Sugar Rush

by Donna Kauffman

  When Lani snorted, Charlotte added, “All right, so maybe they were in awe while their mouths hung open in stunned disbelief, after you proved they were all narrow-minded, gossipmongering, donkey’s asses. But, the point is, no one doubts you or your talent now.” Charlotte’s lovely, proper accent was always an odd contrast when she was angry. It was like being bitched out by royalty. “Baxter’s favoring you and singling you out because your talent warranted that kind of support and mentoring. He left you in charge of his shop because you were accomplished enough to handle it. He treats Gateau like his firstborn child. He’d have never trusted it to just anyone. When you left, everyone knew you’d earned your place the right way.”

  “Those were still the same people who had nothing better to do than dish vicious, snide dirt about exactly how they thought I’d ‘earned’ my position, and just how many positions I had to get into, and how often, to do it,” Lani said. “I know what they were saying, Char. We all know what they were saying. It was ugly and gross, and I won’t pretend it didn’t hurt. A lot. I’d never come up against anything like that in my entire life.”

  “Because you’re the good girl,” Franco said. “The nice one, the kind-hearted BFF everyone wants on their side. Of course they chewed you up and spit you out. But you showed them what you were made of.”

  “Franco, I didn’t stay and run Gateau when Baxter left to do his television show to prove to them, or even Baxter, that I was worthy. I stayed because I thought it was what I wanted, what I’d worked so hard for. It was the pinnacle, the dream. I knew I’d earned my way to that success, because I’m the one who busted my backside to achieve it. And that was all that mattered.”

  Back then, anyway. Now she knew what was truly important. And the icing on that cake was the fulfillment she’d found here. Yes, she was scared to death, because Cakes By The Cup mattered so much to her. More than anything ever had. But she knew her path had ultimately led her to this place. So, she was thankful for what she’d been through because of what she’d ultimately learned about her craft ... and what life would always be like in five-star kitchens. If there was a way to apply that knowledge and make her bakery a sustainable success, she’d find it. In Sugarberry, she’d found happiness and contentment. With no outside pressure or unwanted ugliness, her goals were her own to achieve, and the rewards her own to reap.

  Only now, all the stuff she’d left behind—specifically the not-so-great parts—were about to stroll right back into her life again. It wasn’t even the potential return of the gossipmongers and haters that she dreaded most. She’d expect nothing different from them. What did it matter now, anyway? She was safe and sound and living happily in Sugarberry, far away from that world. And from Baxter.

  How could he?

  Lani shot raspberry truffle filling in rapid-fire succession as her own steam built. “I’m all settled in here now, Charlotte, doing my own thing. Baxter—who I’ve never heard from, by the way—is happy in television land. And Gateau is doing just fine without either of us on-site. So why can’t he leave well enough alone? What does he possibly hope to gain by coming down here? It’s not a coincidence, right? I mean, sure, if Baxter or his producers or whoever just wanted an unusual, quirky remote location, I get that. Most people don’t even know there are islands off the coast of Georgia. We have a whole string of them south of here loaded with fancy resorts and posh country clubs that sport the kind of four-star establishments that would be the perfect venue for Baxter’s crazy elaborate desserts. We’re this little rural burg of an island in the midst of wilderness sanctuaries and fishing boats. Close in miles, maybe, but a world apart from the Golden Isles. If St. Simon is the Palm Beach of barrier islands, then we’re ... we’re Mayberry. Who comes to Mayberry to put on a television show when you can go to Palm Beach? I’ll tell you who, nobody.”

  “Unless Mayberry has a pastry chef who happened to work for the hot host, the same chef everyone assumed was sleeping her way to the top with said hot host, who went on to prove them all wrong, rose to the top, got a James Beard nomination for her work, then took off and opened a tiny bakery off the coast of Georgia.”

  Lani was silent for a moment, while her stomach went full lead balloon. “I was executive chef for Gateau for just over a year, and sure, maybe I’m known in culinary circles. Or I was. I was a blip on the screen, at best, and now I’m gone. Even if that’s true, why would he drag me back into all of it? Why? He’s quite successful enough and will continue to be, without using me, I’m sure.”

