by Robbi McCoy
“Sure. Try to stop me.” Sophie picked up a cupcake and peeled down the wrapper. In the past few weeks, she’d eaten more cupcakes than she had in her entire life. She was one of Klaus’s regular taste testers as he prepared for the big Cupcake Extravaganza, a bake-off he was seriously determined to win. The winner would create the dessert centerpiece for the annual Midsummer Night’s Dream Gala, a fundraiser for the Shakespeare Festival. It would be quite a coup if he could pull it off.
Sophie bit through the frosting and into the cake, giving the bite her full attention. “That’s really good. Moist, delicate. The lavender is subtle. Prominent vanilla flavor.”
“Too much?”
“Maybe a little strong. You could cut back on the vanilla just a smidge and give the lavender center stage. But the white chocolate frosting is the perfect complement to this cake. You’re getting so good at this.”
“Thanks, Sophie. I appreciate the help. I really want to win this thing.” He ran his hand through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead. “What’s your favorite so far?”
“That’s tough. I’d say it’s between this one and the lemon cake with the lemon curd filling. You have to make three flavors, right?”
He nodded.
“Well, then, definitely the lemon and the lavender. I’d stay away from chocolate. It’s hard to get any flavor from a chocolate cupcake other than chocolate. These lighter flavors are more surprising, more playful, so maybe the raspberry trifle. One of your early flavors. It was incredible and I think you’ll get extra points for highlighting local produce.”
“That’s very good advice. Thanks.”
The muscles in the back of his huge arms flexed as he set down the tray of cupcakes. It was kind of funny, Sophie thought, that this big man produced such dainty little cakes.
“Get your mama to taste these too.” he said. “I want to hear what she thinks.”
“I will. No problem there. She’s got such a sweet tooth. I swear that woman could live on nothing but cake. But she’s not home right now. She’s kayaking with Dr. Connor.”
“Yeah, Dr. Connor. He’s a great guy. I heard he joined Doctors Without Borders. He’ll be going off to someplace we never heard of soon.”
“I remember Mom mentioning that. That’s the kind of adventure made for a bachelor like him.”
“Your mama and Dr. Connor. They make a nice couple.”
“Oh, no, it’s not like that!” Sophie objected, thrown by the suggestion of her mother being romantically involved with her doctor. “No. It’s just the kayaking. He’s an experienced kayaker himself and he thought it would be good exercise for her. Strengthen her muscles. All part of the recovery regimen.”
“So it’s therapy?” Klaus asked.
“Right. Therapy.”
The way Klaus looked at her, his face full of indulgent affection, unnerved her. “Both of our mothers are such strong women, aren’t they?” he remarked.
“Yes, they are. Very capable. By the way, I just heard what happened to your father. And your brother Eric. Such a sad story. I feel so bad for your mother.”
He nodded gloomily. “I often wonder how different life would be if I had a twin brother. Sometimes I have the eerie feeling that he’s not really gone. Like when people lose an arm or leg and say they still feel pain in the missing limb. That’s how I feel about Eric, like he’s still attached to me somehow. It’s like he’s right here in my head sometimes. It’s kind of funny to say I miss him because I can’t remember him at all.” He sighed. “I don’t have any memory of my father either.”
“Nor do I of mine.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned your father before.”
“My father was a mystery man,” Sophie said, recalling her favorite photo of him, a dashing, swarthy man with an olive complexion and dark eyes, a man who had taken her mother’s heart by storm, but had been a near stranger, even to Olivia. “His name was Claude. He and my mother weren’t married. He was a drifter. Came and went like the wind. I was barely three by the time he was out of our lives.”
“Do you think your mother still misses him?”
“I know she doesn’t. She hasn’t mentioned him in years and when she would talk about him, years ago to satisfy our curiosity, she said he was actually sort of an oaf. He could turn a young girl’s head with his looks, but she was sure he never would have made a decent husband or father. She was over him even by then. Which is a good thing considering what happened. After he left us, he hooked up with a rich widow.”
