Sweet Secrets

by Rhonda Sheree

  “Against all odds,” Viv says. “My dad wasn’t too keen on the fact that I was in love with a black man who’s fifteen years my senior.”

  “He gave you a hard time?”

  “Worse,” Viv says. “He gave himself a heart attack while we were on our honeymoon. He didn’t even walk me down the aisle.”

  “Viv, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t,” she said. Her eyes were dry as scorched earth. “There was no love lost.”

  “My dad also died of a heart attack. It was my prom night. And the guy who was supposed to take me to the prom stood me up and moved away not long after. It’s been ten years since I’ve seen him.”

  She leans in. “Is that the same guy you’re in love with now?”

  I nod.

  “The same guy you came over with that day, Lane, right?”

  I nod. “Grayson Lane. That’s the one.”

  Viv takes me by the wrist and guides me into the front room. We flop onto the sofa and she props one leg beneath her, putting her elbow on the backrest.

  “Spill,” she says. “But only if you want.”

  I find that I do really want to talk about him. Maybe speaking to an uninterested party about my frustrations will help me achieve clarity.

  “There isn’t much to tell,” I begin. I fill her in on our attempt at love while we were in high school; how lost I’d felt when I’d lost both him and my dad; and how I went into the military to hide. Or find myself. I’m still not sure which. “When I got out of the military, I came home and discovered that Grayson was back in town. He’d been looking after my mom for quite some time. We struck up a thing again and now it’s over.”

  “Why? He waited for you for ten years.”

  I shake my head. “Uh-uh. He wasn’t waiting for me.”

  “Did he marry?”

  “Well…no.”

  “Then how do you know he wasn’t waiting on you?” Viv asks.

  I’d never looked at it like that before.

  “No, Viv. I’m not about to get my hopes high and rewrite the story. That isn’t what happened.”

  “Okay, fine.” She takes another sip of coffee. “Go on. Why’s he such a creep?”

  “He had a fling with my sister.”

  “No!” she says as though I’ve just told her the end of a juicy book. I’ve never thought my life was all that interesting until now. I perk up a bit, gaining steam into what I’m realizing is the telling of one sensational story. “Back then or now?”

  “Back then; my sister came on to him and they kissed. Nothing more, or so I’m told. Recently, I came home—I was staying at his place for a while with my mom, long story—and there was a party going on. And they were in the cabana together. Just the two of them.”

  “Doing what?”

  I cock my head. “That’s the million-dollar question.”

  “What did they say when you asked?”

  “They swear nothing was going on. But he won’t tell me what they were talking about. And my sister is beautiful.”

  “So are you.”

  “Yeah, but she’s really hot.”

  “Fine, but you may be really hot in his eyes and she may be really not. Don’t knock yourself, girl.”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  We chuckle at her obvious zest over my pathetic love life.

  “Anyway,” I continue, “I overheard him talking to someone on the phone about their relationship. About how it can’t be rekindled between the two of them. I barged in and gave him a piece of my mind.”

  “You said ‘someone.’ Who was he talking to?”

  “He says his editor, a guy, if you can believe that.”

  “You don’t?”

  “If you could’ve heard how invested he was in this woman, you’d know it wasn’t a writer talking to his editor.”

  “So let’s think about this,” Viv says. “He was saying that the relationship can’t be rekindled. That means he was breaking it off.”

  “He made a comment that ‘if you leave now you can’t ever come back.’”

  “Ah. That’s confusing,” Viv says. She twirls her finger around the long braid dangling over her shoulder while she considers what I’ve posed to her. “Conflicting.”

  “I asked him again to tell me what he and Carmen were doing in the cabana and he wouldn’t tell me. In fact, he broke it off with me. He said it wouldn’t work because I’m not ambitious enough for him.”

  “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Ambitious enough for him. If that’s what he wants in a woman, it shouldn’t be dismissed.”

  “I’m confused right now. I’m trying to find work as a junior accountant, but I haven’t found anything. And I am seriously thinking about selling my baked goods.”

  “Hallelujah. I think you’ll do well,” Viv says. “Let’s put aside the editor talk for now. Is it possible,” she continues, “that whatever was said in that cabana is something that has nothing to do with you and is none of your business?”

  “None of my business? What could they possibly have to talk about that would be such a big secret?”

  “I don’t know,” Viv says. “That’s why it’s a big secret.”

  “Why aren’t you on my side?”

