Gluten for Punishment

by Nancy J. Parra

  “Take care, kiddo,” Grandma said, squinting through a haze of smoke. “Lock your door.”

  “What about Tim?”

  “He knows where the key is.” Grandma leaned heavily on Bill as they walked down the ramp my responsible brother, Richard, had built on one side of the porch stairs.

  I watched as they made their way slowly across the dying grass to Bill’s big Lincoln. The giant elms in the small front yard were nearly bare, and the wind whipped the branches about in a good imitation of a scary movie.

  I waved as Grandma got in the car and rolled down the window to stick her cigarette out.

  “Lock the door!” she ordered before starting another coughing fit.

  “Always,” I called back and rubbed my arms against the sudden drop in temperature. I waited until they pulled away, then went inside and locked the door behind me. But it didn’t matter much. Everyone in town either had a key or knew where we kept the spare. That was the joy and the curse of living in a small town. Everyone knew everything. So why didn’t anyone know who the flour bomber was?

  “It was a prank,” I muttered and cleaned up the dishes. The clock chimed midnight and echoed through the big house. For the first time since I moved in, I was glad for the dead bolt I had put on my bedroom door.

  CHAPTER 4

  Tasha called me at ten the next morning. It was unusual for her to call during work time. I grabbed my cell phone at the sound of her ring tone. “Hey, you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, sounding strangely breathless. “How are you?”

  I glanced around at the small crowd in the bakery enjoying seconds on coffee and whispering about yesterday. I turned my back on them and dropped my voice. “Minimal health effects, nothing I can’t handle. What’s up?”

  “I have a date.”

  Was that glee or terror in her voice? “That’s good news, isn’t it?”

  “Yes . . . I think so . . . yes.”

  “Then that’s really great—”

  “I’ve been lying to you,” she said quickly. I waited but she didn’t elaborate.

  “About what?” The mirror on the kitchen door told me people stared. I turned to face them and they all looked down. I reached over and turned up the peppy music, which was supposed to make them all buy more pastries.

  “Do you have time for lunch?” Tasha asked.

  “Carrie doesn’t come in until 3:30 P.M.,” I reminded her. Carrie Panken was a second cousin who was still in high school. She was a cute little thing with curly blonde hair—the pretty kind—and baby-doll blue eyes. She was also smart as a whip and more responsible than anyone else in the family. She worked in the bakery, as cashier and server, four hours every day after school, which gave me time to work on Internet orders.

  “No problem. I’ll bring lunch.”

  “Okay,” I caved.

  “Super! See you then.” Tasha had gone out of her way yesterday to be helpful. Listening to her explain why she’d lied to me was the least I could do.

  My therapist in Chicago would have said something about slipping boundaries. Thankfully she wasn’t here, and I wasn’t about to tell her.

  Two hours later, most of the customers had decided nothing as exciting as yesterday’s flour adventure was going to happen and had gone on to other things. The display counter was now half empty, proving I’d done a steady business. Maybe there was an upside to that awful picture.

  “The only bad publicity is no publicity,” I reminded myself as I wiped down the tables and refilled the remaining patrons’ coffee cups. Someone asked why I didn’t offer Cokes. The main reason was that soda of most varieties had gluten in it. Anything with artificial flavors usually meant malt or wheat or barley. Instead I offered coffees, sparkling and plain waters, and juices. I couldn’t claim the bakery was gluten-free if I didn’t really mean it.

  By lunchtime, the shop was empty. The doorbells jingled, and I looked up from refilling the display case to see Tasha standing there with two bags marked with the GRANDMA’S DINER logo and a sheepish look on her face. The grandma in question was my cousin Lucy, who was only two years older than I was. In the family tradition, she had had her first babies very young and they had had their babies young, and now my forty-two-year-old cousin was a grandma. In between helping plan her children’s weddings and baby showers, she’d opened the town’s favorite place to share gossip and French fries.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey,” Tasha said back and looked around at the empty store. “Are you ready for lunch?”

  “Sure. Do you want coffee, juice, or water?” I asked, breaking the slight tension.