“Really?” Klaus lifted his eyebrows. “So is he going to leave you a fortune?”
Sophie laughed. “Even if things had turned out well for him, I doubt that would have happened. Unfortunately for Claude, his rich widow turned out to be his fatal mistake. Her name was Gertrude. Her first husband died under suspicious circumstances. A month later, my father married her. The sheets of her marriage bed not yet cooled, as they say.”
“Sounds dicey,” Klaus observed.
“Gertrude’s son thought so too.” Sophie shook her head. “That kid was bad news. A pale, melancholy boy. Sort of a sociopath and self-absorbed diva. A real ham, if you know what I mean.”
Klaus raised his eyebrows to indicate his understanding.
“He freaked out when his mother remarried so quickly. Called her a whore. Accused my father of murdering his father. Went berserk. A touch of an Oedipal complex in that boy; that’s always been my interpretation. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the one who killed his father.”
“What happened?”
“The kid went on a murder spree. By the time it was over, his mother was dead, my father was dead, and he was dead too.”
Klaus gasped. “Horrible!”
“It must have been. Mom thought it was too terrible to even tell us until we were in our twenties. But Claude was just a name to us. It was just a story about someone else’s family tragedy. Like a stage play.”
Klaus shook his head sadly, but then brightened and said, “Another thing we have in common, isn’t it? Being raised by single mothers.”
Sophie shuffled her feet uncomfortably, recognizing where his thoughts were headed. “Where are you going with this whole cupcake thing?” she asked, deliberately changing the subject. “What if you do win the bake-off?”
He looked embarrassed, his fair skin reddening. “It’s sort of my dream, Sophie, to bake for a living. You know, a lot of the restaurants in town don’t make their own desserts. They buy from local bakeries. That’s what I’m hoping to get into.”
“I had no idea. You’ve never mentioned it before.”
He nodded vigorously. “I’d feature Mama’s aebleskiver and those apple dumplings she makes. Then develop some specialties of my own, like my lime curd tarts. I’m not bad at éclairs either. I should bring you one sometime, after the cupcake thing is over. If I can win this competition, it’ll be the boost of confidence I need to go for it.”
“I hope you win, then, but you don’t really need that. If it’s your dream, just do it. I’m sure you’d be a big hit.”
“We’ll see what the judges think.” He stood. “Not to take anything away from your opinion, Sophie, but this is a hard business to get into, and I’d at least like to know how I measure up with the pros.” He looked suddenly shy. “If I rented a professional kitchen in town, there might be room to share it, like with a cheese maker or something.” He nodded toward the dripping cheesecloths over the sink.
Sophie laughed nervously. “Oh! That’s very sweet of you, Klaus, but I’m okay with this at the moment. It’s kind of nice to be able to hang out around the farm, not have to go to an office…or a kitchen somewhere.”
He looked at his shoes and she held her breath, wondering how to talk to him about the futility of his romantic ideas without hurting him.
He looked up, looking resolute. “I guess I should get to work. What do you want me to do today?”
“How about clearing some of the dry brush over by the
east fence?”
He pulled a pair of leather gloves from his back pocket. “Right. See you later, Sophie.”
She heaved a sigh of relief, telling herself she had to bite the bullet and just tell him she was gay. But apparently that wasn’t going to happen today.
After she had finished turning all the cheeses over, she took a folded note from her pocket. On it was the phone number of the Touchstone Real Estate Agency in San Francisco. She’d looked it up on the Internet and written it on this piece of paper two days ago and had debated calling ever since. Today she had managed to persuade herself to do it, to call Wren and find out if she, like Sophie, might be interested in getting together again. If Wren wasn’t yet back at work, maybe she could find a way to get a message to her through her company.