  “Misunderstandings happen every day, and although I only had breakfast with Grayson, I must say, he’s strikes me as a stand-up guy.”

  “Are you ready to start packing?”

  “What? Is this resolved? Are we done here?” she asks.

  “I don’t trust him,” I say and get up from the sofa. “And without trust, there’s nothing.”

  Chapter 38

  I step out of the office building feeling more confident than I did when I walked in. Just seeing the name—Joseph Pinkman, Esq. Attorneys at Law—on the lobby directory made my stomach quiver. Despite my nerves, I went into his office wearing a smart black suit and carrying a rudimentary business plan that I’d learned from my Internet searches.

  Now, as I sit on a bench outside his office, licking an ice cream cone and taking in the warm air and the pedestrians on their way back to the office from their lunch hour, reality sinks in.

  I am starting my own business. This is real.

  Joseph is putting together the paperwork to file with the state so that I’ll be incorporated. Eventually I’ll have to apply for a small business loan at the bank, but right now, I need to find a few customers—a test market—that will indicate whether I’m headed in the right direction or not. I am. I feel as certain of this as I’ve ever felt about anything. It’s almost as if my mistakes have all led me to this bench, with these copies of legal documents in my folder: Mom punishing me by making me read recipes, and my rote military career, which allowed me to get my degree in accounting, combined with my authentic love for the process of baking, has lead me to this moment.

  And the push I’ve received along the way has helped. Viv. Grayson.

  I smile at an older woman who hesitates before taking a seat next to me on the bench. Her pale lips are pencil-thin and cracked. She wears a canvas bucket hat over short gray hair. Her shades are dark and big and swallow her face. She could be disguised as a bank robber if not for her baggy shorts—black—and T-shirt. Her white sneakers are dulled by bits of dirt. She reeks of freshly cut grass on a hot summer day. I wonder if she is homeless, but dare not offer her money for fear of being wrong and offending her. I turn away. Anyway, it’s obvious she wants to be inconspicuous. I’ll contain my good news for someone who’ll care to hear it.

  Viv. She has come over every day since last week. She only stays a couple of hours, and I make sure to relegate her to the light stuff, like unfolding the boxes so I can pack them or taping up the boxes when I’m done. Viv pretty much sits in one spot and regales me with stories about her guests. Her stories are funny and a few are X-rated, like the time a couple had to call 911 because a carrot snapped in half after being inserted into
an orifice it had no place being inserted into.

  Viv is as starved for female companionship as I am. Her company has been welcome, although, if she was hoping to distract me from my heartbreak, it hasn’t worked. No matter what I do, I can’t take my mind off of him. I put baby clothes into a box and wonder if his mother kept any of his baby clothes. Then the unasked questions begin. Does Grayson want babies of his own? Does he feel time slipping away from him as I do? When I label a box I wonder if Grayson is also writing. What does his penmanship look like? Would he be able to read my scrawl? Is he thinking about me?

  When I haven’t been packing and tossing and cleaning, I’ve made time to collate the recipes I’ve created from scratch or modified so drastically they might as well be from scratch. I’ve decided that I will specialize in only ten cupcakes. They are the ones I know off the top of my head. I’m good at other things, too: cookies, muffins, fruit-filled Danish. But I think I should start small, specializing in what I do best: cupcakes. Preferably of the chocolate variety.

  I savor my crunchy sugar cone—maybe a bit too much—because I realize the woman is looking at me. Embarrassed, I struggle to keep the pieces of crumbling cone from falling to bits on the ground.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “I like ice cream.”

  I cannot see her eyes behind the dark shades and it’s possible she’s looking beyond me, not at me. The slight upturn of her lips into a wistful smile says otherwise. She takes off her hat and runs calloused fingers through silver hair.

  “My boy liked ice cream.”

  I guess she’d missed the newsflash about all kids liking ice cream.

  “How old is he?” I ask politely. The trashcan is about two feet from me and I make an easy toss of my napkin into its wide mouth.

  “’Bout your age, I’d imagine.”

  “It’s easy to lose count. My mother does it all the time, when she’s not calling me by my sister’s name.”

  “I never thought I’d see him again.” Her raspy voice is weighted with regret. I look at her. She’s looking out into the traffic and a chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the ice cream.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She looks down at her hands. They are thick, masculine. With her right thumb she begins to massage her left hand as though it is throbbing painfully.

  “I’m not so good with words,” she says. “Prefer to work with my hands.”

  I nod. “Me, too.”