  Tasha’s shoulders relaxed and she moved to the last table near the back. “Coffee, please. I think the weather is finally changing. It’s like fifty degrees out there.” She put the bags on the table and took off her jacket.

  I handed her a mug of her favorite mocha with a dash of soy milk then took the chair across from her to keep my eye on the front door. I pulled out a heavy paper cup of the best gluten-free chili this side of the Mississippi, along with a spoon and napkin. Since celiac disease tends to run in families, Lucy knew enough not to thicken her diner chili with flour or use beans canned in sauce.

  “I’m going to dive right in. . . .” Tasha’s cheeks were bright pink and her eyes sparkled. “I’ve been dating Craig Kennedy for nearly a month now.”

  I froze partway through taking the recyclable cover off my soup. “You’ve been dating—as in seeing a man?”

  “Yes.”

  “For over a month . . .”

  “Yep.” She nodded. Her mouth was in a straight line, but her eyes looked happy.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I let go of the lid and leaned forward. Tasha might have been nine hundred miles away when I lived in Chicago, but we’d talked and texted every day. In fact, she had been my sole source of comfort during my divorce. “I mean look at you, you look happy. How could I not have noticed?”

  “You were busy with your big opening, and you’re doing all the online order fulfillment work. . . .”

  “But we’ve seen each other almost every day.” I cringed at the whine in my voice. “How come you didn’t tell me? How could I not have known?”

  Tasha leaned her elbows on the table and played with the noodle soup in front of her. Her eyes barely met mine as her bottom lip stuck out. “I didn’t want you to know.”

  Oh, boy. I sat back. My feelings were hurt. Seriously hurt. Best friends shared everything . . . especially things like when they were worried or happy . . . or dating someone new. At least we had. “Why not?” The words came out in a whisper as I tried hard to keep the tears out of my throat.

  “Oh, no, honey.” Tasha reached up and patted my hand. “Not just you, I didn’t want anyone to know.”

  I wrinkled my forehead and tilted my head. “Why? Is he an axe murderer? Oh my God”—my eyes grew wide—“did you find him in jail?”

  “Oh, oh, no.” Tasha giggled. “I found him at the bank.”

  I shook my head. “So he’s a bank robber?”

  “No silly, he’s an adjunct professor at the college. He was at the bank because he works there part-time. It’s Craig Kennedy.”

  Kennedy. Wait. “The younger or older Kennedy boy?” I had vaguely known both Kennedys since grade school, but they were both ahead of me and looked like bookends. I knew one of the dark, curly-haired guys was Ralph and the other was Craig, but I simply had never taken the time to figure out which was which.

  “Craig is younger by a year. He was a couple grades ahead of us. Ralph is the older one who owns Walcott’s Drug Emporium.”

  “I don’t get it. I mean, he’s a teacher at the college, right? He works part-time at the bank? Why all the secrecy?”

  She looked down and stirred her soup. “I was afraid it might not work out.”

  I kind of understood her fear. Tasha didn’t have as big a family as I did. In fact, it had only been her and her mom growing up. So, Tasha was a little naive
when it came to men. Which may be why she’d been married three times, each man more useless than the last. Her first husband, Al Henly, was Kip’s father. He’d run out on her the day Kip was diagnosed, leaving her to raise a four-year-old with special needs all by herself. Not that Tasha wasn’t doing a bang-up job without him, but it was tough when all she had was her mom to lean on. Then there was Buck Giest, who lasted six months before he ran off with a female trucker out at the Trucker’s Stop next to the turnpike exit. Last was Charlie Jones, who was currently serving time for bigamy. At least Charlie had been sorry enough to give her the money she needed for the down payment on the Welcome Inn back when getting mortgage financing was easy.

  “I know you might be nervous, but this is a Kennedy we’re talking about. . . .”

  “Exactly.” Her eyes grew wide. “A nice guy, well educated, working two jobs, and a stand-up member of the community. I didn’t think it would last.” Tasha studied the wide, fat noodles on her spoon. Her pretty blue gaze zeroed in on me. “I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up . . . in case.”

