Sweet Secrets

by Rhonda Sheree

  “No,” he finally says. “That won’t do. It’ll have to be the cupcakes.” Grayson moves to the car door and opens it for me. Having forgotten how to form words, I move silently into the driver’s seat. Grayson leans down and says, “I want my cupcakes or you’ll have an eviction notice on your door by the end of the weekend. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say. Two syllables. That’s all I can manage.

  “Callia?”

  He’s going to lean into the car and kiss me. A real kiss this time, I just know it.

  “Huh?”

  “Are you ever going to ask me about your non-gift?”

  I slap my hand to my forehead. “I forgot.”

  “Close your eyes and open your hand.”

  I do as he asks. Grayson drops something in my palm and closes my fingers around it. Then he kisses my fist. His lips are warm against my skin and he lets them linger.

  When he pulls away, I open my eyes and my hand.

  My necklace.

  “You had it all this time?”

  “I didn’t know where it came from, but Gail found it and gave it to me. I held onto it until I remembered where I’d seen it before.”

  “It took you a while.”

  “It did. Were you looking for it?” He smiles.

  “Maybe,” is all I can admit to.

  “You kept it all this time?” Grayson asks. I don’t respond. Instead, I look at the half-heart necklace on the thin silver chain in my quivering hand. “I really messed up, didn’t I?” Grayson asks. Before I can think to respond, he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

  Grayson shuts the car door, places a quick kiss on my agape mouth, and heads back into the house.

  Grateful Journal

  Grayson is sorry. I didn’t get a chance to ask him to elaborate—I was in a bit of a coma from the kiss he gave me on my knuckles. (Yes, you read that right—soft, sweet, tender kiss! And, yeah, on my fist. I could think of better places he could’ve planted those lips, but baby steps. Baby steps.) I’m grateful for that kiss, that bubbly feeling churning in my stomach that is as sweet as any Godiva truffle I’ve ever tasted. Even now while I’m at the library, it’s there.

  I’m glad that I feel like my old wounds are starting to heal, not by leaps and bounds, but slowly. My heart is like a frozen stick of butter on a table. Second by second, it softens.

  You need context. Grayson found that necklace he’d given me when we were in school. He gave it back to me and apologized, I guess for leaving and not calling or writing. For not offering any explanation. For not being there when Dad died. He seems…haunted. By that or something else, I don’t know.

  When I saw his photo on the back of his book, his eyes surprised me. They didn’t look happy. He has money, success, friends, and the looks of a modern-day god.

  So why doesn’t he look happy?

  Chapter 19

  I place the necklace inside the journal and close it. Then I spend a solid hour job hunting. There are two promising opportunities for junior accounting positions to which I half-heartedly send my résumé off. Then I sit at the computer and have fun. The idea of having a regular nine-to-five and being cooped up in the office doesn’t excite me one bit, but hey, a girl’s got to eat.

  Cupcakes for Gray. The prospect makes me smile. I research a plethora of baking websites. I spend hours in a delicious frenzy pouring over cupcake and muffin recipes—noting my own ideas, substitutions, deletions, and such. I wonder how hard it is to get a website up and going. I’ve got some pretty good recipes I’ve come up with that I could share.

  If I’m crazy for considering this fun, then my mother is to blame for my irrational behavior. Had it not been for her punishing me as a child by making me read recipes, I probably would not be looking at a recipe with skepticism this very moment, knowing instinctively that a chocolate muffin should include baking soda, not the baking powder that’s listed. Baking soda is four times stronger than baking powder—what the recipe calls for—hence, it will do a better job neutralizing the acid in the chocolate than baking powder would. A novice baker won’t notice this is an editorial mistake.

  “Amateurs.” I reach into my purse for a chocolate nib and continue to peruse the recipes.

  My cell phone vibrates and I look at the caller ID. It’s Carmen. I send the call directly to voicemail.

  “Kahlua?” I look up from my comfortable position on the leather chair. For a moment, I’m confused, but then it comes to me: It’s the guy I’d met on the plane.