  Charlotte sighed. “I don’t know. All I can figure is that he thinks he’s helping you in some way.”

  “Which is kind of condescending and insulting, don’t you think? I didn’t ask for help, definitely not his help. I don’t even need help. I’m doing okay.”

  So far.

  The truth was, she knew nothing about running her own place.

  When she’d made the decision to stay, she’d signed the lease, ordered the equipment, and forged a rudimentary business plan, all with only her father’s health and well-being in mind. Well, that and trying not to feel guilty for abruptly abandoning Gateau or worrying about walking away from the success she’d worked so hard for in New York. It only got more confusing when she realized the main thing she felt about leaving her hard-won career behind ... was relief.

  Even so ... no one had been more surprised than Lani when she discovered that, at some point during the crazy intense time it took her to choose the name of the shop, install the kitchen equipment, line the shelves and cabinets with the tools of her trade, and set up her pastry displays ... she’d fallen in love. Head over heels, hopelessly, completely, stupidly in love. With her own little shop.

  She felt as possessive, as proprietary, and as downright proud of it as a new parent. She wanted to show it off, see it grow, and thrive ... and she wanted to keep it all to herself. Like her own personal, adult-sized Barbie Bakery, where she could play and indulge her every creative whim ... without any risk of failure. Or commentary.

  Only six and a half months from initial conception to opening day. It was a minor miracle to pull off anything like that so quickly. Even in a place as rural as Sugarberry, and leaning heavily on her dad’s influence to get all the permits, it had taken every second of every day to pull it off before the fall festival, which was when she’d determined she’d have the best opportunity to make the biggest splash. But pull it off she had. Cakes By The Cup had officially opened for business four weeks ago.

  And she’d been having mini heart attacks ever since.

  She would happily do whatever it took to keep it up and running. Everything except turn to Baxter for help. He’d done his part. And she was grateful. More than. If all it took to run a successful cupcake shop was being a good baker, then it was a slam dunk. Even blindfolded and on one foot. Baxter had seen to that. But he hadn’t mentored her in the business end of things. That hadn’t been the point of their collaboration. As his assistant, her focus had been on learning the craft and gaining confidence in her natural talent. Later, as executive chef of Gateau, she’d been responsible for the menu, the output, the quality and creativity. Baxter and his financial partners had been the ones responsible for the business end, for signing the paychecks.

  “You know, there is one way to find out what’s going on,” Charlotte said, snapping Lani from her reverie. “Call him.”

  “What? No. I am not going to give him the satisfa—”

  “Think about it, Lani. This way you control the meeting, you take charge of the situation.”

  “Take charge,” she said flatly. “With Baxter. How often has anyone been successful doing that? Oh, right. Never.”

  “I’m simply saying—”

  “Charlotte has a point,” Franco chimed in. “At least you can let him know that you know what’s going on, and set the tone for how you’re going to handle it with him. You don’t work for him anymore, you don’t run his place anymore, you aren’t beholden to him for anything, Leilani. Th
ink about it. He has no hold on you.”

  Oh, if only that were true, Lani thought, then paused, hands ready at the squeeze. Franco did have a point, though. She really hadn’t thought about the situation like that. Not in a purely professional sense. She’d been confronting the news like the woman she’d been before leaving New York, the one still pathetically half in love with a clueless man who’d have never even noticed her if it weren’t for her crazy mad baking skills.

  But she wasn’t that woman any longer. Not entirely, anyway. It hadn’t been all that long since she’d left New York for good, but so much had happened since she’d come to Sugarberry. Her entire life had changed. She had changed. “You know, maybe you’re right.”

  A short cheer went up on the other end of the line.

  “I want to hear every detail,” Charlotte said.

  “You go, ma chérie amour!” Franco sang out.

  A series of buzzers going off came through the speaker. “I’ve got to go, the cakes are coming out,” Charlotte said hurriedly.

