Sugar Rush

by Donna Kauffman

  Lani stood there, mouth agape, then finally pulled it together and responded to the one part—the only part—she could. “Dad, I don’t want to work for Baxter again. And I don’t want to go back to New York. Or anywhere else. I love my shop. I love Sugarberry. I want to be here. I want to do this.” She saw the stubborn set to his jaw, and her heart broke a little. “Is that what this is all about?” She swallowed hard against tears that sprang forth again, but for entirely different reasons. “Are you ... embarrassed? By my decision to run my own place here on the island instead of running Gateau?”

  She’d worried about making her father understand that she’d wanted to stay for her own reasons, not because she thought he needed her help. He was stubborn and had too much pride for his own good. It had never once occurred to her that he might not actually support her choice because he thought it was beneath her.

  “I’ve never been anything but proud of you,” he said, his tone still rough. “But you used to cater UN functions and visiting dignitaries from all over. Your desserts have been served to some of the most important people in the world. Are you really expecting me to believe you’re satisfied with feeding cupcakes to a bunch of—”

  “Hardworking men and women who support their community and do what they can to improve the lives of those around them?” She set the pastry bag down before she squeezed it so hard it exploded. She didn’t know if she was more pissed off, or crushed. She did know she was shaking. “Yes, Dad. Yes, I am. I like working for myself. Correction, I love working for myself. And, even better, I like making people happy with my food. People I know. People I will see more than once in a lifetime. People who matter. People who care about me, too. Really care.” She knew, deep down, he wasn’t trying to insult her or hurt her feelings, that he wanted what was best for his only child. But it was hard—very hard—to hear that he apparently thought she’d taken a step down by moving here, by opening her own place.

  Impulsively, she scooted around the end of the table again, and hugged him—hard—then bussed him on the cheek. “I’m happy here, Dad. More fulfilled than I’ve ever been, personally and professionally. And that’s the God’s honest truth. I know you may not understand that, and of course, I want you to be proud of me, but I mostly want you to stop worrying about me.”

  “I am proud of you, babycakes.” He shocked her again by hugging her back. Hard. That bear hug she’d wanted so badly. It was as good as she remembered it to be. Better. “As for not worrying ... I’ll do that,” he said, gruffly, “just as soon as you stop worrying about me.” He let her go, then leaned past her and snagged another cupcake before she could gather her wits. He saluted her with it, then walked out through the front. “I’ll lock it,” he called, not sounding particularly angry anymore. Or particularly settled, either. She didn’t know how he was feeling, actually.

  “Join the club,” she muttered.

  She’d been worrying about telling him about Baxter, and what that conversation would lead to. Now she had a whole new slate of things to think about, worry about.

  She turned and looked at the worktables filled with silver cooling racks, relieved beyond measure that she had over a hundred cupcakes to pipe frosting onto.

  That, at least, she understood.

  A whole seven hours went by before she had to deal with the matter of Baxter Dunne again. She wasn’t any clearer on how she intended to deal with the matter, much less him personally, than she’d been at six-thirty that morning. She hadn’t seen him since he’d walked out her delivery door, had no idea where he was staying, or what he was doing, or who else might be on the island with him, in terms of a production team.

  She’d opened her shop on time at nine. Her special blend coffee was percolating and ready for serving, along with her warm-from-the-oven streusel-topped cupcakes—both popular items with her growing group of steady morning customers—and proceeded to jump every time the chimes on the door jingled. She’d been half expecting to look up into Baxter’s smiling eyes again. When it wasn’t him—which it hadn’t been, yet—she’d waited for the inevitable gushing, excited, eyewitness story from each and every customer, telling her all about how they’d spotted him somewhere in town, or on the island.

  There had been plenty of buzz about the television show coming to town based on the story in the morning paper, which had worked some of her customers into a veritable fever pitch of anticipation over the arrival of the show’s star host. She was pretty sure she’d sold several dozen cupcakes, all before noon, just because her customers had been hoping to pump Baxter’s former employee for what she might know about his possible whereabouts and details about the show. To their great dismay, she’d been an utter disappointment in both departments. She hoped the cupcakes made up for it a little bit.

