, they got away fine.”

  I look out the window at the scenery. My guts churn thinking about him changing Pauline’s tire. Of course he would have to play Knight-in-Shining-Armor to her while I was trapped in the candy store. I should have known something like that would go on behind my back.

  I lock my teeth. I tell myself again and again, Don’t say anything. Just don’t say anything.

  We drive in silence for a while before he speaks up. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I shouldn’t, but since he already knows something is bothering me, keeping quiet would probably turn out to be just as messy. “Not really.”

  “Do you understand why I didn’t want you to come on the hike?”

  I let a shaky breath. “Of course I understand. I didn’t want to come on the hike. I just wish it was different. I wish I had you all to myself instead of sharing you with anybody.”

  “I have to spend time with Ariel,” he points out.

  “I’m not talking about Ariel.” I press my hand to my eyes. “Oh, for the love of God. Yes, I am talking about Ariel. I’m talking about everybody. It’s foolish. I know it’s not rational. It’s stupid and childish, and I never wanted to talk about it in the first place. Just ignore me.”

  “I won’t ignore your feelings,” he returns. “If something is bothering you, we should work it out.”

  “Nothing is bothering me. I’m perfectly fine with you spending time with Ariel.”

  “What about Pauline?” he asks. “Are you perfectly fine with me spending time with her?”

  I snort with laughter. “Yes, I’m perfectly fine with you spending time with her, too. I have no reason not to be. Spend all the time you like with her. Just…..”

  He waits. “Just what?”

  “Just don’t stop spending time with me, okay? Don’t forget about me.”

  Without answering, he seizes the wheel and careens off the road. He skids to a halt on the shoulder and swivels around in the seat. He grabs my hand. “I will never stop spending time with you, and I could never forget about you if I tried. You are far more important to me than Pauline. I can’t necessarily say the same about Ariel, but I will never put my relationship with her above my relationship with you. I will always make time for both of you.”

  I nod down at his big warm hand protecting mine in his grasp. Why did I ever question him? I should have trusted him.

  “Pauline isn’t even in that equation,” he goes on. “She’s not even on the charts for me to spend time with her. Only Ariel matters—Ariel and you. You’re the only two women in my life.”

  “I understand that. I guess I just needed to hear you say it.”

  “I’ll say it as often as you need to hear it.” He presses my hand and goes back to driving. “Just so you know, I don’t think she’s all that amped to spend time with you, either.”

  My head spins around. “What makes you say that?”

  “She never mentions you. She never talks about you. If Ariel or I mentions you, she either keeps quiet or changes the subject.”

  “That’s odd,” I remark. “I barely know the woman. Why should she have any reason to dislike me?”

  “I don’t know. I thought it was kind of strange since she knows we’re dating. Ariel can’t say enough about you, and it obviously bothers Pauline. She never shows any negative emotions. She always stays calm and friendly and civil, but just the way she avoids talking about you made me think maybe she doesn’t like you.”

  I frown. Most people who don’t like me have some reason for it—like I put them in prison or something. I can’t think of anyone in my life who developed a dislike for me without getting to know me first.

  I don’t like knowing some woman out there resents me and avoids the mention of my name. I want to track her down and confront her. I want answers about her messed up attitude.

  Then again, maybe she feels the same way about me. Maybe she caught the hint that I was jealous of the time she spent with David. Maybe that made her uncomfortable and she resents that I resent her.

  I settle back in my seat. My relationship with David certainly didn’t turn out the way I expected. It started out simple enough. I enjoyed dating a handsome man with no competing responsibilities to get in the way of him bestowing all his free time on me.

  Now here we are in this mess. He has a daughter and a…. I almost called her his ex-wife. She isn’t, but she might as well be. I have to consider her in the same category as if she was his ex.

  Her being his daughter’s adoptive mother doesn’t change the dynamic for me. She’s the fifth wheel. She’s the other party in raising Ariel, and he has to negotiate with her over everything as if they had raised Ariel together.

  David has as much sexual interest in her as if they had broken up long ago—at least, I hope he does. How much sexual interest does Pauline have for him? Maybe none. Maybe it’s all in my mind. After all, she’s married.

  He turns down the beach road. It winds a long way on the edge of steep cliffs. I can see out over the black ocean writhing cold and lonely to the limit of the horizon. A cruel winter wind howls over the white caps and pounds the beach below.

  Far into the distance, high above our heads, a beacon of light shines its penetrating rays into the gloom. It burns like a star for all the world to see. It offers a glint of hope in the icy wilderness of storm-swept sea.

  I can’t think about my petty troubles with that lighthouse drawing us closer all the time. The car plows ahead until the headlights find the source. We pull into a parking lot flooded with welcoming, golden beams.

  “We’re here,” David tells me.

  I wrap my shawl close around my shoulders while I wait for him to open my door. I get out into the biting gale. He immediately wraps both arms around me and hustles me to the Hotel. He bursts inside and slams the door behind us.

