Sweet Secrets

by Rhonda Sheree

  Chapter 35

  I throw my suitcase on the bed. “Lazy? Who the hell are you calling lazy?” I hurry around the bedroom, yanking open dresser drawers and throwing my clothes into the suitcase. “You think you’re the only one with ambition? I’ll show you ambition.” The empty room taunts me with its silence, as if it has taken sides with its owner and dares me to prove him wrong. “You just wait. I’m gonna start my own business, Mr. Lane. And I’m going to have the most successful bakery around.” I storm into the bathroom and fill my arms with my gels and hairspray and soaps. I dump everything in the duffel bag next to my suitcase. “You’re going to beg me, get on your filthy knees and beg me to let you sell my stuff in your crappy little coffee shop.” I look at myself in the mirror. “I can’t wait to see your sorry little face when I tell you to get lost.”

  I zip the luggage and head out of the room. The duffel bag is heavy so I strap it around me cross-body style and tug the suitcase as best I can over the carpet.

  Grayson stands at the bottom of the stairs with his hands in his pocket. I ignore him as I make a less-than-graceful trek down the stairs.

  “You need help?” he asks.

  “Go to hell.”

  “You look unsteady.” He walks up the winding staircase to meet me. “Give me one of your bags.”

  “No. You think you’re going to kick me out, then turn around and be nice by helping me with my bags? Thanks. I’ll manage.”

  “You’re not managing.”

  “I am managing just fine.” I take my eyes off the steps to look at him. Grayson’s standing only an inch from me as he tries to take the luggage from my hand and, maybe I miscalculate the next step, or maybe I’m dizzy from the sudden heat flushing my cheeks when I look at his too-tense face, but whatever the cause, I lose my balance and miss the next step. I fall face-first down the last few steps. On my way down, my eyes shut tightly, not wanting to see the marble floor as it bangs into my head, breaks my nose, and draws blood. But none of these things happen. When I open my eyes I realize that the duffel bag draped around me cushioned the blow.

  “Now can I help you?” Grayson asks.

  With the grace of a lame donkey, I right myself, tie my shoelace, and give Grayson a begrudging nod toward my luggage as I head out of the house.

  “Are you all right?” he asks. “Is anything broken?”

  I open the trunk of the car and toss the bag in and wait for him to do the same. I try to keep my face averted so that he doesn’t see what is bubbling beneath my cool exterior. But when he says my name, “Callia?” I turn to him so that he can see what he’s done to me.

  “No, Grayson. I’m not all right.” The tears fall freely down my cheek. “And yeah, something’s broken. My heart.” I take an unseemly sniff before my nose drips. “Falling for you has hurt me worse than those stairs ever could.”

  Before he can answer, I shut the trunk, get in the car, and speed away.

  Chapter 36

  I make two tear-filled stops before I get to the house. First, I go to the supermarket and stock up on baking ingredients. Patrons watch me with concerned eyes as I shop without bothering to stop the flow of my tears. Falling down the stairs took the last of my pride. I don’t care who sees my pain.

  Next, I go to the liquor store and stock up on the cheapest white wine I can find. It might not be delicious, but it’ll be effective.

  “What’s this?” I say to the clerk, pointing to a trial-size liquor bottle the color of a strawberry Starburst.

  “It’s new,” she says in careful English. “Sweet. Potent.”

  “Throw two in the bag,” I say. Sweet and potent sounds good right about now.

  At home, I clean myself up, and slip on socks and an oversized T-shirt with Mickey on the front that I got when I visited Walt Disney World two years ago. I down a bottle of the sweet liquor like it’s a shot.

  “Geez, that is potent,” I say to no one in particular.

  Then I tune the stereo to a station playing young, angry, alive music and I blast it while I do a little baking and a lot of drinking.