  “In case he didn’t like Kip,” I finished.

  “Exactly.” Tasha appeared relieved.

  I guess I could understand her worry. I did tend to push when I thought something was good for a friend of mine. I would have been all over this, telling her what she should or should not do where Kip was concerned. The thought made me blush a bit. “But you’re telling me now because it’s working out?” I picked up my spoon and tried to appear casual.

  “Yes.” Tasha waved her spoon, dropping the noodles back into her soup. If it had been me, there would be noodles on the wall by now. Not only was she pretty, but my friend had excellent hand-eye coordination. “He’s been stopping by a few nights and getting to know Kip.” Tasha appeared to glow.

  My friend had been afraid to tell me. Boy, did I feel like an idiot.

  “Kip loves him. They’ve started this leaf collection. Craig’s a literature professor, but he was in 4-H in junior high. He saw Kip was picking up leaves and showed him how to press them. Then he brought over this big book and they’ve been identifying each one.” She grew quiet. “You know how Kip obsesses with things.”

  I did. It was part of Asperger’s. I patted her hand and didn’t say anything.

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Craig doesn’t seem to mind at all.”

  I handed her a napkin, and she wiped her eyes. “In fact, he said he has a nephew in Louisiana with autism. Then he asked me how I felt about maybe going on a real date. Maybe taking Kip.”

  “Oh, sweetie, what did you say?”

  “I said yes.” Tasha nodded. “I wanted you to be the first to really meet him . . .” She turned and looked behind her and waved. The drugstore was across the street from my bakery, and a man leaned against one of the brass sculptures out front. The city had commissioned them from the college over the last two years, in preparation for the tourism boom the new lake would bring.

  “Is that him?” I asked as he separated himself from the life-size brass figure of a cowboy. “Has he been standing there this whole time?”

  “Gosh, no, he was in the drugstore talking to his brother. I asked him to give me ten minutes before he came out.”

  “Oh.” I supposed that made me feel better. I didn’t want to have been stared at this entire time without being aware of it. The door opened, and Craig Kennedy stepped inside. Tasha jumped up and took him by the arm, bringing him over to the table. I felt awkward sitting there looking up at the two of them, so I stood.

  Craig Kennedy looked the same as he did in high school: about six foot with wide shoulders, a narrow waist, and nice jeans. He wore a blue dress shirt rolled up at the wrists tucked into his jeans. He had a thirtysomething male jawline that was just this side of soft from working a desk, but the mouth was the same; the nose, those eyes all held the stamp of Ireland on them. His curly hair was thinning now and cut short.

  “Hey, Toni.” He stuck out his hand. “Great to see you back in town.”

  “Hi, Craig.” I shook his hand. “Have a seat.” I waved at the other two chairs at the table. “Can I get you anything? Piece of pie? Coffee? Juice?”

  “Tasha tells me you make a mean pecan pie.” He sat down, scooting his chair next to hers. It kind of warmed my heart when he draped his arm across the back of her seat.

  “Today’s version has chocolate in it.”

  “Great.”

  I busied myself slicing pie and pouring coffee, but my attention was on Tasha. Her explanation for hiding her relationship sounded reasonable, so why did I feel slighted? I guess because I thought we were best friends, who shared everything. “Cream or sugar?” I asked as I brought the pie and coffee mug over.

  “Black’s fine, thanks.” He waited for me to sit.

  I did and stirred my now cold chili. I watched as he dug a fork into the pie and took a bite. His blue eyes lit up. “This is really very good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Every bit as tasty as Tasha claims.”

  I smiled. “Tasha and Kip are my testers. Nothing goes on the menu that hasn’t been approved by them.” I took a swig from my bottled water.

  “We were wondering . . .” Tasha began. Oh, boy, I should have seen this coming a mile off. First the guilt, now the payback. I tried not to sigh.

  “We want to have a dinner party to get our friends together.” Craig took hold of Tasha’s hand and kissed it.

  “We’d love it if you could come.”