  In an instant, the noise dies and I find myself tucked in a pocket of heat and comfort. Candlelit tables fill the restaurant. A few diners clink their silverware and sip wine from sparkling glasses. Huge windows afford a magnificent view over the beach and the ocean. This place must look just as stunning in daylight as it does at night.

  David exchanges a few words with the concierge, who takes us to our table. I can’t stop staring at everything. “This place is spectacular.”

  “I knew you’d like it.”

  I look at the cloth napkins, the crystal wine flutes, the place settings with three consecutively smaller plates stacked one on top of the other. “You have never brought any other woman here?”

  “No, I haven’t.” The concierge brings over a bottle of wine, pops the cork, and pours for both of us. After he leaves, David raises his glass to me. “This place is special to me, and if you have anything to say about it, I won’t bring anyone else here.”

  I lower my eyes to my wine while I take a sip. He’ll never bri
ng Pauline here or any other woman. This is all for me. The more I drink in the surroundings, the more special it becomes. No one has ever done anything as special as this for me, and his words make it so much more so. Now I understand how he feels about me.

  The waiter takes our order and eventually we start on the mind-blowingly good food. How can I have been living in West End all these months and not known a restaurant as good as this existed a few miles from my house?

  I’m glad I didn’t know so tonight could be as special as it is, but I can’t stop my head spinning every time some new astonishment takes me unawares.

  In the middle of the meal, the concierge comes over to our table. He bows to David. “Is everything to your satisfaction, Sir?”

  “It’s perfect.” David waves the man toward me. “Margaret, I want you to meet Marvin Jetty. He’s the owner of this fine establishment. Marvin, I don’t think you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Margaret Nichols.”

  Believe it or not, the man actually bows over my hand and kisses my knuckles. “Your reputation precedes you, Ms. Nichols.”

  “Thank you, Marvin,” I reply. “This Hotel is certainly an accomplishment to be proud of. Congratulations.”

  His cheeks flush, and he closes his eyes when he bows his head. “It’s a very humble little hotel. We do our best to make it nice. If it pleases the guests, that is all I ask.”

  He bows himself away from the table and leaves us alone. I shake my head. “He’s entirely too humble.”

  “He built this place with his own two hands,” David tells me. “He used to wait on every table before he got too successful and had to hire help. He still works the floor, though. He forms personal connections with every customer and guest, and he takes personal responsibility for everything that happens in the whole hotel. Now that’s what I call service.”

  “No wonder he succeeded,” I remark. “He is certainly attentive.”

  “If you need anything—anything at all—you ask him. He knows everybody and has his fingers in everything. Some of his guests walk in the door with special requests. He prides himself on taking care of their needs as long as it’s legal.”

  I shoot him a sidelong grin. “I was going to ask how you can be friends with him if he gets them anything they want?”

  He leans back in his chair and sips his wine. “He calls me if any guest requests anything illegal. He knows if they can’t get it from him, they’ll look elsewhere and that’s how they get into trouble. Most of his guests know the drill by now. People who are into anything illegal don’t come here or they just keep their mouths shut.”

  “He’s smart,” I remark.

  “He certainly is. He protects his business.”

  5

  I bend over a baking sheet lined with parchment paper. I concentrate hard to pipe hot sticky candy into identical swirls. I work as fast as I can to make seven rows of twenty each before the candy starts to cool and harden.

  At the table next to me, Sabrina pipes red icing into flower clusters on another sheet. When we finish, we meet at the walk-in fridge to put both trays on the shelf inside to cool. More than fifty trays already fill the walk-in.

  “We’re running out of room,” I point out.

  “We’ll be fine,” Sabrina tells me. “Just keep working. By the time we fill up the walk-in, these will be cool enough to package up. We can also use the fridge under the prep bench over there if we run out of space—which we won’t.”

  I saunter back to the work table in her bakery kitchen. We’ve been at it for four hours making candy, chocolate, and baked goods as fast as we can while Zack covers the candy store and Tanya works the bakery counter.

  I pipe another row before I run out of candy. I drop the piping bag into the sink and head for the stove. “What are you working on next, Margaret?” Sabrina asks.

  “I’m going to make the gingerbread walls for the gingerbread houses. I have four big houses planned so I need those big flat pans of yours.” I fish under the counter and lay out the wide, flat cake tins on the worktable.

  “Whoa, girl!” Sabrina calls. “Back the truck up a second. You don’t even have the batter made yet. Leave those down below and leave some workspace for me.”

  I laugh out loud. “Sorry. I’m not used to working on a commercial scale.”

  “Well, I’m not used to working with another person in my kitchen. I’m used to hogging all the space and all the pans and all the walk-in shelves to myself.” She chuckles and shakes her head.

  “Thank you for letting me use your kitchen,” I tell her. “I know it isn’t easy letting a stranger and an amateur into your workspace. I’m grateful.”