  It was after two in the afternoon, and there had been nary a single Chef Hot Cakes sighting. On an island the size of Sugarberry, if he’d been seen by anyone, anywhere, every last man, woman, and pelican would know about it within five minutes. She’d even shamelessly debated on the relative merits of leaving the shop in the hands of her part-time helper, Dre, and going home to hide out until he surfaced—somewhere, anywhere—but had decided she was a better woman than that. Well, that, and Dre hadn’t been in her employ for a full week as yet. Still, she’d like to think she’d stuck it out because she was strong, independent, and didn’t really give a good ganache where Baxter was or what he was doing.

  So ... where is he? What is he doing?

  And how was it no one knew he was already here but her?

  She’d almost talked herself into believing the entire episode had been some sort of stress-fueled hallucination, or a waking dream of some kind. Considering the way she’d all but yelled at him ... after which he’d kissed her—kissed her!—that was almost the more sensible, rational explanation.

  Then Alva Liles rushed into Cakes By The Cup just as Patty Finch, the local librarian, and her nine-year-old daughter, Daisy, were leaving ... and Lani’s tidy little it-was-all-a-dream rationale went straight in the Dumpster.

  “Afternoon, Patricia, Miss Daisy.” Alva smiled as they held the door for her. “Why, Lani May, there you are!” The petite senior bustled—which was the perfect description for how Alva Liles moved—straight up to the counter. She was also the very definition of all aflutter.

  It made Lani’s heart sink. And her gut clutch. Here it comes, she thought, and braced herself. Of course, it was going to be Alva. She should have guessed. “Yes, Miss Alva, here I am.” Lani refrained from pointing out it was unlikely, during business hours, that she’d be anywhere else. Or that her middle name was Marie, not May. She’d learned it was apparently an affectionate Southern thing, then remembered Charlotte’s Indian-inflected version of a Southern twang as she’d repeated the name several times after Lani had shared it with her. Lani’s smile came more naturally, then.

  “I’m sure you read this morning’s paper,” Alva said, her perfectly coiffed white-blond curls all but vibrating around her head like a miniature beehive. Everything about Alva Liles was in miniature, from her height, to her frame, to the itty bitty silver rimmed bifocals perched on the end of her perfect, tiny nose. She was, in a word, adorable. Sugarberry’s answer to Betty White.

  Normally, Alva was one of Lani’s favorite customers and Lani always enjoyed seeing her come through the door. Normally. Alva had the best stories, yet somehow managed to sound like she truly cared, and cared deeply, about each and every person on the island ... as she threw them directly under the gossip bus. Lani loved her.

  Normally.

  She had a feeling, however, that the gossip bus was going to be aimed straight at her.

  “I got a glimpse of it,” Lani replied. “I was up early working on a few special flavors I’m featuring during the fall festival tomorrow.” Hoping to distract and redirect, she leaned on the counter, inviting Alva to step in closer. “I have one available for limited taste testing. A new take on Boston Creme. The filling has a bit more o
f a kick and I think the new chocolate glaze is something special.”

  “I’m certain you outdid yourself,” Alva said sincerely, “but then I’d expect nothing less. You’re an absolute marvel. My waistline might never forgive you, but I can’t seem to walk by without stepping inside.”

  Lani smiled. “Then my work here is done.”

  The twinkle in Alva’s eyes turned to more of a speculative gleam as she leaned across the counter and dropped her voice to a whisper. “What decadent treat are you tempting us with for the auction tonight, dear?”

  Lani raised her eyebrows in surprise, as she was certain Alva was anticipating she would, given the satisfied smile on her powdered face. “Now that sponsor list is supposed to be secret,” Lani said mildly, but she wasn’t really shocked.

  “You know nothing stays secret on this island for long.”

  Lani wanted to point out the reason for that was standing right in front of her, but just smiled instead. “What did you hear?”

