“It’s true,” she said. “I turned him down for D.J.” A giggle followed. “Even the hottest guy in Hollywood couldn’t compare to my backwoods hero.”
Backwoods hero. For whatever reason, the words got me tickled. They also got me thinking about Uncle Donny. Though he was rustic and a little on the smelly side, there was something rather endearing about him. He was like that familiar, happy-go-lucky uncle that every family needed. The one who cracked the dumb jokes and made folks smile when they were having a bad day.
Well, not all folks. I couldn’t imagine Aunt Willy smiling in his presence. Then again, I couldn’t imagine Aunt Willy smiling at all.
Bella hung around another few minutes, then headed out to pick up her kids at her mom’s place. I’d just waited on my last customer at ten minutes after five when the bell at the front door jingled. I glanced across the room to see Armando entering the bakery. Ugh. He came up the stairs and crossed the room, a sheepish look on his face.
“Hey.”
I kept my place behind the glass cases and muttered a bland “Hey” in response.
“Do you have a minute to talk?” He leaned against the glass, and I bit back the temptation to scold him, since I’d just cleaned it.
Instead, I put on my all-business face and kept busy. “I’m just closing up. Kind of busy right now.”
He could take whatever he wanted from that phrase. I hoped he would take the hint and skedaddle.
“You here alone?” He looked around as if expecting Kenny to pop out of the back room at any moment.
“Yeah. You caught me locking up.” Take the hint, mister. Time to go.
“I’m headed next door to help my brother out. I don’t know if you heard, but Jenna’s on an extended leave of absence.”
“Jenna, Bella’s best friend?” She’d worked at Parma John’s for as long as I could remember. “Why?”
“Yeah.” His brow wrinkled, and I could read the concern in his eyes. “I guess there’s some sort of complication with her pregnancy or something? Not sure I really understand it all, but the doctor told her she has to be on bed rest for the next two months. So I’m going to fill in while she’s gone.”
“Wait . . . you’re working at Parma John’s?” When he nodded, I said, “Meaning, you’re back on the island for good?”
“Well, I’ll be staying at my parents’ place for a while until they don’t need me. But I’ll be working next door for the next couple months, at least.” His gaze shifted to the ground and then back up at me. “Which is good, I guess, because I’m running low on sound gigs in Houston right now. And the lease is up on my apartment in a week, so I’ve been trying to figure out whether or not to stay there.” He shrugged. “I usually move around a lot.”
“I see.” My gaze shifted to the sweets inside the refrigerated glass cases. So, the boy who hated Galveston Island was destined to return and to work next door at Parma John’s. Weird.
“I don’t have any gigs lined up for the next month. I . . .” He turned red in the face. “To be honest, I canceled the club gigs. I’m tired of that scene.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. It gets really old. And I can’t handle the smoke. Messes with my sinuses.” He laughed. “I sound like an old man, don’t I?”
“No. You sound like a guy who’s ready for a change of scenery.” And a change of lifestyle, from what I can gather.
“Yeah.” He flashed a dazzling smile, those sexy eyes of his sparkling. “Anyway, I wanted to stop in and say I’m sorry. I really do hope you’ll forgive me.”
My heart skipped a beat. I kept working but didn’t look his way. Couldn’t look his way. “For what?” I managed.
“For what I said earlier.” He gave me a genuinely kind look. “It was really stupid, I know, but I really didn’t mean anything by it. In fact, I’m not even sure why it slipped out in the first place. I hope you won’t hold it against me.”
“I don’t hold grudges.” Unless your name is Aunt Willy, in which case I tend to hang on to my angst longer than I should. But I’m working on it. I shrugged. “No biggie. Besides, you’re entitled to your opinion. I’m entitled to mine. Let’s just agree to disagree about whether good girls are a bad thing, okay?”
“They’re not. I know they’re not.” He rested his weight against the case and groaned. “And I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just that so many of the girls I’ve known . . .”