Assumptions had been made, perhaps on both sides, and assumptions could be wrong. Wasn’t that the lesson in almost every Shakespeare comedy? That simple misunderstandings could put everyone on the wrong path, create all sorts of plot complications that could have been avoided simply by somebody asking a direct question? Or in this case, making a phone call. Nothing to lose by finding out if the assumption was wrong. And everything to gain. Maybe Wren was thinking about her too. Maybe they both wanted more than a one-night stand. And maybe Wren was afraid to make the first move because she assumed Sophie didn’t want to see her again.
The more she thought about it, the more she wondered why she had ever assumed Wren wouldn’t want to see her again. Because she didn’t give her a phone number or an email address? Because she didn’t ask for another date? But she herself hadn’t done those things either, and it was she who had left that morning while Wren was still asleep, leaving no encouragement. So it was up to her, she decided, to make the first move. Because she hadn’t been able to get Wren out of her mind for more than a few minutes at a time. Because her body ached at the memory of that beautiful, seductive creature she had momentarily possessed and who had possessed her more completely than she had guessed at the time. With each day that passed, her desire for Wren grew stronger.
She dialed the number. A woman answered promptly with “Touchstone Agency.”
“Hi,” Sophie said cheerfully. “I’m trying to get in touch with one of your agents. She gave me her card, but I’ve misplaced it, so I’d like to get an email address or a phone number.”
“What’s her name?”
“Wren Landry.”
“Wren Landry? There’s no one here by that name.”
“Are you sure? That’s Wren like the bird, W-R-E-N.”
“I’m sure we don’t have an agent with that name. I know everyone here.”
“Oh.” Sophie hesitated, puzzled.
“Maybe she’s with another agency,” the woman suggested.
“Yes,” Sophie said slowly. “That must be it. Thank you.”
She lowered herself into a kitchen chair, leaning on her elbows on the table, staring down at five white cupcakes with brilliant flecks of purple flowers on top. Here’s the proof, she thought. No Shakespeare comedy, after all. The assumption had been correct. Wren had withheld her contact information on purpose and the information she’d given was false.
Sophie’s disappointment was huge. She had apparently managed to convince herself that there was more real feeling and more substance between them than there really was. Wren had been looking for a diversion. That’s all.
If she had sat there another minute, she would have been in tears, but she was distracted by the sound of goats bleating and realized it was time to feed the animals. Just as well, she thought, anticipating a few minutes of chicken magic.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:
She swore, —in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange,
’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful...
—Othello, Act I, Scene 3
Sooner or later, every visitor to southern Oregon ends up on a jetboat tour of Hellgate Canyon. Wren was no different. On Tuesday, Raven had a break from performing, so Wren and the boys boarded the wide, blue tour boat along with a couple of dozen other people for a two-hour tour of the river. Their boat was named Fish Hawk, an informal term for osprey, and they were lucky to spy a couple of those raptors during the tour, gliding on thermal currents and occasionally swooping close to the water in search of a meal.
Hellgate Canyon, so-called because of its rocky narrows, was beautiful with its thick stands of conifers and rugged volcanic flanks. In the canyon, the water was deep and greenish, squeezing through the narrow walls. The tour guide pointed out a bald eagle high in a dead tree, its signature white head easy to pick out against a deep blue sky. Everybody in the boat peered up at the same time to glimpse it.
Wren and Raven played the game they had played since they were small, racing to see which of them could be the first to identify any birds they came across. Their parents had often taken them on nature walks and had encouraged this game. There were very few birds native to the Western United States they couldn’t peg. Though Kyle couldn’t compete in the game, he seemed to enjoy watching them. In fact, the young couple sitting in front of them, who introduced themselves as Antonio and Nicola, also got drawn into the game and listened for Wren or Raven’s call-out, then followed their pointing finger to catch sight of their discoveries.
As their list of birds mounted, Wren thought how much her parents would have liked this tour. Raven got credit for a double-breasted cormorant, three turkey vultures and a belted kingfisher. Wren spied a pair of mergansers, a Cooper’s hawk and an American Dipper. When they were close enough to shore to recognize songbirds, Raven spotted a Western Bluebird. Then he turned to look at her, silently communicating what was on his mind. Together, in unison, they yelled, “Wrentit,” then fell against each other and broke into euphoric giggles.
