Frosted Kisses

by Heather Hepler

  “Marcus, you are so sweet to buy me a cupcake,” she says, putting her hand on his arm. “Isn’t he sweet?”

  “Mm-hmm,” I say, handing the cupcakes across the counter.

  Esmeralda holds her cupcake up and examines it. Then she looks at me. “Which one is your favorite?”

  “Either lemon or spice,” I say.

  “You must eat a lot of cupcakes,” Esmeralda says. One of her eyebrows goes up the tiniest bit. I frown, unsure of how to take her comment. Then her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh my goodness,” she says. “I am so sorry. I did not mean to suggest you are fat.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. But it’s not really fine. Because even though I rarely if ever think about my weight, suddenly I am. And Esmeralda is. And Marcus, who is standing right there, is. And no one’s saying anything.

  “Well,” Marcus says after what seems like a thousand years. “Guess I’d better go,” he says. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Definitely,” I say. Esmeralda makes a tiny wave of her fingers. I notice he holds the door for her again, making me wish he weren’t quite so nice. They walk past the big window on the way down the sidewalk. I can’t help noticing once again how perfect she is. It’s like she’s a different species from the rest of us. A more evolved, more beautiful, more charming, more exotic species.

  I grab a towel and begin wiping the glass counter clean of fingerprints. Gram walks through the door, pausing to fix the wonky sleigh bells on the way in. “Was that Marcus I saw?” she asks.

  “Yep,” I say, scrubbing at a blob of icing.

  “Who’s the girl?” she asks.

  “She’s from France,” I say as if that answers her question. I scrub harder. I’m trying to be fair to Esmeralda, but when it comes to Marcus, I don’t always feel very rational.

  Gram comes around the counter. I don’t make eye contact with her. I know I’m acting nutty and so do not need her pointing that out to me. “You know,” she says. “You were the new girl not too long ago.” I don’t answer her. “Just something to consider,” she says.

  “I know,” I say.

  “Careful,” she says, pushing against the swinging door leading to the kitchen. “You’ll wear a hole in that glass.” The door swings shut behind her before I can reply. Gram’s admonition has the opposite effect she intended. Now in addition to acting jealous and irrational, I’m embarrassed about being jealous and irrational.

  “Stupid France,” I say to myself. I glare at the blue velvet cupcakes. “Stupid cupcakes.”

  I hear Gram in the back talking to my mother. The words the nerve of him showing up after all this time and over my dead body, then France, float through the door. I put down the rag and start folding cupcake boxes. Mom pushes through the door.

  “So,” she says. “How’s your head?” I reach up and touch where the bandage was. In all of the recent drama, I’d mostly forgotten about my head.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “How was your day?”

  “Fine,” I repeat.

  “How’s the new girl?” she asks.

  “Fine,” I growl.

  “Hmm,” my mother says. She stands there watching me fold another box. “Everyone deserves a chance,” she says.

  “I know.”

  Mom smiles at me as if she’s just fixed everything. “I could really use your creativity in the kitchen when you finish there,” she says.

  I nod, still folding. She heads back into the kitchen. I continue folding boxes for a few more minutes. There’s a minor rush of customers, which manages to put me in a much better mood. By the time I meet my mom in the kitchen, I’m determined to stop acting so crazy. I stand with her at the counter, piping snowflakes onto a sheet of parchment. The whole time I try to talk myself out of my Esmeralda-induced paranoia. I mean, seriously, it’s not like she really has superpowers. She’s just a girl. A girl from France. A very pretty girl from France. A very pretty girl from France who seems to like my possibly almost boyfriend. I accidentally break one of the snowflakes I’m making, earning me a raised eyebrow from my mother. I give her an everything’s fine smile. I start piping another snowflake. I mean, seriously. How much trouble can one girl cause?

  Gram refuses to say anything more about the strange encounter in the street and Mom says I’ll just have to wait for her to tell me. I considered asking Mrs. Hancock at the antique shop, but every time I’ve been in town, she’s been busy with customers. I finally decide to ask Blake. I tell him I’ll give him two cupcakes. One for himself. One for his source. He says he’ll see what he can do, but after three days, I still have no idea what the drama was all about.

