Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie

by Donna Kauffman

  Dylan knew Miss Bea had lived on Sugarberry close to twenty years, before passing away last winter. Of course, anything less than a few generations of island occupancy labeled a person a newcomer. Bea had been a bit of an odd duck, but a beloved one, near as he could tell. He hadn’t known her personally, mechanics not being in much need of tailoring shops, and she’d pedaled a bicycle around the island, never owned a car. Of course he’d heard about her being a bit . . . unusual, always knowing things she shouldn’t be knowing. Everybody knew about it. Folks would go to her, trying to find out about their futures. Far as he knew, she wasn’t any kind of fortune teller, or certainly had never advertised herself as one, but it didn’t keep folks from talking or seeking out her advice from time to time.

  He supposed he had a soft spot for the misfits of the world, though she seemed to have made her way better than most. Still, he’d been sorry to hear it when she’d suffered a mild stroke a little over a year before. He knew it had left her unable to run her shop. Last he’d heard, she’d moved to a senior care center over on the mainland, where she’d remained until her passing.

  The shop had sat empty until the cupcake crew had taken over the space to add on to their existing business. The island had been buzzing about the grand opening of the new place for months. Some were happy about it and the increased interest it might bring to the island, some were grousing that increased traffic and tourists were not something Sugarberry should be courting, that it was doing just fine on its own. Of course, that was the same argument the old-timers had made about almost every new business establishment, probably even back when Tommy and Dick Ross had opened their auto repair business.

  Dylan took advantage of Alva’s hand on his arm and steered her toward the open bay door at the rear of the shop, where she’d come in. She’d probably headed over straight from the cupcake bakery, jelly roll in hand. An excuse to pry and nudge, he saw now. He really was going to have to nip that in the bud.

  “Well, looks like we have another newcomer from Oregon,” Alva was saying. “Hope she’s as delightful as the last one.”

  “I didn’t get the feeling she was here to stay.” But that look on Honey’s face, in her eyes, as she’d looked across the alley, jumped to Dylan’s mind again.

  “Well,” Alva said, clearly dismayed not to get more gossip out of him. “I’m glad you were here to help out. If you change your mind about the poker game, we always have a seat for a handsome, eligible man.” The twinkle had come right back in her eyes.

  “Thanks again for the jelly roll” was all he said. “Careful now, crossing the alley.”

  “And a gentleman, too,” she said, then waved before making her way across the alley to the rear door of Cakes by the Cup.

  He watched until she waved once more before slipping into the back entrance. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until he let it out in one heavy huff as the door slapped shut behind her. What the hell had that been all about? And how was he going to shut it down?

  The phone ringing in the office snapped his attention back to business. He stalked over and snatched the cordless from where it was mounted to the wall, and listened as the parts shop in Savannah gave him the bad news. “Thanks,” he said, before hanging up. “For nothing,” he added darkly.

  First Miss Alva and her nosey fruit roll, and now he had to deal with the fruitcake. And tell her it was going to be a week, at minimum, before her car was ready. He also had to give her the full repair estimate. He couldn’t imagine either of those things would come as good news.

  He turned toward the office, intent on grabbing the clipboard with her service order and cell phone number on it, but was once again brought to a complete and utter stop by the woman herself. Honey D’Amourvell was presently pedaling down the alley toward the rear entrance to his shop on an old townie bicycle with a white basket attached between the front handles. But it wasn’t the vintage bike, or even the mode of transportation, that had caught his attention. Plenty of island residents favored bicycles over cars. It was the woman. Yesterday it had been combat boots, khakis, and a no nonsense ponytail.

  Today she wore flat white sandals, a sunny yellow, short-sleeved shirt, and a flowy, billowy skirt patterned with bright spring flowers. Her hair was down, streaming behind her. It was longer than it had looked up in that ponytail. Thicker, too. But what nailed it for him, was all that flouncy femininity paired with those super serious, dark rimmed glasses. There was absolutely nothing remotely sexy about them . . . and yet, his body stirred.

