Recipe for Love

by Darlene Panzera

  “The Lonely Hearts Cupcake Club might need the ‘Recipe for Love,’ too,” Kim added.

  Rachel reached beneath the counter, pulled out the Cupcake Diary, and wrote: Recipe for Love. “I might need that recipe myself,” Rachel mused.

  “We could all use a little more love,” Andi assured her.

  RACHEL AND KIM borrowed Andi’s car, followed Mike’s directions, and drove to the glass shop. They would have taken the Cupcake Mobile except neither one of them knew how to drive a vehicle with a clutch, a problem they would have to deal with later.

  When Rachel stepped through the door of Astoria Glass Art, her gaze was drawn to the fabulous array of color adorning the walls, the tabletops, the shelves. There were glass sculptures, fluted bowels, vases, trays, candleholders, ornaments, beads, jewelry, and . . . wineglasses.

  Kim walked toward a table of blue glass flowers with intricate petals and leaves. “This is amazing. Do you see how the glass is pulled and twisted?”

  “Looks like a stretched piece of blueberry taffy,” Rachel said, keeping her distance from the all-too-fragile pieces.

  “I wonder if I could create something like this for the tops of our cupcakes using crystallized sugar and water.”

  “If you did, the cupcakes would be too pretty to eat,” Rachel told her. “But you might win first place in an art show.”

  “I’m going to do it,” Kim vowed, her green eyes lit with resolve as she turned around.

  A woman in her midthirties with a sandy blond ponytail walked toward them. “Can I help you?”

  Rachel nodded. “Are you the owner?”

  “Yes. Danielle Quinn.”

  Rachel thought the idea of asking the glassblower for help seemed logical when she’d talked with Mike. Now she hesitated, and felt self-doubt creeping in. “I . . . uh . . . we . . . are the co-owners of Creative Cupcakes on Marine Drive, and we have a booth this weekend at the Crab, Seafood, and Wine Festival.”

  Danielle rolled her eyes. “Twenty thousand people are expected to attend this year. The traffic through town has been horrible. It wouldn’t be so bad if they came in my shop and bought something, but most of them are only interested in wine, not the glass.”

  “Which is why we’re here,” Rachel told her. “We would like to sell our cupcakes in wineglasses to encourage more sales.”

  “You’re here to buy my wineglasses?” Danielle asked, her expression eager. “How many do you need?”

  “We can’t afford to buy them,” Rachel said, shaking her head.

  The glassblower put her hands on her hips and scowled. “You don’t expect me to donate them for free, do you?”

  “What if we sell them for you at the festival?” Rachel suggested.

  “No, this isn’t going to work. I don’t even know you.” Picking up a pair of pliers and a long metal blowpipe, she walked toward the electric furnace at the back of the shop.

  “But you know Mike Palmer and his brother, Tristan, from the Grape Mountain Winery,” Rachel said, following her. “They highly recommended your work.”

  “They did?” Danielle paused, then took two steps back. “When did you speak to them? What did they say?”

  Rachel smiled with the satisfaction of every performer who knows exactly when they’ve hooked an audience. “I spoke to Mike last night, and he said his brother would work with us and sell his wine along with our cupcakes. He said Tristan thinks your glassware is the best.”

  “He did?” The glassblower drew in her breath. “And you said Tristan will be there?”

  “Yes, he has his own booth but will keep popping over to supply ours. Mike said you might want to come to the festival and sell your glasses with our cupcakes and Tristan’s wine.”

  Kim nodded in agreement. “We’ll all be working together.”

  Rachel shot Kim a mischievous look for emphasizing the last word, but it worked. Danielle shut down the furnace, called in some helpers to man the glass shop, and prepared to join them at the festival.

  “If Tristan will be there, then so will I,” she declared. “When do we start?”

  ANDI, RACHEL, AND Kim drew straws and Andi lost, so while Andi stayed behind to operate Creative Cupcakes, Rachel and Kim went to the festival with Danielle. Unlike the day before, the second day of the festival spun sales around in all three directions. The cupcakes, the wine, and the wineglasses were an instant hit.