  “We’ve been making solidarity cakes this morning in support of you, ma chère,” Franco said. “We’re featuring your to-die-for black walnut spice cakes with cream cheese and cardamom frosting as today’s special.”

  “Thanks, you guys,” Lani said sincerely.

  “Every detail! Call me!” Charlotte ordered before clicking off.

  Lani stood there, pastry bag still at the ready, and looked at the racks in front of her. And thought about her friends in New York. Solidarity cakes. Salvation cakes. “Healing the disgruntled, displaced, and just plain dissed,” she said, smiling briefly. “One cake at a time.”

  She and Charlotte knew a lot about that. They’d been friends since culinary school. Charlotte had more actual business experience than Lani, as she’d gone straight to work post-graduation as a pastry chef for a small boutique hotel in midtown, while Lani had gone overseas to continue her studies in Belgium and France. Lani’s mom and dad had moved from D.C. to Sugarberry shortly after that.

  It had been a time full of transition and change, but also one of promise and excitement. Lani’s best friend had been launching her career in earnest while Lani was grabbing the chance to learn at the hands of Europe’s best. For her dad, it had been retirement from the D.C. police force and taking on a very different challenge in Georgia ... and for her mom, who’d grown up in Savannah, it had been a chance to go back home again, to a place she’d always missed dearly.

  Lani and Char had kept in touch throughout that time, their friendship only deepening as their separate experiences widened their respective paths and boosted their dreams. When Lani had come back, Char was still in New York, having already worked her way up to executive pastry chef at the same hotel. Franco was on board by then as her right hand and had quickly become Lani’s other best friend. Lani had gotten an offer in the city, as a staff baker for a well-known restaurant in a five-star, Upper East Side hotel. The same hotel that had just brought on board the hottest import from the U.K. America was the new playground for the young and impetuous, and ridiculously charismatic Baxter Dunne.

  He’d risen quickly, and had taken Lani with him, plucking her from the ranks to make her his personal assistant and pro-tégé when he’d opened Gateau a miraculous eighteen months later. His had been a rare, meteoric rise in a very challenging and competitive industry. By the time he’d made his move to the television cooking world three years later, his immediate dominance hadn’t surprised anyone.

  Lani blinked away mental images of him, how he’d been then, how totally infatuated she’d been with his charisma and his talent almost from the moment she’d first set foot in that Upper East Side kitchen. Okay, the lust had started before then. She’d known a lot about him, more than most, having heard quite a bit during her time in Europe. He was three years younger than her, and light years ahead in every way measurable in their field. The baker in her wanted to be him when she grew up. And, the woman in her wanted to be with him as a grown-up. It had been harmless idolatry and fantasy.

  Then she’d gotten the opportunity of a lifetime.

  She’d been convinced the heavens and fates were sending her a direct message when she’d tried for, and gotten the job working under him.

  Under him.

  Lani made a face at that unfortunate double entendre and moved to a fresh rack of cupcakes, forcing her thoughts back to the job at hand.

  The pathetic irony was that she’d wished she had been under him. In every possible sense. Then everyone else had speculated, quite nastily, that the very same thing was actually happening. When it wasn’t. Lose-lose.

  The competition in any kitchen was fierce, but with a rising star like Baxter running the show, the battle to dominate his kitchen was downright apocalyptic, the chance to make a name and launch huge careers the spoils of winning the war. He was the epitome of the golden boy, from his looks to his demeanor, to his unparalleled talent. The speculation regarding their relationship was the hot topic of the day, every day. Fueled by jealousy, fear, and paranoia, the chatter was nasty and vicious. And not particularly quiet.

  In order to keep up with the chaotic pace and the insane demands, every kitchen had to work like a well-oiled machine, which meant teamwork in the most basic sense. It was a close, if not close-knit, environment, where you worked all but on top of each other. There was no place to go, no place to hide. And certainly no place to speak privately. Not that the gossips would have bothered to, anyway.

  Every chance they got, at least when Baxter didn’t have her working right by his side, they’d done everything they could to undermine her.