  “Hi,” I say and stand up to shake his hand. Maybe if I keep smiling he won’t realize that I’ve completely forgotten his name. Shame, too. His face is as warm and friendly as I remember.

  “I thought you were coming around to the bed and breakfast to meet my wife.”

  John? Joel? No, that’s not it…

  “I was, I’m sorry. I got a little busy.”

  “Mm-hm,” he says. “Busy in the library?”

  Jason? Jack? This is so embarrassing.

  “I’m not completely goofing off,” I say. “I have a business opportunity and I’m doing some research.” I’m getting pretty good at my little white lies.

  He looked down at my books. “Baking?”

  Jeff! That’s it. Jeff Mead.

  “Yeah, baking. I know—it’s lame.”

  “Not at all. My wife should be up in here trying to figure out how to do it. She’s been reduced to microwaving frozen breakfast sandwiches in the morning so she doesn’t have to suffer through embarrassed looks when guests eat her breakfast.”

  “Oh no,” I say. “That’s horrible.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you. I just dropped in to pick up an IT book I had on hold.”

  “Jeff.” I held up one of the books with an assortment of baked goods on the cover. “How would your wife like it if I brought over some treats tomorrow morning?”

  “Don’t make me guilt you into coming over. It was good seeing you again, Kahlua.”

  “You’re not guilting me,” I say. What is going on here? Normally I would prefer to keep to myself, but now my head is so freaking effervescent from my interaction with Grayson that I feel like it’s about to explode. Someone please take this stupid grin off my face! “What time can I pop over?”

  Jeff seems pleased and gives me another business card. He writes his address on it and tells me to come over around nine.

  When he’s gone, I finish up my photocopying, check out a book, and head to the supermarket. It’s still early, but I’ll tell Mom that we were let out early since it’s Friday. The car is a sauna and I punch the A/C button. My library receipt hangs out of my book and rustles from the burst of air rushing from the vents. There seems to be another paper sticking out of it, too, a notecard. Probably from the previous borrower.

  I slip into an empty parking space at the market, then pull the card out of the book. My breath catches. This isn’t from a previous borrower. This note was intended specifically for me. I look out the window but don’t see anyone strange hanging about. I look back down and at the note and read it again.

  Grayson is my heart.

  You’ve been warned.

  Chapter 20

  Talk about a killjoy. After I do some shopping, I head back to the house and try to put the note out of my mind. It’s hard, though. Someone was there. Someone who recognizes me as being Grayson’s acquaintance saw me in the library. Did she follow me from Grayson’s house this morning? Had she been waiting for me to leave the library? Is she following me now? Is she even a she? I look in the rearview mirror but don’t see anything amiss.

  Back at the house I head straight to the kitchen, where I discover my least favorite surprise.

  “Look who’s home early.” Carmen leans against the counter, arms crossed beneath her bosom. Her V-neck sweater is cut so low a cop could charge her with intention to do great bodily harm with those weapons of mass destruction. And mass destruction isn’t too harsh a term in light of the number of marriages she’s probably ruined.


  “What are you doing here?” I ask and put the bags on the counter.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Carmen says. “You’re home early.”

  I turn to Mom. “What’s going on?”

  Mom says, “Your sister came by to invite us out. She thinks it’ll be a good idea to go into New York tomorrow. Maybe catch a Broadway show.”

  I stand a bit dumbfounded, not sure what to address first: Carmen, and her suspicious offer to spend quality time together, or Mom, who’s wearing bell bottom jeans—where would one even buy those anymore?—white patent leather shoes, a denim top—again, where?—and the cutest little short afro wig I’ve ever seen. It appears that Mother Cole is in full disco mode.

  “Not maybe,” Carmen corrected. “Definitely. I’ve got tickets for the three of us to go see Chicago tomorrow. What do you say?”

  “I thought Grayson invited us to dinner?” I do my best to avoid her eyes and start taking my groceries out of the bag. I don’t bother to put them away since I’m about to start baking.

