She sipped her coffee and changed the subject. "So what new concoction have you created?" She knew me well too. "Don't try to deny it. You wouldn't be here so early if your brain wasn't buzzing with a new recipe."
I chuckled and glanced at the timer. Eight minutes to go. "Lemon pesto muffins."
She grimaced. "Why on earth?"
"What? They'll be delish. I know my flavor profiles. You'll see."
She continued looking skeptical.
Grams never understood my desire to blend unconventional ingredients. It started a few years back while watching Cupcake Wars on the Food Network. Something about adding oysters to a cupcake really inspired me. Although that was bizarre, even for me.
Tara clapped her hands together. "So how are we celebrating your re-grand opening tonight? Where do you and Grams want to go? My treat."
Joe slid a tray of cinnamon buns into the oven and set the timer.
"Grams won't be joining us," I said.
"Why not?"
"She went to visit a friend in Seattle last night."
Tara's eyebrows shot up. "Last night? She couldn't wait one more day?"
I shrugged, not wanting to get sentimental, but the truth was that part of me wanted to cry. Grams didn't see today as a big deal like I did. I'd been working here since high school, so what was another Friday? But it was huge to me. Yeah, I knew it would be just a regular day, busy in the morning and then tapering off until a lunch crowd gathered. Some part of me, though, felt like it was my birthday, and I had the decorations to confirm that. Maybe I wouldn't be blowing out candles, but there was plenty of cake. And Grams not being here felt lonely.
After eating a muffin, which Tara admitted was tasty, I walked her out to her car. When I stepped back inside the kitchen, I got back to work. There was still tons I wanted done before we opened. This was going to be a long and awesome day.
* * *
The displays were stacked with gorgeous, mouth-watering cupcakes, muffins, and other delectable, single-served desserts. Grams had been adamant about selling items for one person. She said it was more tempting to buy a dozen mix-matched cupcakes than to buy a one-flavored cake. Not only did it offer more variety, but there were plenty of people who wanted just a slice and not the whole pie. I'd believed she'd been thinking about her love life when she'd concocted that plan, but it had worked all these years.
I straightened a tray of Vanilla Bean cupcakes with white pearls dotting their mountains of whipped frosting. All of the items always looked more like art than food. When I was a child, I'd lean against the display cases, press my face to the glass, and stare at the perfection.
Minus the face against the glass, I still did the same some days. And it took all of my willpower to slide the glass door shut and not swipe a fingertip across the frosting.
I continued surveying the room. The counters and four tables and chairs were dust and crumb free, and the ivory and dark-brown checkered floor looked clean enough to eat off of. I'd mopped it three times. If we had a surprise health inspection, we'd easily pass. When it came time to paint and design the store, Grams had asked for my opinion. It hadn't mattered that I was only ten. I had said the colors needed to be flavors, which was why she went with a vanilla-and-chocolate floor and muted strawberry walls. It was a Neapolitan bakery.
I had considered buying balloons in the same colors, but I'd decided these should pop, so I'd gone with white and silver.
All I had to do now was wait for the first customer. We'd been open for thirty seconds. Any minute now we'd get a small crowd of business people on their way to work.
I turned to the far wall that led to the kitchen, to the collage of black-framed newspaper and magazine articles written about Cinnamon Sugar Bakery, a photo of Grams and Danger Cove's then mayor in front of the bakery on the day it opened, and a photo of Grams in her bunny costume. She'd spent a year working as a Playboy bunny in San Francisco before she married and had Mom. This was her wall of fame. One day I'd add my own proud moment of joy there. I often wondered what would top simply working here.
The bell above the door jingled, and I turned.
A man stood in the shadow of the doorway, so I couldn't make out his face. He held a bouquet of daisies, which meant he had great taste. Those were my favorite.
"Hey, gorgeous," he said, causing me to look behind me. Had someone else walked in? Most customers asked about the daily specials or if we used preservatives. They didn't dole out compliments.
He stepped further in, and I took note of his dark jeans, white button-down top, burgundy tie, and brown bomber jacket.
My heart skipped a beat. Oh my God, was I daydreaming? He couldn't be Jared Politano. My good friend and high school crush. Jared grew up in Danger Cove. We'd met in kindergarten class. In tenth grade, Mom had begged me to step out of the kitchen and join an activity at school. She'd suggested drama club, which was Jared's passion. That had been when our friendship blossomed.