  Wow . . . okay. I’d expected them to ask me to take Kip for a while. Not that I wouldn’t. I love the little guy and I knew Tasha never gets away, therefore I assumed . . . Darn it. I was not having a good day. Maybe I could blame the flour I’d snorted yesterday.

  “I’d love to. When?”

  “Friday night.” Tasha rubbed Craig’s arm. “I know it’s short notice, but I promise not to set you up with anyone. Unless you want to be set up. . . .”

  “Or already have a date, then feel free to bring him.”

  I saw Tasha kick Craig under the table, and laughed. “I’ll come, and no, I won’t have a date. Do you need me to bake anything?”

  “We do plan on going gluten-free, but I’m cooking this time. This is my dinner party and you deserve to come as a guest.”

  Oh, that was sweet. I was such an idiot. “I’m looking forward to it.” I stood when they did. “What time?”

  “Be at the house around 8 P.M.” Before I could protest, she added, “I know the bakery is open until nine. Carrie said she could work then and close up for you.”

  “That sounds great.” Huh. I couldn’t decide if I was flattered Tasha had arranged for Carrie to stay or annoyed that Carrie had known about the relationship before me. I chose flattered since I’d been silly enough today. “Good to see you again, Craig.”

  I wanted to add, If you hurt glowing Tasha and make her all un-glowing, I am going to have to hurt you. But I kept it to myself. He didn’t look like he was about to hurt her anytime soon; there was something about the sweet, smitten look in his eyes.

  I hoped, for Tasha’s and Kip’s sake, this one really did work out. As for me, I wasn’t going down that road again.

  Ever. Eric had broken me. I doubted I would ever again believe that what I thought was love was real. You see, to fall in love, you had to trust more than just the man you were with. You had to trust that you weren’t fooling yourself. And if I were to be brutally honest, I doubt I would ever trust myself again. I mean, if Eric could fool me for five years, what could someone else do? No. I couldn’t trust that what I thought was love really was. I could never trust my own heart again.

  CHAPTER 5

  The online orders were prepped to ship, the sky was dark, and it was me and Bon Jovi on my mp3 player. Carrie had gone home a half hour before. I should have been ready to drop after a long day and the even longer ribbon cutting the day before, but I was ready to dance. The bakery store hours were technically seven A.M. until nine P.M., but I
was being way too generous. In winter, the streets of a small town rolled up by eight. Now just past that hour, I was dancing to the music as I pulled the coffee carafes off the bar. Time to take them in the back and give them a good cleaning.

  The door jangle startled me and I glanced over to see a gorgeous man of about six-foot-two step inside my shop. He wore a cowboy hat, which he promptly took off. His dark brown hair was thick and wavy with the right touch of gray at the temples. He had a square jaw, a generous mouth, a straight nose, and dark brown eyes that seemed to look right through me.

  I swallowed and blinked. This must be a hallucination, another reaction to yesterday’s flour bomb, because I’d never seen a man that handsome in real life. I mean, they didn’t exist. Santa existed. Fairies existed, heck, unicorns existed, but not men who looked like this . . .

  He stared at me. I stared back, my mouth dry. He wore a rancher’s jacket made of denim outside and faux shearling inside, a dress shirt in some blue stripe, and jeans. Right. Jeans molded to him like a man who took care of his body and anything else he thought was his. Boy, did he take good care.

  I refused to swoon. After all, I was hallucinating, right?

  “Hey.”

  Well, hell, even his voice was nice. It had a dark sexy tone to it. “Hey,” I replied like an idiot. I did a mental shake. If he was real, then he was a customer. “I mean, can I help you?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  I clutched the coffee carafes to my chest and retreated behind the nearly empty display case. He smiled at me. Not a sexy crooked smile. Not a flirty smile, but the smile of a man who was desperate. Hmm, maybe he was real. “I need something to serve at a party.”

  He walked up to the counter, hat in hand. In his dark eyes I saw intelligence, surrounded by crinkles from the sun and possibly laughter. A man who worked and laughed. Damn.

  I put the carafes down and grabbed a pad and pen. “When’s the party?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Now.” He looked back at me and ducked his head a bit, then turned on the sexy smile. “It’s been one of those days.”