  “He did, which was nice,” Carmen says and pushes off of the counter. “But we haven’t spent time together in forever and I bought the tickets before he mentioned plans for tomorrow.” She starts to run her hands through my hair. Her dark brown eyes inspect my ends. “I can’t exchange them and I’d forgotten all about it when I told him I’d come over. What kind of conditioner are you using?”

  I shrug. “The stuff in the white bottle.”

  “That narrows it down,” Carmen says, then her brows lift into what I think is her horrified face. It’s hard to tell when not much moves. “You’re not getting your conditioner from the supermarket, are you?”

  I do, but from the look in her eyes, admitting this isn’t something that’s going to be a sign of intelligent life, so I lie.

  “No. I go to the, you know, beauty supply store.”

  “Oh,” she says, and expels a rush of air. “You need a good trim. When do you want to come by the shop?”

  “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “So what do you say? Girls’ day tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know, Carmen. I think Grayson would really like us to make an appearance to meet his friends.”

  “His friends were coming over before we were ever invited, Callia.”

  You mean since you invited yourself, I want to say to her. No way do I want to miss out on being around Grayson and meeting some of his friends tomorrow. But if I’m not there, that means Carmen won’t be there, either. Wouldn’t keeping those two separated work out best for all of us? And, of course, by all of us, I mean me.

  I decide to sacrifice time with Grayson for a girls’ day, as Carmen puts it, with her and Mom. Besides, there’s always Sunday.

  “Mom? Do you have a preference?” I ask.

  “I’d like to see Chicago,” Mom says. “That’s the sexy one, right?”

  “That’s settled,” Carmen announces. “We’ll hang out for the whole day, then catch the eight o’clock show.”

  “I haven’t seen New York in years,” Mom says. She struggles to get on the stool so I come around and give her a boost. She’s immediately distracted by her shortbread cookie in one hand and the romance novel in the other. I shake my head at the hopeless romantic. It’s another one of those Georgia Kinsey books.

  “Wait, the entire day?” I say. “I promised some people I’d stop by tomorrow with some muffins and stuff. We can meet here at noon.”

  “I have some stuff to take care of, too,” Carmen said. “One of my customers wants a weave down to her nether regions. I should be done by noon. How about if we meet at the Amtrak station then? We should roll into New York around one.”

  “Works for me.” I begin arranging the dry goods, baking soda, salt, et cetera on one side and the vanilla, milk, and other liquids in another pile; the final pile has the fresh blueberries, strawberries, nuts, and various morsels. I’m nothing if not organized in the kitchen. With a quick glance at Mom to ensure she’s occupied, I speak to Carmen in a low voice. “What’s going on with you and Marcus?”

  Carmen opens my bag of butterscotch morsels that I’m going to make into a frosting, puts one in her mouth, then sucks for three seconds. She then uses a napkin to remove it from her mouth and searches around for the trashcan. I open the cabinet and she tosses it. Waste of a perfectly good butterscotch chip.

  “That was delicious,” she says and shuts the cabinet. “What are you making?”

  “A variety of things. Now answer my question.”

  “Do you think you should be doing that? I mean, real sugar, Callia? No one eats real sugar anymore. You know that, right?”

  “What are you two over there whispering about?” Mom asks.

  “Callia’s trying to add to the obese population by baking muffins or something.”

  “Make mine blueberry,” Mom pipes in.

  “With brown sugar and caramel crumble on top?” I ask my ally.

  “You got it,” Mom says.

  “You two disgust me,” Carmen whispers to me.

  “What’s the scoop?”

  “The scoop is that Marcus and I are fine,” she says. She leans on the counter, her back to Mom to minimize eavesdropping. “He’s finally come to his senses.”

  “Does that mean you have, too?”

  “Yes,” Carmen sighs. “So there’s no need to worry about me tonight at dinner. I’ll keep my hands and eyes to myself.”

  “I didn’t know you were staying for dinner tonight,” I say. I was hoping to finally spend some time with Grayson and Mom this evening. Come out of my shell a little, now that I’ve had a kiss on my forehead and on my knuckles. You’d better believe I’m keeping count.