  “This champagne pear cupcake is the best I’ve ever tasted and goes great with this dessert wine,” one woman commented, pointing to the Grape Mountain Winery bottle.

  “What a clever idea to serve cupcakes in a wineglass with a spoon,” another woman blurted. “I want one.”

  A third woman in their group was jostled by the swarming crowd behind her, and the wineglass she’d been using slipped through her fingers.

  The sound of the glass shattering on the ground drew the attention of other festivalgoers, who all stopped what they were doing and cheered.

  The woman flushed, and she stepped forward and pointed to a chocolate Whoopie Pie cupcake in one of Danielle’s wineglasses. “I want one because it comes with that ribbon holster to wear around my neck.”

  “Here, try this wine with that cupcake,” Tristan said, pouring the woman a sample.

  Before the group she was with left, they had spent over $100.

  “This is wonderful!” Rachel exclaimed. “I can’t wait to tell Mike.”

  “He said he’ll stop in between bus runs,” Tristan told her.

  Rachel smiled up at him. Tristan was taller than his brother, less stocky, but had the same hazel eyes. Although she preferred his brother’s looks, Tristan Palmer was a handsome man. It was apparent Danielle thought so, too.

  As Tristan and Danielle flirted with each other, Rachel nudged Kim. “They remind me of Jake and Andi.”

  A twinge of loneliness pricked Rachel’s emotions, but not enough to unload her feelings like those ridiculous women with lonely hearts who were meeting at Creative Cupcakes later that night.

  Kim smirked. “I bet Tristan proposes before the festival is over.”

  “I saw Danielle enter her name into the drawing for a Hawaii vacation,” Rachel confided. “Maybe if she wins they’ll use it for their honeymoon.”

  Kim smirked. “I put Andi’s name in the raffle. She really wants a warm island vacation.”

  “Andi already put her name in yesterday,” Rachel said with a grin. “She also put in a ticket with my name, your name, and Jake’s.”

  THE REMAINDER OF Saturday was swallowed up by a sea of people waiting to be served. Rachel, Kim, and Danielle couldn’t hand out the cupcake glasses fast enough. The line grew longer each hour and picked up where it left off the next day. By the time Sunday evening came, Rachel was ready for the festival to be over.

  She wasn’t the only one. Gaston stomped toward their booth as they were closing, his dark expression contrasting with his white pastry chef’s uniform.

  “There were so many people here,” he said, lifting his cleft chin, “you were bound to sell some. People come to the festival to taste samples. Now that they’ve tasted yours, I doubt they’ll ever buy from you again.”

  Rachel wished she still had the wooden block she’d used during lunch to crack open crab legs so she could throw it at him. She knew better than to let her Irish temper flare in public, but her exhaustion had worn down her defenses. “Creative Cupcakes will continue to flourish, no matter what you say or do, so why don’t you go back to your puff pastry?”

  She was about to say more, but Kim put a hand on her arm.

  “Don’t waste your breath,” Kim murmured. “His ego is as inflated as the hat on his head, but he’s harmless. There’s nothing he can do to us.”

  Rachel wanted to believe her, but she didn’t trust that Gaston’s words were only empty threats. He meant to sabotage their reputation, and as Creative Cupcakes promo manager, she’d be on her guard.

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  We come
to love not by finding a perfect person, but by learning to see an imperfect person perfectly.

  —Sam Keen

  RACHEL’S CELL PHONE chirped, and she took it out of her pocket to glance at the caller ID above the incoming number.

  It was Mike.

  She opened his message and read, What would you do if you had to choose between a million dollars and a million kisses?

  Rachel smiled to herself. She’d been texting back and forth with Mike all morning, each time answering crazy, off-the-wall questions. She punched in her reply, LOL. I’d take the money and run. You never said who the kisses would be from.

  A few minutes later he texted back. U R right. Could have been the Prince of Pastry or the tattoo artist next door 2 your shop.

  Rachel stifled a groan, her fingers pressing the keyboard on her phone as fast as they could. Ugh to both. But the tattoo artist is a good friend.

  She hit “send” and waited for his next message. A moment later her cell phone buzzed, and she touched the “open” button on the message screen.