  I’m a foolish woman trapped in a fantasy. Gray was right: You can’t go home. Nothing is ever exactly as you’d left it. Look at Mom. When I’d last seen her, she wasn’t the type of woman who got her kicks from playing dress up. Carmen has always been Carmen, but I vaguely remember a time when she seemed to have more self-respect and discriminating taste in men, Grayson notwithstanding. I stir the butter and vanilla and chocolate powder that I’m going to use for my homemade chocolate frosting. Did I add the confectioner’s sugar? I find the box and fuss with opening it. I stir two cups into my mixture.

  Grayson has not changed. He’s still emotionally distant. How can a man like that be trusted? Or loved? How could I ever feel confident he’d never pull another disappearing act? And possibly with my own sister?

  Did I tell him that I loved him? No, I didn’t. I alluded to it, which is nearly as bad as actually saying it, but not quite.

  “I pity the woman who’s going to waste her time trying to get love from him,” I say and bob my head to the delicious male-bashing song blaring from the stereo. Have I already added the lemon zest? I can’t remember. I’m pretty sure I didn’t. I add a half-teaspoon and take another sip of wine. I am a queen of multitasking.

  I turn the oven on and clean a few strawberries before tossing them into the blender.

  “That SOB had the nerve to call me lazy!” I shout at the blender.

  I realize that my pride is more offended by his notion that I’m unambitious than the prospect of him being with another woman. Any woman.

  I shake my head and mix my ingredients and drink and sing and dance and realize that this is the life. Baking. I love it. Soon this kitchen will be filled with the comforting smell of warm dough and I will start to feel giddy about the end result, which will be mouth-watering, buttery cupcakes. Yes, I’m definitely going to start a business. I might not ever have a franchise around the world—hell, I might even have to work for a real bakery at some point, but as long as I can spend my time doing this, I’ll be happy.

  I pick up the bottle of wine and stumble backward into the counter. The damn bottle is empty.

  “You have betrayed me, my friend,” I say to the empty bottle and give it a kiss. Then I begin laughing so hard, joyful tears stream down my face. My maniacal laughter turns melodramatic. “You have betrayed me.”

  I toss the bottle into the trash and grab the other from the fridge. The cupcakes. I should bake the cupcakes first, then open the bottle of wine. No. I need to open the bottle first. It is a task. A time-consuming chore that takes me all of five minutes, which is good because it gives me time to think.

  But I’m not thinking, really. I’m playing a collage of memories through my head about Grayson and me and damn if the waterfall doesn’t begin again. I love his kiss. And the way he touched my skin when we made love in front of the fire. I’ve never had a man make love to me with the all-consuming intensity that he did. My brain, my heart, my skin, my everything was alive when he touched me.

  I pour myself a glass of wine—third? fourth?—and it is better than the last. It takes me only a couple of minutes to fill the cupcake pan with mixture and slide it into the oven. I go into the family room, where a love song fills the room and I turn out the light and lie on my back so I can feel every maudlin lyric vibrate through me. I sing along until a fresh wave of tears threatens me. There’s a momentary dip in the volume before a commercial fills the airwaves; this is when I have a golden moment of inspiration.

  I crawl to the sofa, grab my cell phone, and dial.

  “What’s up?” he asks by way of greeting.

  “Hey, Robert. It’s Callia.”

  “Yeah, I know. Hold on.” He mutes his phone so that I don’t hear what I’m sure is a woman’s voice nearby. I hold for a solid two minutes before I hear, “I’m back. What’s up?”

  “Nothing. I know it’s late. You want me to call another time?”
<
br />   “Callia, it’s barely eight o’clock.”

  Oh, right. I’m sitting in a darkened house, so as far as I can tell, it’s midnight.

  “Can you turn down your music?” he asks. “I can barely hear you.”

  I crawl to the stereo because I don’t trust my legs to carry me the short distance.

  “That’s better,” he says. “So,” he says and I can hear the smile creeping into his voice, “you miss me.”

  “What?”

  “You were thinking about me,” he says.

  “I was not.”

  “Then why’d you call?”

  “Because I was thinking about what you said about coming to visit.”

  “You were thinking about me.”

  My brain must be sluggish because this conversation should not be tripping me up like it is.