  “That you’ve whipped up boxes full of something deliciously decadent to tempt us all.” Alva pouted a bit. “Walter, the old bear, wouldn’t budge when I asked him for more details this morning over my morning biscuits and jelly at Laura Jo’s place. By the way, have you seen Laura Jo since she talked Cynthia over at the salon into dyeing her hair? My land, she’s a sight, but she dearly loves being a redhead, let me tell you. Claims it makes her feel bold, willing to take risks.” Alva lowered her voice, but just slightly. “Ask me, I think if she wants to be bold, she should reconsider those floral blouses she favors for solid colors and something a little more form fitting. Show a little cleavage. I keep telling her she’s got a figure under all that foliage. Assuming, of course, that this entire makeover business is really all about snagging the attentions of that new fellow who took over Biggers’ Bait and Tackle after Donny Biggers up and took off with Delia Stinson. Delia Stinson. Twenty years younger and she could do much better if you ask me. I didn’t see that coming. Felipe Montanegro is the new fellow’s name. Have you met him?”

  Lani shook her head, trying to keep up. Twitter had nothing on Alva Liles. For that matter, neither did all of Facebook. She was a superhighway of information, all by herself. “Not yet.”

  “Well, he’s dashing enough, I suppose. If you like the swarthy Ricardo Montalbán type.”

  Lani had no idea who Ricardo Montalbán was, but didn’t ask for further illumination.

  “Although, I suppose being a redhead certainly didn’t hurt Lucy when she went after Desi.”

  Okay, Ricky Ricardo she did know, but Lani didn’t know whether to nod or shake her head. She’d lost track, so she changed the subject. “I’m sure she’ll figure something out. Did you want to look at today’s special flavors? Maybe try a taste bite of the Boston Creme?”

  Alva bent slightly so she could peer down her nose through her bifocals as she investigated the various trays and stands filled with cupcakes lining the inside of the pastry case. “I’m tempted, but your red velvet there is simply sinful. Like heaven in a cup.” She glanced up at Lani, with a speculative twinkle in her eyes. “It’s by far your best, if you ask me. Is that, perhaps, what you made for the auction?”

  Lani shook her head.

  “Oh, come now, don’t be coy. You know you can tell me. I won’t breathe a word to a soul.”

  Lani struggled not to roll her eyes, but her smile was genuine. “You’ll have to wait until they put the official auction list up before the dinner tonight.”

  “You know, I tried to explain to Walter and Arnold that they’re being very shortsighted about this whole secret silent auction thing. If they’d let us know more in advance about the sponsors and the specifics of the auction items, we could start talking them up, get a bidding war going before the auction even begins.”

  Lani knew exactly why the silent auction was a secret silent auction, but there was no point in belaboring it directly with the very person responsible for the rule change.

  “I will tell you this much,” Lani said, and Alva moved closer, her expression sparked with conspiratorial glee. “If you do score a dessert box? Your poker group will think they’ve died and gone to heaven. I promise. These are the most decadent cupcakes I’ve created yet.”

  Most women Alva’s age played bridge. Lani’s mother, her grandma Winnie, and her great-grandmother Harper—Nanny, as Lani had called her—had all loved the game, and Sugarberry had always boasted quite a lively and active women’s bridge club. Lani had learned, however, that the Sugarberry senior center sponsoring the card club had politely asked Alva to quit their bridge group when they found out she was taking side bets on the North and South partnerships versus East and West teams. Betty White the neighborhood bookie.

  Alva had responded by starting her own ladies poker club, which had all but decimated the ranks of the original bridge club. They played once a week in the back room at Laura Jo Starkey’s diner and had the reputation for being quite the competitive poker sharks. Average age: seventy-six.

  In fact, it was Alva’s penchant for setting up betting pools for everything from how many hurricanes would threaten their shores in a season (Category 3 or higher, no wimpy hurricanes for Alva) to, oh, what item would take the highest bid at the fall festival silent auction. That had been the cause of the silent auction rule change. Last Lani heard, Alva wasn’t allowed in the senior center on bingo night anymore, either.

