by Brea Viragh
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Sugar and Gold
A Heartwood Novel
Brea Viragh
Copyright © Brea Viragh, 2017
All rights reserved. The moral right of the author has been asserted. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than the work in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction.
To Angela
You’re picking up what I’m putting down.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Afterword
Preview: Your Hand in Mine
Acknowledgements
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
“Did you hear me? I said Isaac Howard is out of jail.”
I spat coffee into my best friend’s face.
Lukewarm, thank God, because if not we would have been on our way to the ER, one of us with half her face melted off. Shari so wasn’t into third degree burns.
She was not amused, shooting me a motherly glare while I waved my hands in front of her face, eyes wide. “I’m sorry! What did you say?” I managed to ask. “Rewind and repeat, please, because I think I went temporarily deaf.”
The glare lost some of its razor sharpness and Shari Vest stifled a laugh. “I heard it through the grapevine. They released him last week. You know how small towns work—gossip travels faster by word of mouth than through a telephone line. Isaac should make his way back in the next few days. Hell, he could be here today for all I know. I didn’t pay too much attention.”
“You seem to know a lot for not paying attention,” I retorted. “Woman, you can’t just spring something like that on me!”
We sat together in her tiny dining room, cheery walls and chalk-painted furniture a picture of cozy cottage chic. Gathered around Shari’s kitchen table, sipping coffee from a pot yellowed by use, we bonded over bonbons.
It had become a weekly ritual after a grueling day of work—her in retail and me at the bakery—because believe it or not, people and sugar were a bad mix almost one hundred percent of the time. I hated to brag that my cakes, cookies, and cinnamon buns made men sob, but they did. Sob, sing, get down on their knees, beg... Even with my fabulous people skills, there was only so much I could handle in a given week. Especially when all four were combined.
“For cryin’ out loud, it’s all through the grapevine,” Shari insisted. “I thought you should know. I didn’t think you needed me to butter you up first.”
“Please, feel free to butter away.”
At once the coffee curdled in my stomach and I fought the urge to burp. Fear did strange things to a person, and never let anyone tell you that fear comes without side effects. If I’m burping profusely, then you know what it means: It means my time has come to exit the building.
“At least give me a better ETA.” I dropped my head to my hands and moaned like I’d gotten my leg stuck in a bear trap. “This is not going to be pretty.”
“Does he still hate you?” Shari asked, knowing the answer well enough. She just wanted to hear my response. It gave her something pleasurable to think about.
“Of course he does! He was in jail for three years because I wouldn’t speak up in court. Wouldn’t you hate me?”
“Karma is only a bitch if you are.” It was her version of sage advice. She shoved the weight of dark curls off her shoulders and shot me a you’re-a-big-girl-so-put-your-big-girl-pants-on stare. “How about you make nice before he tracks you down? Show how sorry you are and let bygones be bygones. I’m sure he would appreciate a gesture of remorse. Go bake some cookies.”
It was her answer to everything. Hair too frizzy? Go bake some cookies. Car needs an oil change? Go bake some cookies. About to get murdered by an old classmate? You guessed it.
“I’m sorrier than I have words to express. I just don’t know how to begin.”
Shari set her own full mug of coffee on the table with a decisive clink. “Essie Townsend, I’m ashamed of you. The man deserves more than the guilt letters you send out once a year. He took the fall for you.” She said those last words with emphasis. Hoping they’d bury under my skin and stay there. “Don’t you know what that means?”
I hid my face behind my palms and tried to ignore her. Which wasn’t easy. She was a force to be reckoned with, with more energy than a tsunami on speed. “Yes, I know. He’ll be coming for me with a shotgun if I’m not careful.”
“I don’t think it will be a shotgun, but he might hold a grudge.”
I cringed. “Oh no.”
“And I’m not sure which one is worse.”
“The grudge. A shotgun wouldn’t prolong my misery.”
“Then be the bigger man and grow a sac or something. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Show him you regret not coming to his defense when you had the chance. It’s called making amends.”
“I know, I know. This is harder than you think.” I chewed on my lower lip and rose to walk toward the glass doors. “Shar, you sure know how to ruin a person’s day. Next time you have bad news, wait until nighttime so I don’t have the daylight hours to stew in my remorse.”
I’d met Shari when I opened my shop in Heartwood. She had just taken a job at a local gallery following an ugly-ass mess with her previous boss—we didn’t talk about him—and we’d become instant friends. In the absence of any sisters, she was the person who knew me better than most. She was there in the dark times when I’d rather throw a tantrum than act my age.