I put my hands up and looked him squarely in the eye. “Let’s get this straight. I don’t need to know anything about the girls you’ve known. Trust me. I can assure you I’m not like any of them, okay?”
He flinched, and I could read the pain in his eyes. “Hey, I don’t know what sort of ideas you’ve got about me, but it’s not like that. I might not’ve been the best Sunday school kid, but I’m not all bad. I’m really not.” His injured expression left little doubt that I’d hurt his feelings.
Okay, now who was judging who?
Or would that be whom? I was never quite sure of that one.
“I’ve known a lot of girls who were . . .” He shrugged and appeared to be trying to find the right word. “Good.”
“How can you make the word good sound so . . . bad?” I asked.
“I don’t mean to. I’m honestly intrigued by people who can live right.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Anyway, I’m sorry I said it like that. Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m really happy to help you with your fund-raiser. In spite of my stupid mouth, I’m not a bad guy, I promise. And not as insensitive as I come across. I like what you’re doing at your church, especially when I see kids like Devon who could benefit. This whole Nicaragua trip sounds really impressive to me.”
“It does?” That certainly caught me off guard.
“Well, yeah. Helping kids in a third world country? Providing meals for people? Taking eyeglasses and clothes? I like it. And I appreciate that guys like Devon are on board. He seems to be my kind of kid.”
“I’m glad. He’s been through a lot, so it’s pretty miraculous that he’s part of the group. To say he’s from a rough background would be putting it mildly. From what I understand, anyway. I’ve never actually met his family.”
“I see.”
“Anyway, I’m glad you see that bigger picture. It’s not just about sound and lights. It’s not even just about the fund-raiser. It’s about the lives that can be changed along the way.”
“Right. I get that. I’m not a complete jerk.” He gazed at me so intently that I broke out in a sweat. Then again, the temperature in the room had gone up a few degrees this afternoon, hadn’t it? “What can I do to make it up to you, Scarlet? I’m really sorry.”
I thought about his question for a moment before responding. “Actually, I do have an idea. Maybe you could help me out.”
“Awesome.” He looked relieved. “What?”
“Now that you’re working at Parma John’s again . . .”
“You want a lifetime supply of pizza?” He grinned. “Because I’m pretty sure I can arrange that. Any toppings you like. Any size.”
“Well, that would be great, but I’m trying to watch my calories.” In theory, anyway.
“Why?” He looked genuinely perplexed by this.
“I . . . I just am.” Are you completely blind or just oblivious? Dude, you’ve surely noticed my sticky buns. “Anyway, I need your help.” Pointing to the tray of cake samples, I smiled. “See these?”
His eyes lit up. “Yeah, I’ve been drooling over them since I walked in.”
“Do you think your brother would mind setting them out to give to customers at the restaurant?”
“Give them away . . . for free?”
“Well, yeah. They’re samples of the product. Just enough to tease potential customers and make them want more.”
That seemed to worry him. “Pretty risky.”
“What do you mean? They’re not poisonous or anything.” A nervous laugh wriggled its way out, though I tried to squelch
it.
Armando reached for a sample and popped it into his mouth. “I mean, the customers probably won’t get any if I’m working there. I happen to love your cake.”
“You . . . you do?”
“Yeah.” He gave me a playful wink. “But don’t tell my aunt Rosa, okay? She’s a diva cake baker, and she’d flip if she knew I actually preferred someone else’s baking to hers.”
“Well, it’s because of your aunt Rosa that I’m nervous about asking. Your family might not be keen on helping me promote my business when she’s better at baking than I am.”
Armando drew so close I could smell his yummy cologne. “She’s not better,” he whispered into my ear. “Just so you know. You’re the best. If someone held a competition today, I would vote for you.”
His words sent a shiver down my spine. And judging from the “come hither” look in Armando’s eyes as he backed away, he might’ve been talking about more than cake. Or was I just imagining that?