  “My dear Lani May, I have had that little talk with Walter,” Alva said, the twinkle a bit smug. “I don’t know what’s in them, but I’ve got dibs on two boxes, sight unseen. We’re having our monthly all-nighter tournament this Monday.” She leaned closer. “Can’t you just give me a tiny little hint?”

  “How exactly did you find out I was a sponsor?”

  “You know Walter’s wife, Beryl? Well, she currently holds the number two ranking in the club.” Alva lowered her voice again, despite being the only one in the shop at the moment. “It’s no secret she wants her title back. Dee Dee Banneker—she took the points lead after the last tournament. Well, she’s a wiley one, Dee Dee is. So, Beryl will take any advantage she can get. And don’t you know she’s not above hoping a little sugar rush will put the other girls off their game. Namely Dee Dee and her two closest friends, Suzette and Louise. Those three make a formidable little clutch, let me tell you. But your cupcakes are simply to die for, and Beryl knows the girls won’t stop with just one. Plus Beryl’s got Laura Jo on her side.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Laura Jo is going to serve that sangria she learned to make on her cruise last year. Between that and all the chocolate—I know you had to do something chocolate, am I right? Well, between the cupcakes and sangria, if Beryl can just resist temptation, I think she’s got this one in the bag.”

  Only because all the other women will be half in the bag, Lani thought, thinking that mixing black forest ganache cupcakes, sangria, and senior citizens up past their bedtime was trouble just waiting to happen, but she kept a smile on her face all the same. Picturing Alva’s peers getting looped on sweet wine and chocolate pretty much did the trick.

  “What happens if you don’t win the bid?” Lani asked.

  Alva’s smile curved more deeply. “Mark my words, Beryl will make Walter’s life taste like a bitter, bitter pill if we don’t serve your delicious cupcakes Monday night. She can’t bid herself, conflict of interest and all, so she came to me. I’ve already got odds on Beryl, but the line, of course, still favors Dee.” Alva winked, then primly tucked her itty bitty clutch under her arm and stepped back from the counter, looking as innocent as a nun in church. “They don’t know we’ll have the secret weapon.”

  Lani couldn’t help grinning. Betty the Bookie, indeed. With her secret weapon cakes. “Speaking of weapons, how’s the campaign for your column coming? Have you convinced Dwight yet?” Lani leaned her hip against the counter and smiled. “You know, I hear he’s a sucker for cupcakes. Just saying.”

  Dwight Bennett was the editor of the local
Daily Islander, for which Alva had been quite vocally lobbying to write an advice column. Dwight wanted a gardening column, or what he termed “ladies club” news. But since Alva’s idea of a ladies club included no-limits Texas hold ’em tournaments and bourbon tastings, he somehow didn’t think she was the right woman for the job.

  Too late Lani realized she’d led Alva straight back to the topic she’d come into the shop to gab about in the first place. Dammit.

  “The dear man can’t see beyond his stodgy, narrow-minded view of how the world should be, bless his heart,” Alva said, and Lani couldn’t really tell if she was sincerely worried about the man ... or wanted him dead. “I tried to explain that it was hardly an unbiased, balanced, and fair approach to reporting the news when he only printed the parts he personally approved of. We might as well just call it the Dwight Bennett Herald then. But actually, dear, it was an article in this morning’s paper that brought me in here to see you. Of course we’ve all read the little write up about your boss coming right here to our island! And bringing his television show along with him!” She clasped her hands together, purse still tightly tucked under one arm. “Isn’t that just the most exciting news we’ve had in ages?”

  “Former boss,” Lani clarified, not that it would matter.

  “Why, you’ve been holding out on us, Miss Lani May,” Alva said, her tone scolding, even as she smiled. “Surely you’ve known all along about this little surprise visit. Were you the one to coordinate the show coming here? Certainly that’s the way to guarantee a big debut at your first fall festival.” She leaned closer, clutching her tiny bag to her thin chest. “Naturally, I wanted to be the first to talk to you about getting him to stop by the club tournament Monday night. Talk about distractions! And, just between us, if I scoop that story, Dwight will simply have to let me have my column.”