  Mom closes the shop early on Friday, insisting we head over to Dr. Sandford so he can check me out. I tell her I feel fine, but she won’t budge. After almost a week, my eye is barely yellow and the cut on my eyebrow is completely healed. I sit on the edge of the exam table while he shines a tiny light in my eyes, checking first one eye, then the other.

  “Any headaches?” he asks, turning my head slightly.

  “No,” I say.

  “Double vision? Sensitivity to light? Trouble sleeping?” I shake my head. Definitely not the last one. Two afternoons of hauling iron rods, sheets of copper, and wooden scaffolding down a steep hill to load in Marcus’s dad’s truck, in addition to school and homework, have meant I pretty much drop unconscious about three seconds after my head hits the pillow.

  “Well then, Miss Penny,” Dr. Sandford says, taking off his exam gloves and dropping them into the trash can. “I’d say you’re all fixed up.” He walks over to the door and pulls it open. I hop down from the table and follow him out to where my mom is waiting. She looks up from her phone when we approach. “She’s all set,” he says.

  My mom dips into her purse for her wallet, but he waves it away. “Tell you what,” he says. “Next time I’m in town, I’ll let you buy me a cupcake.” We both say thank you, which he also waves away. I decide that when I next talk to my dad, I’ll tell him how nice Dr. Sandford is and what a good doctor he is. I won’t mention the fact that he’s wearing old Birkenstocks with wool socks and an ancient Grateful Dead tie-dye.

  Mom and I head out to the parking lot. It’s starting to get dark even though it’s only six o’clock. “Brrr,” she says, rubbing her arms. “It’s getting cold.” We climb into the car and she cranks up the heater. “Poppy called and asked if you wanted to come to dinner.” We pull out of the parking lot and start heading back toward Hog’s Hollow. “She said to tell you to wear blue. And just so you know, dinner at our house is probably soup and sandwiches.” She frowns slightly. “Maybe just soup. I think we’re out of bread.” She looks at me apologetically, then back at the road. “It’s been a crazy busy week. I just haven’t had time to go to the store.”

  “Well, I do like soup,” I say. It’s true. I’ve even been known to eat soup for breakfast. “But if it’s okay—”

  “Of course,” Mom says, turning onto another winding road lined with trees glowing orange and red in the setting sun. “Gram’s at some planning meeting. It’ll just be me and the cats.” Her voice seems a little sad, and I wonder if she’s thinking about Dad. I’m not under any illusion that the divorce isn’t happening, but it’s hard. Fifteen years of marriage gone. That can’t be easy for my mom. She reaches over and squeezes my hand as if to say, It’s okay. I squeeze back as if to say, If not yet, it will be. The rest of the ride is quiet and I wonder what she’s thinking. I glance in the side mirror and watch the leaves swirl behind us as we pass, but then I look forward again. I don’t want to forget what used to be, but I definitely want to keep my focus on what’s ahead.

  * * *

  I quickly change clothes when we get back to the house, pulling on a light blue T-shirt and jeans. Mom comes in carrying one of her vintage cardigans. It’s navy with sequins and beading on the front. I’m skeptical, but I try it on. I stand in front of the mirror, trying to keep an open mind. “It looks good,” I say.

  “Don’t be so
surprised,” Mom says. “I’m not totally hopeless.” She offers to do my hair. I agree, letting her twist it into a knot at the nape of my neck. She pokes one of her beaded hair sticks into it when she’s finished. She studies me for a moment. “A little lip gloss, I think,” she says. I frown at her back as she walks toward her bathroom. She returns bearing not only rose-colored lip gloss but mascara.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she says. “I just thought you’d want to look nice.” I let her apply the makeup and then turn to look in the mirror. I still look like me, but like fancy me. Mom beams at me over my shoulder, making me narrow my eyes at her. Suspicious. But she’s shooing me, telling me to be back before ten. She hands me my blue fleece coat at the back door and ushers me out. I’m barely on the porch before the door clicks shut behind me.