  What if it were me?

  Rachel stared at the words and pursed her lips. She typed back I don’t know how you kiss and hit “send.”

  She congratulated herself on a smart answer as she walked down the street to the cupcake shop. When she arrived, she got another return text from Mike.

  We could remedy that.

  RACHEL WAS SINGING softly, thinking of her upcoming date with Mike that afternoon as she sat in front of her laptop at one of Creative Cupcakes’ back tables. She looked up Mike’s profile online, read all the newspaper clippings of his miniature models used in past films, and finally turned her attention back to her job.

  First she posted photos and quick recaps on their success at the Crab, Seafood, and Wine Festival on their website, Facebook, Twitter, and a half dozen other promotional sites. Then she searched for the name Creative Cupcakes on the Internet and found at least ten different blogs and review sites claiming their cupcakes left customers dissatisfied.

  One reviewer stated, “Creative Cupcakes uses inferior ingredients, the cupcakes taste several weeks’ old, and I saw a cockroach while waiting for the slow service girl to fill my order.”

  “This can’t be right!” Rachel showed the review to Andi and Kim.

  “Each blog and review uses the same phrases,” Kim said, pointing out certain lines here and there. “I bet the same person wrote all of them.”

  Rachel scowled. “I bet it was Gaston.”

  Andi agreed. “Look at the ad alongside the review, for Hollande’s French Pastry Parlor.”

  Rachel scrolled down the page, and a full-screen image of Gaston Pierre Hollande came into view. In his hands he held a book titled How to Keep Your Bakery from Going Bankrupt.

  “He wrote a book?” Andi demanded.

  “On sale now for only thirty bucks,” Kim said, sounding like a commercial. “Who would pay that much? Avoiding bankruptcy is as simple as not buying his book.”

  A horn blasted from the street outside, and all three of them turned their heads, rose from their seats at the table . . . and gasped.

  “His face is on the side of the bus!” Andi exclaimed, her voice rising. She walked closer to the window. “And on the billboard across the street.”

  Kim joined her. “I see him on the side of that yellow taxi, the poster in the window of the gas station, and on the flyers those people are handing out on the sidewalk.”

  Rachel’s legs trembled as she stood up, walked across the shop, and opened the front door. As she took in the new landscape, she thought it a miracle there wasn’t a sign reading WELCOMETO THEWORLDOFGASTON.

  How could they compete against such an aggressive promo campaign? She shut the door on him and took a deep breath, her mind reeling. She should have continued her education after high school. She should have gone to college for marketing or multimedia communications.

  “Someday we’ll have a golden trophy like Gaston claims he has,” Andi said, her expression tight. “A cupcake trophy with a great big number one on top. Creative Cupcakes will win cupcake contests all over America.”

  Rachel turned and snapped her fingers. “What are we waiting for? Let’s challenge him to a cupcake contest, like Cupcake Wars on TV, and offer the winner a magnificent trophy. I doubt Gaston would be able to resist, and we’ll settle once and for all who’s number one in this town.”

  “Yes,” Andi agreed, her eyes wide. “But where?”

  “The Astoria Sunday Market opens May twelfth, less than two weeks from now,” Kim offered.

  “Bake outside?” Andi asked.

  “We can run extension cords and bring tables, mixers, and portable convection ovens.” Rachel took the newspaper from the counter and waved it in the air. “If Jake can get the Astoria Sun to give us coverage, we may even pick up some sponsors.”

  “Jake!” Andi rushed to the television Jake had set up in the corner. “He’s on in twenty minutes. The local network is filming a segment on the newspaper and asked him for an interview.”

  “I can pay a visit to Hollande’s French Pastry Parlor, throw down the challenge, and be back before Jake steals your undivided attention,” Rachel promised.

  True to her word, she returned to the cupcake shop with five minutes to spare.

  “Well?” Kim asked. “What did he say?”

  Rachel imitated the way Gaston Pierre Hollande had rubbed his hands together. “He can’t wait.”