Obviously someone else was imagining it too. I heard the sound of someone clearing his throat. I looked up to see Kenny standing across the room, clean-shaven, with a fabulous new haircut. Wowza. Boy, do you clean up nice, or what?
Armando must have noticed too. He took a little step back and shoved his hands in his pockets while muttering “Hey” to Kenny, who just stared him down.
Yikes.
I looked back and forth between the two men: Kenny, the solid, stable, reliable, godly, currently unshaggy man I’d adored for years . . . and Armando, the jack-of-all-trades, the one who moved around a lot, the fellow I’d been so angry at just a few hours ago.
Strangely, I couldn’t remember now why I’d been angry with him. And for whatever reason, I also couldn’t seem to remember where I’d left my common sense. Back in the kitchen, maybe? Regardless, I’d better find it quick and put it to use. Without it, the layers of my proverbial cake were bound to crumble.
8
Sugar and Spice
We light the oven so that everyone may bake bread in it.
José Martí
The following Monday, Aunt Willy made another surprise visit to Galveston Island. Seeing her again so soon made me wonder who she’d left in charge of Crème de la Crème, her store in Houston. Then again, her employees jumped when she said jump, so no doubt they were doing a fine job running the place in her absence.
She entered the bakery, clearly a woman on a mission. This I could tell from the furrowed silvery brow and the look of determination in her overly made-up eyes. Really, Aunt Willy? Liquid eyeliner? Didn’t people stop using that in the eighties?
I met her at the counter after waiting on a customer. No doubt she would appreciate my willingness to put the customer’s needs ahead of her own, especially when said customer dropped eighty dollars as a deposit on a birthday cake.
I wiped my hands on my apron and offered, “Hello, Aunt Wilhelmina. Glad to see you again.”
She leaned my direction, her expression quite serious. “Scarlet.”
Not exactly “Hey, I’m tickled to see you! Can we do lunch?” but it was something.
“Is everything okay?” I asked, my concern growing as I saw the frustration in her eyes.
“I need to talk to you. Is this a good time?”
I gestured for Kenny to wait on an incoming lady so I could focus. “It’s fine. What’s up?”
She pointed to the kitchen and then headed that way. Am I supposed to follow you? Apparently so. She kept going, so I chugged along on her heels, a sinking feeling coming over me. What had I done to upset her this time? Likely I’d find out. Soon.
We reached the kitchen, and she gestured for me to close the door leading to the shop, which I did. Auntie leaned her petite frame against the storage shelf and crossed her arms. “Scarlet, I need you to promise me something.”
“What’s that?” I asked, more than a little nervous.
I half expected her to give me instructions regarding her burial plot or something, but she went a completely different direction. “Promise me you will never marry a man.”
“I—I beg your pardon?”
She shook her head. “I mean, promise you’ll never marry a typical man. You don’t need to end up tied to his checkbook, unable to go anywhere or do anything unless he gives you permission.”
“Oh, well, I—”
She paced the kitchen, her thin wisps of hair bobbing up and down. “That’s the last thing any woman needs, trust me.”
Okay, now we weren’t talking about me anymore, were we? But still, none of this made sense. If women never married and had kids, would the human race continue? Clearly not. Still, I’d better not argue the point. The way things were going in this conversation, I’d lose the argument on a technicality.
She waggled her finger in my direction. “I’m telling you this for your own good.”
Personal observation: when someone says they’re telling you something for your own good, they don’t really mean it. They usually just need to get something off their chest.
Her expression grew even more serious. “You don’t want some guy who sits around in his easy chair, chugging down beer after beer, talking about how the little woman needs to be kept in her place. A man like that will pull you into a prison you can’t get out of.”
“Actually, I don’t know any men like that, Aunt Wil—”
“And those men who run around shirtless, trying to show off their . . . their . . . muscles.” She shuddered. “They’re the worst.” She pointed a bony finger in my face. “Beware of any man who rides around the neighborhood in his golf cart with no shirt on.”