  She cocks her head to look at me. “I like it. I didn’t realize until now how lonely I was working alone.”

  I measure my next words with care. “Why don’t you get yourself a few more employees? You shouldn’t have to work your fingers to the bone morning, noon, and night. You’re successful enough now that you should be able to delegate a little more.”

  “You’re right, Margaret,” she tells me. “Thank you. I didn’t think of that, either. I love baking and I wouldn’t want to stop, but I wouldn’t have to. I would just have a couple more people around to share it with. Great idea. Thanks.”

  In the few seconds since I mentioned the idea, she already looks lighter, happier, almost relieved.

  “You did an amazing job taking over this bakery after Alan got arrested,” I tell her. “You should be proud of yourself. You made it the success it is, and everyone in town admires you—not to mention that they love your food.”

  “I’m glad they like it. I only wish they’d….”

  Before she finishes speaking, the back kitchen door bursts open and Stacy Koontz enters. She beams at both of us covered in chocolate and candy and dough. “Zack told me you were over here. I got the flyers printed.”

  She holds up a piece of paper printed in bright colors. Winter Carnival, it reads. Bonfire at the Beach. West End, Connecticut. December 20, 2019.

  “Wow, Stacy,” I exclaim. “Those look amazing. Did you design them yourself?”

  Her cheeks bulge and glow even rosier than usual. “It’s a little side hobby of mine. Now we just have to distribute them. I was hoping you could help me out. We have to cover the businesses in town, both neighborhoods, and the…”

  “I can’t leave now,” I tell her. “I’m just about to start my gingerbread houses.”

  “Can you do that later?” she asks. “The Carnival is only a week away.”

  “I can’t,” I tell her. “I got Zack to cover the store so I would have the whole day off. I don’t know when I’ll have time to do it if I don’t do it now.”

  “You go on,” Sabrina tells me. “I can finish up for you here.”

  I look back and forth between them. Then I make up my mind. “No. I’m going to do this. I set this time to do make my stuff, and I don’t have any free time set aside between now and the Carnival. It’s now or never. Sorry, Stacy.”

  “Okay.” She shrugs. “I’ll wait for you to finish.”

  “Great.” I jump on my gingerbread and slide the pans into the oven.

  I wrap some backing sheets in foil and start preparing the icing and candy for the houses. Stacy leans against the counter. “What are you up to, Sabrina?”

  “I’m making the frosting decorations for some big wedding-style cakes—only they’ll be more like tiered Christmas cakes without the bride and groom standing on top. See?”

  She turns her three-ring binder around on the table so Stacy can see the sketches of Sabrina’s cakes. Stacy’s eyes pop. “Holy cannoli! These are stunning. You guys are really going all out.”

  “We want to make a good display for the Carnival,” Sabrina replies.

  Stacy sets her hands on her hips. “That does it. I’m going to have to up my game if I’m going to show my face next to you guys. I wasn’t planning anything special for my display, but I can see I’m going to have to change that.”

&
nbsp; She flips the plastic-covered pages in Sabrina’s notebook ooing and aahing over one sketch after another. I glance at Sabrina. She bends over her piping bag, but her face shines as red as a beet. She can’t escape the implication of this conversation. Stacy really admires Sabrina’s work.

  “Hey, Sabrina,” I chime in. “Maybe Stacy could give you some tips on where to find reliable employees.” I turn to Stacy. “Sabrina is thinking of bringing in a few more hands to share the load.”

  Stacy jumps a foot in the air and points at Sabrina. “Yes! I’ve got just the thing.”

  Sabrina blinks at her. “You do?”

  “You bet! Do you remember Mary Turtletaub who worked for me last summer? She left to go back to Hartford, but just the other day, she showed up at the café asking if there was any way she could get her old job back. She moved back to West End and wants to settle here. I had to tell her no, but that if I had any openings, I’d call her first. Then, about ten minutes later, Jennifer Monaghan told me she was thinking of leaving the café. She usually does the baking for me, but that only takes up maybe three hours of her shift at the most. She has to wait tables and work the salad station, too, and she doesn’t like that. She said she wants a job doing only baking and she was going to quit. Well! As you can imagine, I got down on my knees and begged her with tears in my eyes not to leave. I said I didn’t know what I’d do without her and a lot of other things I don’t remember. My point is I could train Mary to take her place and you could have Jennifer. She loves baking, and she really takes it seriously. She’d make a great employee for you. She’s super reliable and honest. She’s been with me nearly three years. She’s a model employee, especially when she likes the person she works for.”

  Sabrina picked her jaw up off the floor. “Wow. Thank you so much. That would be perfect.”

  Stacy flaps her hand at her. “It’s nothing between neighbors. Share and share alike, I always say. Besides, you deserve a really good employee. You need one. You’re like me. Your business is in their hands. If they don’t produce, your customers will leave. Your food has to be top quality. You don’t want to hand over responsibility to someone who doesn’t take that seriously.”