As children, even when he didn’t see a wrentit, Raven would often say he did, just so he could say it. As an adult, Wren was as happy with this immature joke as he was, not for its silliness, but for the shared experience of childhood. But as a teenager, especially in the presence of other teenagers, she had been mortified by the teasing and had hated that there was no equivalent affront for him. He had liked anything to do with ravens. He drew temporary tattoos of them on his skin, once in the middle of his forehead, after which he’d had his head scrubbed until he cried. He had spent most of his ninth year quoting “Nevermore” at every possible opportunity, causing their father to perpetually regret ever reading Poe’s poem to them.
Wren chuckled to herself, remembering her mother’s exasperation one night at the dinner table. “Do you want some more carrots?” she had asked Raven. “Nevermore!” he crowed for the fifth time during the meal. Their father warned him to stop it or he’d be sent to his room. But he couldn’t help himself. Not ten minutes later, when Wren brought up a math test scheduled for the next day, their father said, “Maybe you two should take some time out after dinner to study.” Wren had known without even looking at him that Raven was about to say it. “Nevermore!” He had been banished to his room for the rest of the evening.
It was a bright, clear day and she and Raven and Kyle all wore shorts, T-shirts and sunglasses. The jetboat shared the river with fishing boats, rafts, kayaks and canoes, lots of colorful watercraft out for a fine summer day’s recreation. They passed an entire flotilla of river runners on their way back to the dock in Grant’s Pass.
“If you really want to see some birds,” Kyle suggested, “there’s a forty-mile hiking trail along the shore. I’ve done a few miles of it. Nice way to see the river.”
“This isn’t a bad way either,” Wren noted. “I wouldn’t mind taking it a little slower, though.”
“Maybe we can go rafting while you’re here,” Raven suggested. “There are some class four and five rapids on this river.”
Wren laughed. “I might want to work up to that.” She pointed to a couple of kayaks near the north shore, s
liding cleanly along parallel to the jetboat. “That looks like fun.”
The lead kayak was red and piloted by a middle-aged man wearing an Indiana Jones style hat. Behind him was a bright yellow craft paddled by a woman in a T-shirt and straw hat. Both of them wore orange life vests.
Suddenly the woman in front of Raven, Nicola, leaned over the side of the boat and started waving and hollering at the kayakers.
“Miss Ward! Miss Ward!” she hollered.
Recognizing Sophie’s last name, Wren looked more carefully at the kayakers. “Give me your binoculars,” she demanded of Kyle. He handed them over and she peered through, focusing on the woman in the yellow kayak, disappointed to see it wasn’t Sophie. The woman was lean and muscular, wearing a sleeveless shirt, stroking smoothly side to side, driving her craft steadily through the current. From this distance, with her face shaded by her hat, her age was indeterminate.
Nicola stood up and waved both arms wildly, though they had all been repeatedly warned to remain seated. “Miss Ward!” she hollered again, cupping her hands around her mouth.
“Who is it?” Antonio asked, sounding irritated.
“It’s Olivia Ward,” Nicola explained. “Really nice lady. I haven’t seen her since high school.”
At the name “Olivia,” Wren jumped up to get a better look through the binoculars. The kayaker had stopped paddling to look for the commotion. Nicola leaned over the edge of the boat and waved frantically. The woman in the kayak caught sight of the hysterical waving girl and raised her arm in greeting.
Wren leaned against the railing to keep the kayakers in view as the jetboat pulled out ahead of them. Just then the captain decided to make one of his wildly popular U-turns, spinning the boat rapidly around in a circle and tossing both Wren and Nicola over the side into the river. Wren landed headfirst in the shockingly cold water and went under, feeling the current whisking her downstream. She climbed back to the surface thirty or forty feet from the jetboat in time to see several young men, including Antonio, Kyle and Raven, all three shirtless, diving off the edge of the boat. One of the crew members was yelling and running back and forth on deck.