Eew! “E-excuse me?” I managed. “Aunt Wilhelmina, I really don’t think you have anything to worry about here. Most of the guys I know aren’t very muscular, to be quite honest. And I don’t even know any man who owns a golf cart. So your fears are in vain.”
“That’s not my point. And you know very well the type of man I’m talking about. You don’t want that kind. So promise me you’ll think long and hard before making a commitment.”
“A commitment?” Huh? “To . . . ?”
She narrowed her gaze. “To anyone who resembles what I’ve just described.”
I couldn’t fathom who she meant. Kenny was none of those things. A far cry from it, in fact. And the only other man who’d ever paid me a bit of attention was . . . Hmm. I couldn’t think of anyone.
She drew closer and lowered her voice. “Now, I don’t want to stereotype, but there are some male chauvinist types out there who turn out just like the fellow I described. They might be handsome and charming as young men, but they grow into old fools. And trust me, they buy golf carts. And tackle boxes. And hunting licenses. They run around topless”—she shivered—“thinking they’re muscular when they really just look ridiculous. Trust me when I say that muscles don’t look the same after sixty or seventy years of puffing them up.”
She went off on a tangent, using the word Casanova approximately five times. Okay, six. Only when she spoke the words Latin lover did I really get nervous.
Casanova? Latin lover?
Oh. Ack.
In that moment, I realized who she’d been referring to all along. Armando Rossi. But why? What in the world had I ever done to give her the impression that I might be interested in someone like him? Crazy.
Okay, so he was a little Casanova-like. And yeah, he had great abs. That much was obvious, even with the guy fully dressed.
Not that running around shirtless was a crime, especially not on Galveston Island in the summertime. Still, he was nothing like the man she had just described. And I sincerely doubted his muscles would get saggy, even in sixty years. Okay, maybe in seventy. But I really didn’t want to project that far ahead. Couldn’t I just admire his physique now?
And what was up with all that male chauvinist talk? Sure, Armando had mentioned a couple of sarcastic things in passing about women working in the kitchen, but in his family, most of the women did, right? I mean, they owned a
pizzeria, for Pete’s sake. But what in the world had given her the idea that I might be interested in him?
Other than riding in his red sports car to lunch.
And sitting next to him at Casey’s.
And working with him on the fund-raiser.
Hmm.
“Just mark my words, Scarlet,” Aunt Willy said. “You don’t want to grow old and bitter.”
She was right about that. And if I’d ever wondered what that might look like, the example was standing directly in front of me. Only one question remained: What Casanova had jilted my aunt when she was my age? What saggy old man had once caught her eye with his shirtless muscles and arrogant charm?
Yes, someone had surely left his mark. A crazed hunter with a golf cart, apparently. Still, I had the strangest feeling she wasn’t through with this lecture yet. Nope. From the look on her face, we still had a ways to go.
“And another thing,” Willy continued, now pacing the tiny kitchen. “I am happy to see you develop a relationship with the Rossi family, but a kink has been added, one I had not anticipated. One that could derail my whole plan to endear your business to theirs.”
“A kink?” I couldn’t imagine what she meant. Had something gone wrong? Something I hadn’t heard about yet? A thousand possibilities ran through my foggy brain, but none of them made sense.
“Yes.” She stopped walking and looked me in the eye. “The addition of that awful . . . awful . . .”
“New pizza topping?” I tried.
“No.”
“Tiramisu?” I offered. “Because I don’t really see it as competition, since they’re Italian and we’re not.”
“No.” She grunted. “Scarlet, you’re deliberately missing my point. I’m talking about that awful, awful man.”
“Awful man?” Was she talking about Armando again? If so, why?
Auntie’s expression tightened. So did her tone. “That horrid man from the country. The one who reeks of gasoline. He’s the kink I’m referring to.”
The Icing on the Cake Page 7