A year later, Mom, Dad, and Aunt Sandra had been killed in a hit-and-run accident, and Jared went from great friend to rock, like Tara. A year after that, shortly before he left for college out of state, we kissed. It was brief and just the once, but super memorable.
Now he smiled. His brown eyes sparkled, and a lock of dark hair fell into them. "Don't I get a hug?"
That deep, sultry voice snapped me out of my trance. "Oh my God, it's really you." I flew around the counter and threw myself at him.
He wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me off the floor. "Gosh, I missed you."
I hung on to his neck and shoulders and breathed in his fresh laundry scent. "What are you doing here?"
Instead of answering, he moaned into my neck. The vibrations caused my hair to ruffle and tickled me. I giggled and pressed into him more. Jittery feelings swam in my stomach. I pulled away only enough to look him in the eye. "I can't believe you're here."
Despite our once solid relationship, we'd drifted some over the years, like most people living long distance. I still considered him one of my best friends though.
"Your eyes still remind me of the blue depths of the ocean. Beautiful."
Warmth slapped my cheeks, and the blush shot down my body into my toes.
He kissed my forehead, then set me back on the tile. I'd worn black, cushioned flats today, and at my five-four height, I came up to his chin—perfect for forehead kisses. He held up the bouquet of daisies, handed them over, and bowed his head. "To the new queen of all things of deliciousness. I take it Grams finally retired?" He jutted his chin toward the re-grand opening banner.
I curtsied and breathed in their delicate fragrance. "They're beautiful. Thank you. And yes, she did. Yesterday."
The last time I spoke to Jared was when he'd come home for Christmas. I'd mentioned Grams' cruise plans then.
"So when did you get here, and how long are you staying?" I asked.
"Last night and forever." He winked at me.
I squealed. I may have jumped up and down once or twice too. "You're moving back?"
He chuckled. "Already done. I take it you approve?"
I widened my eyes. "Absolutely. But why?"
He sighed so deeply that his shoulders and chest rose and then crashed down. "It's a long story, and I don't want to be late for my first day of work."
"Excuse me?" I asked. "How did you get a job so fast?"
"I've been working on it for a while, and an opening emerged unexpectedly. I'm here this morning to gather sustenance for my day from my favorite bakery."
I hurried around the displays and set the daisies on the counter behind me. "What would you like?"
He cocked his head and smiled. "Do you really need to ask?"
I mentally smacked my forehead. "No." I chose the cinnamon muffin with the most crumble on top and placed it and a napkin into a brown paper bag with a clear plastic panel. Jared's sweet tooth was as big as mine, but his absolute favorite had always been the bakery's specialty. Then I took a large Styrofoam cup
and filled it with black coffee.
"I hope you have a vase. I didn't think about that," Jared said.
I nodded. "Grams keeps a few in back." There was always some man trying to woo her, especially in the summer during tourist season.
"Are you nervous on your first day, Ms. Boss Lady?"
"More anxious and exhilarated. How about you? Wait, where are you working?"
He took a step back and spread out his arms. "Get a load of this. I am the new tenth-grade English teacher at Danger Cove High School."
Seriously? My excitement quickly faded. He'd wanted to be a Broadway star, and now he was teaching? He'd gone to college and earned an education degree, but that was mostly because his parents hated the idea of him majoring in drama. I couldn't help wonder if he was truly excited about teaching at our old school.
I stared into his eyes but couldn't tell if his expression was genuine or not. He and I needed to sit down and have a long talk. This wasn't the time though.
"Congratulations," I said, but I wasn't sure if I meant it. "We'll hang soon, right?"
"You are first on my list of people to spend time with."
I smiled.
After paying for his order, he said, "I'd love to stay and help you, but I have children who wait on my beck and call. If I'm not there, I could ruin their futures."
I'd missed this casual, easy banter we shared.
I laid the back of my hand against my forehead. "Oh dear, what will I do without your knowledge of confectioner's sugar?"
He leaned over the counter, grabbed my other hand, and kissed it. "I'm sorry, m'lady. Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good-night till it be morrow."
As he walked out, I glanced down to my hand. What was up with the tingles in my belly?