  MIKE MET RACHEL at the cupcake shop at noon. He was dressed in jeans and a blue plaid short-sleeved shirt over a white tee. His hair waved back from his face as if recently combed. And the smile on his face made her eager to go out and have a little fun.

  “See you later,” she called over her shoulder to Andi and Kim as she ditched the pink apron she wore over her blue-and-white sundress. Grabbing a jacket to protect her against the cool Oregon wind and her beach bag filled with necessities, she followed Mike out the door.

  “You look great,” he told her.

  Tossing her red curls over her shoulder, she replied, “So do you.”

  Typical first-date conversation. Rachel smiled. She loved the thrill of discovery associated with first dates, but this one felt different. She’d been texting back and forth with Mike so many times over the last twelve days she felt as if she already knew him. There was an added intimacy to the usual words, and it threw her off guard.

  He opened the door for her to climb into the Jeep and took a small bouquet of flowers off the seat. “Do you know what today is?”

  She hesitated. “Wednesday, May first.”

  “May Day.” He placed the ribbon-tied stems in her hands. “These are May Day flowers.”

  Rachel breathed in the deep fragrance of the tiny pink and white petals as she and Mike got in the car and he started the engine.

  “In some parts of the United States,” Mike said, driving toward their coastal destination, “a person sometimes fills a small basket with flowers or treats and leaves them on another person’s doorstep. Then the giver knocks on the door and runs away.”

  “I never heard of this tradition. Why does the giver run away?” Rachel asked.

  “So the person who receives the flowers can try to chase after and catch the fleeing giver.”

  “And if they do?”

  “A kiss is exchanged.” Mike turned his head, gave her a quick glance, and grinned.

  Warning bells rang in her head as she grinned back, and her pulse kicked up a notch. Her suspicions had been right.

  This wasn’t going to be an ordinary first date.

  AT LOW TIDE, the wide expanse of sand near Fort Stevens State Park seemed to stretch to eternity. The scene reminded Rachel of one of Kim’s paintings of a pale dirt road that narrowed until it traveled off the page, leaving its destination to the beholder.

  Mike took her hand, and the wind propelled them forward. The crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean lay on one side, the rolling dunes topped with tuffs of billowing green
sea grass lay on the other. Tucked in between, the beach was a haven for seabirds and seclusion.

  Mike lifted his camera and took a picture of the iron whalebone remains of the Peter Iredale shipwreck. “Back in 1906 this ship had four masts, was 285 feet long, and weighed 2,075 tons, too heavy to pull out of the sand when it ran ashore. Now it stays here stuck on the beach, a reminder of all the thousands of other vessels in the Graveyard of the Pacific.”

  “My grandfather told me twenty-seven crewmembers and two stowaways were rescued,” Rachel said, thinking of the many times he’d brought her to this spot. “I always dreamed what it would have been like to be one of those stowaways.”

  “Hollywood is filming a movie about the shipwreck, and the two stowaways are the main characters,” Mike told her. “Maybe you should audition for the part.”

  Rachel ran into the rusted bow and stuck her head through one of the many window-like openings in the metal framework. “Rachel Donovan, actress extraordinaire, playing the part of a stupendously charming stowaway living an enchanted life at sea.”

  Mike snapped a picture of her and then lowered the camera and let it hang from the strap around his neck. “Your life hasn’t been enchanting as Rachel living in Astoria?”

  She stiffened. “Why do you say that?”

  Mike walked closer and looked straight into her eyes. “Something in your voice sounded like you might be unhappy.”

  “Me, unhappy? I’m never unhappy.” Rachel looked away, studied the round bolts in the metal framework around her, and turned back to meet his gaze once again. “Truth?”

  Mike smiled. “Always.”

  “Instead of enchanted, sometimes I feel like my life is a shipwreck.”

  “With only the necessary bolts and framework holding you together?”

  Rachel nodded. “How do you know?”

  “Aaah, the illusion is always so much more fascinating than the real story, isn’t it?” he asked, but the humor in his voice didn’t reach his eyes. “When I was young my family was dealt a series of sudden deaths, and I found the best way to cope was to perform magic tricks to lighten the mood. Thus I donned the mask and became Mike the Magnificent.”