  She rolled in behind the shop, then braked a little harder than was necessary when she saw him just inside the bay door, standing in the shadows. Watching her.

  The short stop had her teetering dangerously and her sandals did little to steady her as they slid over the hot pavement. Without thinking, Dylan instinctively stepped into the sunlight, intent on steadying the bike to keep her from falling over, when her quick jerk back reminded him. Batshit crazy. Right.

  Still, he wasn’t going to let her fall over. He put his hands firmly on the handlebars, taking care not to touch her, keeping the bike upright until she got her feet under her. “Careful, there, darlin’.”

  “I’m fine. You just . . . startled me. I didn’t see you there.”

  He scowled, when just moments before, watching her, all flowery clothes and serious glasses, he’d found himself wanting to smile. “The only thing I plan on touching is your car, okay?”

  She met his gaze with her own. “I know. Really, it’s . . . not you. Or . . . or that. It’s just—” She broke off, and he could see frustration, and something else, warring in her expression. But she was right, he didn’t think either was directed at him so much as herself.

  Problems, he thought. She had plenty of them, the least of which, apparently, was her piece of junk car. That was the only one he had any interest in fixing.

  He lifted his hands off the handlebars, palms out. “You’re safe with me,” he said more dismissively than was perhaps necessary, thinking first nosey fruit roll, now fruity customer. Was it too much to ask for a man to just work in peace, without interruption? He turned to head back into the shop. She could follow him or not.

  “I’m not safe with anyone,” she muttered, or that’s what he thought he heard, but when he looked back, she’d climbed off the bike and was propping it against the back of the building, next to the bench.

  He went in and grabbed the clipboard with her service order on it, made a few notes from the phone conversation he’d had with the parts guy while they were still fresh in his mind, then headed back to the service bay, only to find the second woman of the day poking her nose under the hood of the Beetle. “Might want to be careful there.”

  Honey straightened and turned to look at him. Despite what had just happened in the alley, she seemed steadier than the day before. He wasn’t sure if it was the brightly colored shirt or the bicycle ride over that had lent some color to her face, but she didn’t look as . . . well, as haunted as she had. She placed a protective hand on the side panel of the car. “Can she be fixed?”

  He nodded. “But it’s going to take the better part of a week just to get the parts here. And it’s not going to come cheap.”

  She merely nodded.

  He’d expected more of a reaction than that. Shoulders slumping, disappointment in those still-spooky, pale green eyes of hers, something.

  “So . . . how long until it’s done? And how much?”

  “Ten days, give or take parts delivery.” He quoted her the price.

  He saw her throat work, then her gaze shift toward the back bay door. He thought, for a second, she was contemplating taking off, but realized almost immediately she was looking once again at the bakery shops across the alley, on the corner.

  “This was a mistake,” she said more to herself than to him.

  Yep. She was trouble. And quite possibly in trouble.

  He sighed. “Is there someone who can come get you? Were you . . . visiting s
omebody? Over on the mainland? Traveling?” He glanced at her tags and the packed contents of her car, then back at her.

  “No. I mean, no, I’m on my own. I’m—I was . . .” Her chin dropped, just for a moment; then she briefly closed her eyes and seemed to gather herself up. When she lifted her gaze back to his, it was resolute and resigned. “I was planning to stay here. Move here, actually. I’m . . . not so sure now. But I guess I’ll be here at least until my car is done, so that’ll give me time to figure the rest out.”

  “We can work something out with the cost, if—”

  “Oh, no, that’s not it. I can take care of that.” He must have looked somewhat dubious, because she added, “I know the car isn’t much, but I haven’t needed much. And it’s . . . sentimental. It belonged to my Aunt Bea.”

  He’d glanced back at his clipboard, intending to see where he might be able to cut a corner or two, but his gaze snapped back up at that name. “Bea Chantrell?”