  “Life is full of surprises,” Carmen says. “But don’t worry. My little plan is off so you don’t have to worry about me tempting your old boy toy with my lovely lady parts.”

  Carmen smooths down her sweater and admires herself. Hell, I guess if I paid good money for that rack I’d admire them, too.

  “How about you park your lovely lady parts on one of those stools while I handle my business?”

  “Mom?” Carmen says. “Let’s go see if we can find some dirty channels on the television.”

  “I don’t want to watch any dirty channels,” Mom says. “I would like to sit by the pool and finish my cookies.”

  She raises her arms and Carmen goes around and helps her off the stool. I think Mom could probably make it on and off the stool by herself. She is not fooling me one iota.

  “Hey,” Grayson enters the kitchen. Three sets of female eyeballs turn and drink him in with such open and honest appreciation that Grayson must have felt visually accosted. It was the five o’clock shadow that did it. That dark whisper of a beard seemed to awaken something innate in us. Grayson raked his hands through his short curls. “Everything okay?”

  He directed the question to no one in particular. His hazel eyes bounced from Carmen to Mom to me.

  “Everything’s fine,” I say as more of a means of distraction. “I was gonna get some baking done before Gail comes in to cook.”

  “She’s off today,” Grayson says. He feels comfortable enough to walk further inside the kitchen and yanks off his tie as he does. The suit was cut precisely to his tall, slender body. “She said she’d leave a lasagna in the fridge. We just have to pop it in the oven.”

  “Carmen,” I say, feeling like my old military self. “Do the honors.”

  “I’d love to,” she says. For a woman who isn’t scheming to use Grayson for her own personal gain, she sure does have a lot of sway to her hips. He notices, too, and then looks back at me as if I’ve caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. Men. I walk over to a cupboard to retrieve a couple mixing bowls. Grayson follows.

  “Why’s she here?” If his blood is running hot, I can’t tell from the coldness of his voice.

  “Visiting Mom,” I say with a shrug. We both look over at Mom, who’s sitting on the stool, smiling at Grayson. She’s a
dirty old woman who managed to get her caboose on that stool all by herself.

  Grayson acknowledges her with a quick nod and says to me, “I was hoping we could hang out. Alone.”

  “Well, we can’t. I have to do some baking to keep a roof over my head, remember? By the way, I can’t hang out tomorrow, either. I promised a friend I’d join them for breakfast and then Carmen suggested we take Mom out in the city.”

  “You’re not gonna meet my friends?”

  “Can’t,” I say, hiding my disappointment. From the look on his face, Grayson is disappointed, too. “Some other time, maybe.”

  “What are you two whispering about?” Carmen asks. She holds the pan of lasagna strategically beneath her breasts.

  “The oven’s right over there,” I say to her.

  Grayson shoves his hands in his pocket. “All right, well,” he whispers to me, “I’m not about to hang around here.”

  “Why not?” I ask, although I know full well why not.

  “I think I’d better let you ladies hang out. What time is my taste testing in the morning?”

  “I have to leave around quarter to nine, so how about eight-fifteen?”

  “How about eight?” he counters.

  I don’t even try to hold back my smile.

  Carmen asks, “How do you turn this stupid oven on?”

  “Eight it is,” I say to him.

  Grayson announces, “I’m sorry I can’t stay for dinner.” He starts to head out of the kitchen.

  “You can’t?” Carmen asks and nearly drops the pan of lasagna on the floor. I save it from sudden death.

  “Grayson,” Mom says from her perch. “You’re like the son I never had. Come give Mother Cole a big hug before you leave and help me off this stool.”

  Dirty. Old. Woman.

  Chapter 21

  The vegetable lasagna—thick with mushrooms and squash and peppers and onions—was the best I’ve ever eaten. Those poor veggies were drenched in at least three cheeses and lots of Italian spices that negated any nutritional value whatsoever. The three of us sit in lounge chairs by the pool—Carmen on one side of Mom, me on the other—and sip our wine as the sun goes down.