And in a moment of weakness, I’d told her my secrets. Told her of the horrendous event from four years past that was written on my soul. It was a gut-spilling of epic proportions, and outside of my one allotted night of alcohol per week.
I hadn’t realized so much time had passed without my noticing. Suddenly the end of Isaac’s sentence loomed large and I could think of only one thing to do:
Get the hell out of town before he found me. There was too much to live for to be massacred before my time.
“Do you know how embarrassing this is?” I waved a bonbon for effect. “It should have been me. He was there at the cabin because of me. I got a man arrested, for poop’s sake.”
“I love how you revert to the old standard, for poop’s sake.” Shari mocked me, her low Southern drawl rounding out the vowels. She leveled a chastising scowl on me for effect. “You’re so adorable.”
Trust her to make light of the situation. A more optimistic person I had yet to meet. She was one of those women with curves in all the right places. A tad too curvy in the hips for the one-size-fits-all, but feminine and down-to-earth. Long black hair hung past her shoulders and accented her hint of Latina coloring. The red-rimmed frames on her glasses were a throwback to fifties fashion. I didn’t let them fool me. They were for show only.
Then there I sat, in a plain white shirt and jeans splattered with cake batter, hoping the tightness of both would emphasis the less-than-generous expanse of bosom—as flat and desolate as the Sahara.
“I doubt Isaac will feel the same when he pays me a visit. He’ll never see me as adorable now,” I continued. “Quick, how long do you think it will take for me to sell the house and move to Fresno? I think I can get it done in a couple of days if I hire a mover.”
“About as long as it takes for me to win the lottery. I’ll rephrase: It ain’t gonna happen.”
Yes, I realized she was right. The problem was we lived in a small town of men, women, children, and hippies, where everyone knew their neighbor.
Located in the heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, Heartwood epitomized small town country living. The entire county boasted a single stoplight. People relocated here for the privacy and the outdoor activities, not to mention the booming artisan trade. We had a collection of potters, painters, wood carvers, and everything in between. We were a regular Walden Pond to the poets and creators of the world. Everyone knew their neighbor, and most sat next to them in church on Sundays.
Which meant the likelihood of running into Isaac was good. Too good. So good I’d better pack my bags and get in the car because he could be here within the hour.
Judging from past experience, my luck wouldn’t hold long enough to make it out the door. I didn’t want to be around to see what kind of shenanigans he’d pull to make up for the time spent behind bars.
“Are you sure he’s back?” I twiddled my fingers on the table in a nervous tattoo. “I mean, he could decide to start fresh someplace people don’t know him. Far away from the scene of the crime.”
My heart sank when Shari shot me the look. She must have practiced it in the mirror, naturally implying I had a few loose screws and a missing screwdriver. I knew if our places were reversed, she would be putting together a gift basket and finding Isaac first before anything else. Hell, if Shari were me, she wouldn’t have gotten into the mess in the first place.
She probably hadn’t needed a teenage rebellious phase.
Shari licked chocolate from her fingertips. “Don’t think about escape. Isaac’s coming here faster than a moth to a flame. There’s nothing you can do about it.”
She said it to bring home the seriousness of the situation and rub salt in my wounds. Unfortunately, she was right.
“The sad thing is, we may have had a chance for something good,” I said slowly, the admission costing me. “When we were in high school, I thought he was the sexiest guy I’d ever seen. A mix of tanned ranch hand and sensual day laborer.”
“Kinky.”
“Light hair, tattered jeans... He had a goatee before the rest of the guys thought it was cool.”
I thought back to the last time I’d seen the boy who’d taken the fall for me. His hands on my back, shoving me out the back door of the trailer while police sirens trilled closer and closer.
Shari rolled her eyes at my description. “Sounds delightful. I’ve never actually seen him.”
I burped. “All of it is shot to shit, because the attraction is dead and buried. Along with my self-respect.” A bubble of nervous laughter rose from my throat. “Why didn’t I talk to the judge when I had the chance?”
“You were young! Cut yourself some slack.”
“I’m an asshole.”
“So what if you sent your conscience into death spasms? The point I make now is that you’re a good person. A good person and a badass baker. The badassest baker I know. Feel proud of the fact.”
“I do, but...”
In my mind, I flashed back to the scream of police cruisers. The thunderous crash of breaking wood when the police burst on the scene. The harried whispers in my ear begging me to go, to get out before someone saw me there.
“I may be a badass baker but I have awful taste in men.” I pointed a finger in Shari’s direction. “Which is why I’ve preferred to be alone rather than waste my time.”