  “I was thinking I need a date for my upcoming class reunion and you were already thinking about coming up.”

  “And you want me to take you?”

  “Why not? Is that a stupid idea?” My head bobbles on my neck and I have to force myself to keep it upright. “Yeah, it is, isn’t?”

  “The girl I remember would never have a problem going someplace alone. Are you trying to make someone jealous?”

  “No,” I say, dragging the word out a good three seconds. “God, no.”

  “I don’t mind saying that I miss you, Callia. Stop laughing, it’s true.”

  “That’s very sweet, although I’m sure you aren’t home alone.”

  “No,” Robert sighs heavily into the phone. “I’m not, but she stepped out.”

  “Do I know her?”

  What’s this inserting itself between the grooves of my broken heart? A wedge of jealousy for a guy I’m not even sure I like?

  “Newhouse.”

  “Captain Newhouse? Really?”

  “Really,” he says like it’s no big deal.

  “She’s an officer and you’re enlisted. Are you seriously going to risk your career just to bang her?”

  “I like a challenge,” he says dismissively. “She’s not you, if that’s what you’re wondering. I screwed up with you, although I’m not sure how.”

  “No, no, no,” I say. “We’re just oil and water. Two good people who just didn’t mix for a long-term relationship. That’s all.”

  “Are you drinking?”

  Is it that obvious? I must make an effort not to slur my words.

  “Yeah, no, yeah, I’m good, I’m good. I’m just having a glass of wine.” Or four, five?

  “You’re thinking about me and you’re drinking. I’m flattered.”

  “I shouldn’t have called. Newhouse is a solid woman.”

  “I’ll come. Tell me when.”

  “No, you’re happy. It’s good to be happy.”

  “And you?”

  “Robert? Do you think I’m unambitious?”

  “You made rank the first time every time you tested.”

  “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” I say. “I’m a good tester.”

  “You are,” he says.

  “And I’m a good baker, too.”

  “From what I’ve heard, yeah.”

  “And that’s why I’m going to start selling my stuff.” I say this more to the man who isn’t there than the one who is. “Starting tomorrow, I’m going to make a list of my offerings and how much it’ll cost me to sell them.” I stand on wobbly legs and start pacing. “I’m going to think of ways to get customers and inventory and I’m going to be really successful.”

  “Okay,” he says, not even trying to hide his confusion. “Have you thought about gluten-free stuff?”

  I laugh so hard, my sip of wine comes out through my nose and mouth. “No, I haven’t thought of gluten-free stuff. My food is gonna be good!”

  “You could consider something healthy so that people won’t feel guilty.”

  “Guilt is half the fun.”

  “It’s your business.”

  “Literally,” I say, feeling a boost of courage.

  “Ya know, you’re the only woman that I’ve ever dated who I couldn’t convert to being a vegetarian.”

  “A man who looks like you could make a woman change her religion. Don’t let me rattle your confidence. I’m an odd duck.”

  “I have a pen,” he says. “When do I come?”

  I stagger in place then flop on the sofa and give him the pertinent details and hope that I’ve given him the correct address. Maybe I have had too much. I can’t wait to see the look on Grayson’s face when he sees me with the hottest guy in the room. Okay, the second hottest.

  “Callia, if I get there and find out you’re plotting to make some high school cat from twenty years ago jealous, you’re going to owe me ten.”

  “Ten push ups?” No way in hell can I manage that anymore.

  “Ten miles or ten kisses, your choice.”

  “What a threat. I’m so scared I’m, I’m—” I sniff the air. “Burning?”

  “You mean you’re getting hot?” he asks and I hear the hope in his voice.

  “No, I’m burning my cupcakes! I gotta go.”

  I get up too fast and my foot slips on the carpet. My legs are unstable but get me to the kitchen. I open the oven and take out the pan, setting it on top of the stove. The cupcakes are ruined.

  “I can’t even bake!” I sob aloud. “How can I start a business if I can’t even bake!”