Three hours later, after a normal busy Friday morning, a flash of brown appeared at the door and flew toward me. It was Amber, my cousin-slash-part-time employee. I'd swear she was the Road Runner. How did she move so fast? She was an Aries though—never sitting still.
Panting, she leaned on the counter and stared at me with her big brown eyes. Her light-brown hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and she wore absolutely no makeup. Not even a smear of Chap Stick. She never did. Unlike me, who spent thirty minutes each morning on my face. Today I had perfected overly arched brows, winged black liquid liner, heavily mascaraed lashes, and deep red lips to go with my 1950s dress. I liked to switch up my makeup every day to match what I wore. I had a closet full of clothing from every decade since the '20s. Besides baking, I just loved dressing up.
It had started when I'd participated in drama in high school. Turned out that acting wasn't my thing, but I'd loved the costumes. I'd had a ball wearing them, and then one lucky day I'd spotted a pair of white vinyl go-go boots in our own attic. They'd been Mom's. She'd let me have them, and my passion for vintage clothing had begun.
I wanted to lecture Amber about at least using something with sunscreen on her lips, but she hated my attention on her naked face, so I kept quiet. Instead, I took in her faded jeans, dingy sneakers, and peach-colored tee and waited for her to catch her breath and explain the fire.
Her father, Uncle Douglas, was Mom's brother. Her mother was Aunt Sandra. She was the other person in the car the night my parents had died. Amber had been only six when she'd lost her mom. Ten years her senior, I'd felt somewhat responsible for her. As if their deaths had been my fault. Of course, they weren't, but I put myself in the role of big sister as she'd grown up. Heck, I still felt responsible for her in some ways.
She grunted and moaned and slapped a sheet of paper onto the counter.
"Did you run here?" I asked.
She nodded.
"From home? The whole way?"
She nodded again.
Her house was half a mile away. Amber lived her life teetering between not caring and being dramatic each moment of every day. Sometimes I wished I had her resolve, and others I wanted to shake her to get her to calm down. I guessed it was why we got along so well. Two peas and all of that.
"What's so important you couldn't call or text?" I asked, trying to catch a glimpse of the paper, but it was scrunched up in her fist.
She lifted her hand, shoved the sheet toward me, and managed a breathy, "They're coming."
Assuming she was referring to some new horror flick at the cinema, I smoothed out the page, then lifted it to read. Instead of a flyer about a grotesque monster or a heinous serial killer—her favorites—it was an e-mail message directed to her stepmother, Aunt Bernie.
I glanced to my panting cousin. Why was she showing me her stepmother's e-mail? More importantly, why was she reading it?
Sensing my confusion, she whispered, "Read."
The subject line was Cinnamon Sugar Bakery Special—One Day Only!
Wait, this was about the store?
With the new ownership, Cinnamon Sugar Bakery is offering free baked goods to select Danger Cove residents, Friday at 10:00 a.m.
That was today.
I glanced at the clock on the wall behind the register.
That was now.
I stared into Amber's wide eyes, catching a glimpse of my own terrified reflection. "What is this? Why? How?"
She shrugged and shook her head.
"Well, this is just crazy. We can't afford to give away free food. I'll just call Aunt Bernie and…" I looked to the e-mail header to see who else this had gone out to, but Aunt Bernie's address was listed under BCC. Blind carbon copy? That meant no one else could see who received it.
The sender was listed as Riley Spencer, but that was impossible. I hadn't sent it. Was there another Riley Spencer in the world? It wasn't the most unusual name, so it was likely. Maybe this Riley got her e-mails crossed with Aunt Bernie? No, that wasn't possible. The e-mail was titled Cinnamon Sugar Bakery. The e-mail address beside fake me's name was [email protected]. I didn't recognize it.
Amber tapped the counter and swallowed hard. "It's too late."
"What do you mean?"
She grabbed my wrist and dragged me around the counter. We traveled out the front door and to the corner, which wasn't very far since the bakery sat on the corner lot. She pointed, and I followed her direction.
Headed our way, walking down the sidewalk, was a large group of people.
And they looked hungry.
DEATH BY SCONES
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Cupcakes, Butterflies & Dead Guys (Gianna Mancini Mysteries Book 3) Page 21