  It’s a short walk down the beach to Tally’s. It’s even colder now, but so pretty. There in the darkness, the stars seem so close I could touch them. And the waves look silver in the moonlight. I glance at the Fishes’ house on the way past, but the windows are dark. Even though I’ve seen Marcus every afternoon, it’s all hauling and loading and unloading. By the time his dad tells us it’s quitting time, we’re both grimy and sweaty. It’s not even remotely romantic.

  Tally’s house is bright, light spilling out of the windows onto the sand. I step onto the porch and raise my hand to knock. Tally opens the door before my knuckles even touch the wood. She yanks me into the house and closes the door behind me.

  I pull off my coat and hang it on a peg by the door. Tally is watching me. “You look amazing,” she says, demanding that I turn so she can look at my hair. Tally is wearing a turquoise-and-navy tunic embroidered with cream-colored flowers over navy leggings.

  “I like your earrings,” I say. Blue sea glass twisted with silver wire hangs from each ear. Tally smiles and shakes her head, making the earrings swing. She’s changed the stripes in her hair again. Now they are turquoise instead of pink. And she’s switched out her glasses for ones with blue rhinestones in the corners. The house is warm and smells amazing. Garlic and onions and underneath that something sugary.

  Tally slides up next to me and puts her mouth near my ear. “Did I mention that my aunt is a little wack?”

  “I heard that,” Poppy says from where she’s pulling something out of the oven.

  “Good wack,” Tally says more loudly. Poppy shakes her head, but she’s smiling. Poppy is definitely not wack in my book. Tally beckons me to follow her. We round the corner and what I see makes me smile even more. The request to wear blue was only part of Poppy’s plan. The whole dining room has been transformed into a blue-tinted fantasyland. Blue streamers. Blue balloons. Blue tablecloth. Blue dishes. And blue glasses in every shade from indigo to aqua.

  “Is Blake coming?” I ask. Tally nods and grins. Luckily with them I never feel like a third wheel, but I am glad Poppy is here. It’s a little less date-y and more family dinner-y.

  The doorbell rings and Tally rushes to the front door. She returns with Blake in tow. He’s wearing jeans, a blue velvet jacket over a white shirt, and a blue polka-dot bow tie. Seeing him makes me thankful my mom suggested I dress up a little. He’s carrying a bundle of mail.

  Poppy comes in, lights the blue tapers on the table, and dims the lights. She passes out blue fizzy drinks in turquoise wineglasses. Then she takes the mail from Blake. “Thank you,” she says. Then she looks at Tally. “Are we almost ready?” she asks. Tally glances at the clock hung near the back door and nods. I take a sip of the drink, tasting ginger ale and something blueberry. Tally turns on polka music and we stand around feeling vaguely grown up and slightly awkward.

  “So—” Blake says, looking at me. “How’s the cupcake business?”

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Good, good,” Blake says, taking a sip of his drink. “Lovely weather we’re having,” he says. Tally rolls her eyes at him. There’s a knock at the front door, saving me from any more of Blake’s attempts at chitchat.

  Tally flies out of the room, calling, “I’ll get it!” I hear the door open and then her saying, “Come in. Come in.” She returns grinning, followed by Marcus. He’s wearing a denim shirt, dark jeans, and a navy suit vest. He smiles at me and my stomach flutters.

  “Hey,” he says, walking over. In the dimmed light, his brown eyes look more like dark chocolate than caramel. Seeing him makes my head swim.

  “Hi,” I say, suddenly so shy I can barely speak. Get ahold of yourself, Penny, I tell myself, but I’m not listening. I have this funny rushing sound in my ears and my heart is beating so fast, I wonder if everyone can hear it. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Oh, good,” Poppy says, walking in. “We’re all here. Dinner is just about ready. I just have to—” Whatever she just has to do is lost as she turns to walk back into the kitchen.

  Marcus reaches up and touches the back of my neck. “You look amazing,” he says softly.

  “You, too,” I say. I know I must be blushing like crazy. And I feel like I’m floating a couple of inches off the floor and only his hand is keeping me from floating all the way up to the ceiling. Tally is talking about some job she has lined up for us in the morning, but Marcus still has his fingers on the back of my neck and it’s almost all I can focus on. Then I realize Tally is talking to me.