  A two-year-old throwing a tantrum wears less of a pout than I do right now. I turn off the oven and pick up the bowl of chocolate frosting. As nice as it was to chat with Robert, he didn’t have the meditative effect on me that I thought he would. I pluck a large wooden spoon from the drawer and go back into the dark family room. I turn the music back on and sit on the floor. I lose myself inside the music and wine and chocolate and tears.

  Chapter 37

  The doorbell is shrill and impatient. I open my eyes and see sunlight streaming through the curtains. I roll over and lie in the fetal position. I don’t know anyone who would ring the doorbell this early in the morning, so I close my eyes and wait for sleep to overtake me again.

  The doorbell rings again.

  “Ugh!” I pull myself to my feet. My mouth is dry and my head aches. The doorbell isn’t doing me any favors.

  I look out of the peephole.

  Vivian. I’d forgotten she was coming over.

  “Hey, Vivian,” I say when I open the door.

  “You look a mess,” she says.

  “Come in and make yourself at home. I need to get cleaned up.”

  “What’s going on?” she asks. I follow her eyes to the floor where there’s the bowl of chocolate frosting, or what remains of it, and the knocked over empty wine glass, the bottle of wine, and the blanket.

  “I had a pity party last night. It was a blast. I’ll tell you about it in a few. If you like, coffee grounds are in the freezer, the filter is in the cabinet above the coffee maker.”

  “Go. I’ll take care of it.”

  When I come back downstairs, feeling much more human, thanks to the hot shower, Vivian has the coffee perked and is eating one of the burnt cupcakes.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I hope you don’t mind that I took one. These muffins aren’t bad. I taste strawberry.”

  “I meant to throw them away. They were supposed to be cupcakes but I forgot to set the timer on the oven.”

  “You consider these burned?” Viv looks at the half-eaten cupcake in her hand. “This would be a success at my place. I’ve served my guests muffins twice as dark as these.”

  “Oh, Viv. You need help in the kitchen.”

  “I know! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “You didn’t have to move the stuff from the front room.”

  She shrugs it off. “Habit,” Viv says. “It’s a curse.” She has her hair tied back in another complicated braid and she’s wearing another loose summer dress.

  “Are you going to be comfortable packing in a dr
ess?” I ask and pour myself a cup of coffee. “Why don’t you just keep me company and tape up a few boxes for me?” I look at the dark muffins, shake my head, and then grab one. Why not?

  “I have shorts on underneath. I’m twenty weeks along and all I feel comfortable wearing are dresses.”

  “You’re pregnant? I can’t even tell.”

  “I’m very small and the oversized dresses do a nice job of hiding my frame. It suits me. I know some women prefer to advertise their belly, but I don’t want the attention. I remember standing on an elevator not too long ago, wearing a formfitting knit dress. This woman next to me congratulated me and rubbed my belly.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  Viv smacks her hand to her forehead. “It freaked me out. This is my first child, so I didn’t know any better—I didn’t know what to do. I looked down at that dress and thought never again.”

  “I hear you. That was a total violation. Can you imagine a woman going up to a strange man and rubbing his belly?”

  “A man would probably enjoy that type of thing,” Viv says and winks. “A little lower, please.” We laugh and as it wears off, Viv tilts her head to the side and asks, “Is it a guy that’s made you hit the chocolate?”

  “Ugh. Don’t make me go there.”

  “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want. You want to get started with the packing?”

  “Yes, it’s a guy,” I say. “He’s a creep.”

  “Most are,” Viv says and takes a sip of coffee.

  “He can’t be trusted.”

  “Most can’t,” Viv says.

  “I love him,” I say.

  “We always do,” Viv says and pops the last of the cupcake into her mouth. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I know we just met.”

  “Yeah, but talking to you is easy.”

  “Thanks,” she says and I can tell she’s genuinely flattered. “I don’t know why I don’t have many friends. It doesn’t bother me much, but I think it gets to Jeff sometimes.”

  “That’s why he extended the invite to me?” I ask.

  “Probably.” Viv nods.

  “You two seem solid.”