  Her entire face relaxed, and the smile that naturally followed transformed her features from wary and guarded, to open and . . . well, attractive. Very attractive.

  “Yes. Did you know her?”

  “Not personally, but it’s a small island. She was well liked here. Ran the little tailor—” He broke off . . . and looked across the alley at the buildings on the corner. Where her aunt’s shop had once been. And a brand new, about-to-open bakery business now stood. That raw, wistful look he’d seen on her face the day before took on a whole new meaning. He looked back at Honey. “Oh.”

  Her smile shifted to one of dry humor, reaching those eyes of hers . . . and changing everything.

  That did something to his insides, too.

  “Right”—she held his gaze easily for the first time—“oh.”

  Chapter 3

  Honey started to lift the bike from its resting spot against the wall behind the auto repair shop, then decided there was no point in rolling it across the alley. She’d come back for it once she was done. Besides, she wanted to get a few small things from her belongings to take back to the B&B . . . and, now that she knew how long her car would be here, she should probably see if she could work something out to get the rest of her stuff taken over later on. She didn’t want it all sitting inside her closed up car for that long.

  At the moment, however, she had more important things to attend to. The first of which was to stop thinking about Dylan Ross. Even on a full night’s sleep and after a stern self lecture on keeping her focus on the important things, he still made her jumpy. And twitchy. Mostly, in that can’t-keep-her-eyes-off-his-shoulders-and-biceps kind of way. Just because he wore a grease stained white T-shirt that the heat and humidity had long since caused to cling damply to his very nicely defined torso, did not mean she had to stare at it. Or want to touch it. Nor did she need to be paying quite so much attention to the way his jeans hung low on his lean hips or hugged a backside that gave swagger a whole new meaning.

  “Why look if you can’t touch,” she muttered. She pushed her hair from her face and her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and set off across the alley, wishing the elastic band she’d pulled her hair back with hadn’t slid down and blown away on the way to the garage. She’d wanted to look friendly, well put together, and open to discussion when she met with Leilani Dunne. And if, perhaps, she happened to show Dylan Ross that she wasn’t some deranged hippie chick, well . . . all the better.

  Instead, she felt sweaty, wind blown, and . . . well . . . twitchy. She could still see Dylan’s broad, very capable hands gripping the handlebars of her bike. If she hadn’t jerked back the way she had, he might have put those broad, capable hands on her.

  “And left grease marks on your blouse.” And permanent marks on her overly-active imagination. Logic and common sense clearly weren’t enough to deter her body’s determination to respond to him like a hothouse flower would to a steam bath.

  Enough already. Time to talk cupcakes. And lease agreements.

  Honey had called her aunt’s estate lawyer first thing that morning, only to be told he was away at a family wedding and wouldn’t be back until the following week. The other partner in the small firm had taken her call. He hadn’t known her aunt well, nor was he familiar with the particulars of her estate planning, but he’d said he would look through the file as it pertained to the Sugarberry property and get back to her. Honey had finally gotten the call from him an hour ago, and he’d said he found nothing untoward or mishandled from his end. According to the will, the property rightly belonged to Honey. If that ownership was being contested, she’d have to go to the county offices over the causeway, and get a copy of the deed, along with the papers she’d filed, claiming the property.

  Except . . . no one had explained the part about her needing to fill out paperwork to claim anything. She’d thought that had been handled by Bea’s lawyer. And, perhaps it had. His partner couldn’t say one way or the other. So, she’d called the county to see if they could verify any of the information over the phone, only to be told she had to bring ID and show up in person to access any of her aunt’s deed information. She’d considered hiring a taxi and heading straight over, but decided perhaps going directly to the source on the Sugarberry end of things might be just as informative. Besides, it would eventually all come out anyway, so they were going to have to talk at some point. If she wanted to know who on Sugarberry thought they had the right to lease Bea’s shop to Leilani Dunne, who better to ask than the Cupcake Queen herself?