  As her esteem had risen in his eyes, and he’d given her more and more preferential treatment, the gossip had just gotten uglier and uglier. What could he possibly see in the mousy girl from D.C. who was too nice to know better? What made her so special? That Lani was certain she’d looked at Baxter like the pathetic little smitten kitten she’d been only made the whole ordeal even more painful to recall. She’d tried to rein that part in when she’d realized what was happening, heard what was being said. She knew she was only hurting herself further with her stupid crush, personally and professionally.

  Of course, at some point, as it all escalated, she’d privately thought—hoped—that Baxter would ride to her rescue. He was the white knight, after all, wasn’t he?

  So many illusions had been shattered, so rapidly. She was tougher than any of them had thought, her time overseas preparing her in ways many of them couldn’t have imagined. She was calm and well mannered because she chose to be, not because she was some silly ninny who couldn’t defend herself. She simply chose not to, as any attempt would be drowned out by the chorus against her, anyway. She’d rather hoped her hard work and Baxter’s faith in her would speak for her, but that hadn’t been the case. So, ultimately, she’d figured out that if she wanted to survive there, the easiest path was simply to stay in her own world, build a certain kind of calm around her, where she could focus on learning. And on Baxter. Preferably doing both at the same time. But ... not always.

  She’d endured almost five years of that constant bedlam. And, in doing so, had learned more, professionally, from Baxter, than she’d ever hoped. She had no regrets. So what if Baxter never had come to her rescue? So what if he had, in fact, thrown her directly to those very same wolves when he’d left for the bright lights of his own brand-new television show, and put Gateau, his baby, essentially in her hands? She’d done it, hadn’t she? She’d shown them all.

  Though it had come at a cost. No matter how calm and centered she remained, that kind of life took a toll. She thought about all the baking therapy she and Char had done together during that time. Usually in the wee, wee hours. Those sessions never had anything to do with their respective jobs.

  And everything to do with salvation.

  Their worlds might be uncontrolled chaos, but baking always made sense. Flour, butter, and sugar were as integral a part of her as breathing.

&n
bsp; Lani had long since lost count of the number of nights she and Charlotte had crammed themselves into her tiny kitchen, or Charlotte’s even tinier one, whipping up this creation or that, all the while hashing and rehashing whatever the problems du jour happened to be. It was the one thing she truly missed about being in New York.

  No one on Sugarberry understood how baking helped take the edge off. Some folks liked a dry martini. Lani and Char, on the other hand, had routinely talked themselves down from the emotional ledge with rich vanilla queen cake and some black velvet frosting. It might take a little longer to assemble than the perfect adult beverage ... but it was the very solace found in the dependable process of measuring and leavening that had made it their own personal martini. Not to mention the payoff was way, way better.

  Those nights hadn’t been about culinary excellence, either. The more basic, the more elemental the recipe, the better. Maybe Lani should have seen it all along. Her destiny wasn’t to be found in New York, or even Paris, or Prague, making the richest, most intricate cakes, or the most delicate French pastries. No, culinary fulfillment—for her, the same as life fulfillment—was going to be experienced on a tiny spit of land off the coast of Georgia, where she would happily populate the world with gloriously unpretentious, rustic, and rudimentary little cupcakes.

  “That’s me.” She lifted her pastry bag in salute. “Cupcake Baker Barbie!” She aimed the silver tip, and bulleted a row of raspberry shots with rapid-fire precision, then another, and another, before finally straightening, spent pastry bag cocked on her shoulder like a weapon. She was a take-no-prisoner’s Baker Barbie, that’s what she was. “Yeah. Welcome to Cupcake Club,” she said, giving it her best Brad Pitt impersonation. She grinned at that, and tried to convince herself she was ready to take on the true test of her newfound toughness, the real proof of her independence.

  The phone call.

  She could do it. She would do it. She didn’t need to bow down to the whims of Baxter Dunne any longer. Wasn’t she standing right there, in her own kitchen, working for her very own self?