  “So I told him no to repainting his barn,” Tally says. “I mean, seriously. It’s three stories tall.” She looks at me, clearly waiting for a response. I put a serious look on my face and nod, which seems to be enough. “So he says we can just whitewash the fence. Whitewash. Who do I look like? Tom Sawyer?”

  “You mean Huckleberry Finn,” Blake says. “Tom Sawyer tricked him into painting the fence for him.”

  “An-y-way,” Tally says, stretching it out so that it sounds like three separate words. “So do you think your mom can drop us off?” she asks me. “I’d ask Poppy, but her car is in the shop.”

  Poppy comes back in with her hands filled with blue dishes. “Yeah, poor Old Bessie,” she says, referring to her vintage purple VW Bug. She moves past us and puts the steaming bowls on the dining room table.

  “So do you think she can?” Tally asks me. Marcus drops his hand from the back of my neck to accept a glass of blueberry soda from Poppy. I realize Tally is waiting for my answer.

  “Where?” I ask.

  Tally rolls her eyes at me, but she’s smiling. I’m pretty sure she knows exactly why I’m so distracted. “The Windham Farm,” she says.

  Something clicks in my brain. “Wait,” I say. “Didn’t someone just buy that?”

  Tally actually slaps her hand against her forehead. “I swear I’m talking to myself half the time.” Blake grins at me. “Yes!” Tally says. “His name’s Dutch Ingamar or Ingamer or Inga-something.”

  “It’s probably not Ingasomething,” Blake says. Tally punches him lightly in the arm.

  “So, Dutch I. moved here from California and bought the farm.” She realizes what she just said. “I mean, literally bought the farm. He isn’t dead.”

  I look at Blake. “So what did you find out?” I ask.

  Blake shrugs. “Nothing really. Just that he and your grandmother used to know each other in high school.”

  “That’s not really cupcake-worthy investigative work,” I say.

  “I’ll keep digging,” he says.

  Poppy returns with two more dishes. “Okay, everyone,” she says. “Dinner is served.” We walk over to the table and spend a few awkward moments figuring out who is going to sit where. Poppy uncovers one of the dishes. “Blue mashed potatoes.” She points to the various other dishes and plates on the table. “Blue corn rolls, bluefish, which isn’t really blue, but just humor me. Purple asparagus. Also not blue.”

  “Sweet,” Blake says. “Even the butter is blue.”

  “Eat up, everyone,” Poppy says. She refuses to sit with us, claiming she has some work to do in the kitchen. “Call if you need me,” she s
ays. “Oh, and save some room for dessert.”

  “Blueberry pie?” Blake asks. Poppy nods. “Tally, your aunt rocks.”

  “Duh,” Tally says. Poppy waves away the compliment as she heads toward the kitchen, but I can tell she’s pleased.

  In spite of its odd hue, dinner is amazing. Blake puts away enough food for three people, but still has room for two huge pieces of pie. The four of us tell Poppy we’ll do the dishes. She disappears into her studio with the bundle of mail, a roll in her hand, and a serious expression on her face. Marcus and I wash, leaving Tally and Blake to dry and put away. With Marcus’s arm touching mine every time he passes me a plate to rinse, it’s a wonder everything’s not broken. I check the clock once everything is put away. Quarter to ten. “I’d better go,” I say.

  “I’ll walk you,” Marcus says. We find Poppy in her studio. The roll, with only one bite out of it, is sitting on the end of the table. She’s standing and reading a letter. One hand is in front of her mouth and there are tears in her eyes.

  “Poppy?” She jumps at the sound of my voice. She quickly smiles and tries to blink back the tears. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I’m fine,” she says. She hurries to fold the letter and drops it onto her desk. Then she places her unfinished corn roll on top of it. “That was just a letter from—” She fusses at the scarf tying back her hair. “Just someone I used to know.” She takes a deep breath and tries for another smile, but it’s thin. She looks up at the clock over her workbench. Ten till ten. “Are you two heading out?” she asks.

  “We are,” I say. “We just wanted to thank you for dinner.”

  Marcus nods. “It was great,” he says.

  “It was nothing,” Poppy says. “I’m just glad you enjoyed it.”

  I stand there for a moment longer, wishing I knew what to say. It’s obvious that something in that letter really upset Poppy. Marcus touches my arm.