  Honey debated walking around the row of buildings and entering through the front of the shop, as it was still during business hours, but the back door to the alley was open, and the rich scents of butter and baked goods wafted through the screen door. Also wafting out was the pulsing sound of a tune she couldn’t quite make out, which meant someone was in the kitchen baking. Hopefully, that someone was the owner, and Honey could at least begin the conversation between them in private.

  She crossed the alley and found herself smiling as she recognized the music—it was the soundtrack to the Broadway musical, Wicked—and she realized someone was singing along. Not too shabby, either, she thought. Certainly a far cry from her own less-than-stage-ready voice. Not that that had stopped her from bopping and singing loudly to the music she’d always had pumping inside the barn as she worked. After all, the garden gnomes and fairy sprites she created weren’t likely to be too offended when she went off key.

  Her smile turned wry as she recognized the specific tune from the show. “Popular.” “Oh, the irony,” she murmured as she stepped under the awning and up to the screen door just as the final strains echoed, and the kitchen singer ended with her own flourish.

  Honey took a moment to smooth her hair, straighten her blouse, shake the wrinkles from her recently unpacked skirt. The hottest part of the day had passed, but tell that to her sweat glands. Nerves weren’t helping the situation, either.

  The opening strains of South Pacific faded as someone inside turned the music down. Honey let out a long, shaky sigh, then took a steadying breath, pasted on a smile, and knocked on the door. Only no one came. Instead, she heard someone call out, “Alva, I’ve got to run these next door to Kit. I’ll be right back!”

  If there was a response, Honey didn’t hear it. She was too busy leaping back as the screen door was suddenly shoved open by someone backing out of the bakery with a huge tray of cupcakes in her hands.

  Honey caught the low heel of her sandal on the edge of the stone walkway that had been put in between the back doors of the side-by-side shops, sending her wheeling into the small parking lot. “Oh!”

  The woman with the cupcakes spun around, sending a few of the cupcakes tottering dangerously close to the edge of the rack she held. “Oh, no! I didn’t see—crap!” Two of the cupcakes took the death plunge off the side and landed, icing down, between the stone pavers.

  Honey banged up against the front bumper of somebody’s red Jeep, and finally managed to stop by bracing her hands on the hood—
the sun-burnished, blazing hot hood. She swore and leaped away as the woman in front of her did a quick step to keep any more cupcakes from taking a dive.

  “I’m . . . I’m so sorry!” Honey managed as she pressed her throbbing palms to the sides of her skirt. “I knocked on the door, but . . .”

  “No, no, it’s my fault. I had the music on too loud. Baxter’s always telling me I’m going to boogie myself straight into—” The woman broke off, and rearranged her grip on the tray, then grinned at Honey. “Straight into a cupcake Armageddon. I hate it when he’s right.”

  Honey found herself smiling back. It was impossible not to, really. She looked down at the smashed cupcakes and the creamy pink icing presently oozing in between the walkway bricks. “Let me at least pay for damages.”

  The dark-haired woman shook her head, her expression open, naturally friendly. “I make extras, and it’s really not your fault. Were you looking for me? I’m Leilani Dunne, the shop owner. Everyone just calls me Lani.”

  Honey’s gaze went from Lani’s warm eyes and cheerful smile to the apron she wore, which had only now caught her attention. It featured poster art from the movie Chocolat, with Johnny Depp’s handsome face smiling beside the title.

  Lani tracked her gaze. “I know, right? Show tunes and wacky aprons are us, what can I say?”

  “There’s nothing wacky about wanting to wrap yourself in Johnny Depp.” It was only when Lani laughed that Honey realized she’d spoken out loud.

  “I like you already. What can I do for you?”

  This was so not how Honey had planned the conversation to go, so she was a little bit flummoxed. “Did you—do you want to go ahead and deliver those?” She inclined her head toward the cupcakes. “I can wait. I just needed a few moments of your time.” To start.