She pointed back. “I see through your lies.”
I fought her for the last treat, nearly resorting to stabbing-by-fork before she relinquished the bonbon to me. “They aren’t lies if they’re true, Shar.”
She watched me pop the sweet into my mouth, her expression sour. “All I’m saying is you’d better have a plan in place for when he shows up. I can guarantee you, he’ll be around sooner rather than later.”
I gulped at the thought.
“Sweetie...” Shari leaned closer and took my hands in hers, the picture of serious brunette. I saw myself reflected in her glasses, too thin and too pale. “You’ve used up the majority of your luck on the bakery. Not to mention the cozy life you’ve built for yourself at the tender age of twenty-two. If you want more luck, you’ll have to sell your soul.”
“Oy.”
“More like no.”
Shari had definite ideas on my life and never failed to tell me on a weekly basis. We had worked together, briefly, during her stint at my bakery upon first opening. A free spirit, she fit in well with the laid-back, lackadaisical types flocking to our tiny town. My scene had been too precise for her, a world of careful measurements and planned outcomes. Baking was a science, while she’d preferred abstracts. Now she joined the ranks at Doma, an art gallery steps from the single stoplight and half a block away from my bakery. I needed her close for when I got into trouble.
“I know you don’t do well with upset,” she persisted. “You know what you like and what you want. Isaac coming back means big upset for you. Big.”
“I’m not that set in my ways,” I said, indignant.
I saw him in my mind again, the way he’d looked nearly four years ago before being whisked away in the back of a police cruiser. All lanky dirty-blond hair, generous shoulders, and strong nose. He was a charismatic signpost marking the fork in my road. Had he not been sent to prison, then my life might be vastly different now.
I should have seen the shitstorm brewing from a mile away and steered clear. Like I said, teenage rebellious phase. I’d broken bad in the worst way.
Now I sat in the dining nook of Shari’s log cabin, with willow trees swaying outside the windows and glimpses of black and white cows in the distance. Country life. The clear sky was Crayola blue with tiny white clouds drawn above the hills. End of summer was upon us and autumn drew near.
I was free, and wondered if I deserved it.
Gastric reflux took hold when my anxiety ratcheted up a notch and I burped again. “I can handle it,” I put in, less than convincing. “I can handle Isaac.”
Shari rose to place the empty dish in the sink, her gait slightly awkward but unique, a liquid swaying. Men loved the way she jiggled, how each step emphasized the wide set of her hips and generous thighs.
“Tell me that again when he’s knocking on your door. I’ll expect a phone call immediately.”
I patted my bony chest and sighed irritably. “I’m sure there are other, better things to discuss than Isaac Howard. In fact, I can think of several off the top of my head. How about we change the subject? I’d like to enjoy my coffee before I have to leave for work.”
“I’ll tell y
ou for the last time, then I’ll shut up.” Shari leaned against the wall and stared at me. “You take the first step. Make something nice, like one of those sour cream pound cakes with powdered sugar. Wrap it up in a gift basket and march right down to his house. He’ll appreciate the offering and it might go a long way toward settling the score with you two.”
Settling the score. I hated those words, like there was some kind of invisible tally racking up points against me. “Assuming he even has a house. Won’t he be more comfortable behind bars?”
Shari scoffed. “For the town sweetheart, your mouth is awful nasty. Has anyone else figured out your secret yet?” In spite of the berating, she grabbed the coffee pot for a refill and smiled at me over the rims of her fake glasses. “Or am I the only one?”
“I’m sorry. I get weird when I’m nervous. It’s a medical condition called gastrointestinal verbal distress.”
Shari’s open palm provided a shield while she poured the rest of the liquid black gold into my cup. My one, my love, my cuppa Joe. “Your secrets are safe with me. I’m simply giving you advice. Which is to take the high road. Word on the street says Isaac will be staying with his parents while he tries to get back on his feet.”
I should have been happy he had a place to stay. Instead, a wave of guilt crashed down with enough weight to sink to the pit of my stomach and lie there like iron chains. Staying with his parents at the age of twenty-two...of course he would have to, he’d have nowhere else to go. I could imagine what he would say if I showed up at his door, the harsh words and self-righteous condemnation.
I deserved every one of those harsh words.
For years, police and other law enforcement officials had been determined to crack down on methamphetamine distribution in Heartwood. It was a growing problem for the community, impacting adults and teenagers alike. A drug of destruction.
Nothing had changed since my senior year of high school, with meth use and distribution only worsening within the county lines. Without hard evidence, the police relied on intel and word of mouth, both abundant in these parts.