  “I frightened you, didn’t I?”

  “How so?” I ask, thoroughly befuddled by this woman who might have escaped from Belleview. No. I don’t get a crazy vibe from her. Weirdness, but not crazy.

  The woman looks at me and removes her glasses.

  “Holy mother of Mrs. Fields,” I say. I recognize those eyes. They are duller and marred by cataracts, but they are undoubtedly the same eyes. My mouth is wide enough for a Mack truck to charge through it. She gives me a little nod, as if to say, Yes, I am.

  “The notes frightened you, I know. I wanted you, him, the world to know that I love him. I always have. Kept my eye on my boy from afar. I wasn’t cut out to be nobody’s mother. But that don’t mean my heart don’t ache for him.”

  “You need to see him,” I say after a long silence. “You two need to meet.”

  She shakes her head. “There won’t be no happy ending for us.”

  “Was that you,” I begin putting the puzzle together, “who got onto his property that night?”

  She nods and puts her shades back on. “I’ve been working on his property for months now. I got a job with his landscapers. I like the work. Every so often I get to see him. Not often, but often enough, I suppose.”

  “You have to see him,” I repeat.

  She stands up. “I won’t be bothering you all anymore.” She gets on a bicycle I hadn’t noticed was leaning against the bench. “I’ll be watching you from afar. But I won’t bother you again. I got what I wanted.”

  “What was that?”

  “To see that he turned out okay, despite how I left him. Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I love him.”

  “Please,” I begin, but it’s too late. Grayson’s mother gets on the bike and disappears around the corner.

  I don’t even know her name.

  Chapter 39

  There is no question what I need to do. I get into Mom’s car and head straight to Grayson’s place. Chances are he won’t be there. A few days ago, Mom and I visited her new apartment, which was being readied for her. As we toured the common areas of the complex, she made sure to mention that Grayson had been spending more time working out of the house since I’d left. I told her if she wanted her daughter to have any semblance of a normal, healthy heart, then please do not tell me about Grayson’s business. Besides, why should I spend my life thinking about a man who isn’t thinking about me?

  When I turn onto his street, I pull over to the curb. That’s when it really hits me. Grayson isn’t thinking about me. It’s been more than a week since I walked out of his home and I haven’t received a visit, a call, or an email. No apology. Grayson has moved on. And like a lovesick little girl, I pout at the thought of looking forward to going to our high school reunion together. How pathetic am I? I reach into my purse and feel around for the familiar soft chocolate chips. Then I remember the ice cream cone I just scarfed down and remove my hand from my purse as if I’d just touched a snake.

  If I tell Grayson about his mother, will he believe me? Will he think it’s just a cheap ruse on my part to wiggle my way back into his life? Hell, how do I even know for sure that that woman is Grayson’s mother? It’s not like I saw government-issued ID. The eyes. There can’t be that many women in the world with those eyes. That was his mother.

  And what if Grayson does believe me? Does he want to know that she’s alive, living nearby, watching him? Will he be angry with me for telling him about her?

  I put the car in gear and make a U-turn. I’m not afraid of Grayson’s wrath. I can handle him. But I don’t know if now is the time to tell him about her. Things are still so raw between us.

  When I get home, people are coming out of the house. How odd it is to watch perfect strangers walk out of your home. Prospective buyers. A not-so-subtle reminder that I am on borrowed time. I hang back in the car and wait for them to finish looking around.

  In the meantime, I pick up the phone to call Viv, to see what her perspective is on revealing Grayson’s mother to him.

  “I was just about to call you,” she breathes into the phone. “Are you still coming over tomorrow?”

  “Yep. I’ll bring my best creations for your customers. I also need to make enough for Mom to take to her community center.”

  “And your sister’s salon.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I say, although that would be an excellent place to pick up new customers.

  “Think about it,” Viv says sternly. “Anyway, I have good news.”

  “You’ve booked up your B&B for the entire year.”

  “I wish,” she says. “I meant good news for you.”

  “You’ve met someone who wants to buy a year’s supply of cupcakes.”

  “No, and I won’t let you guess anymore because you suck at it,” Viv says.

  “Gee, thanks,” I say.

  “Remember when I was telling you about the guy who was cheating on his wife with one of their employees?”

  “Yeah…” One of her many sordid tales that stuck in my brain.

  “Well, that guy has been a long-standing customer of mine. Pretty terrific guy when you don’t factor in his whole womanizing issues.”

  “Small thing,” I say and laugh into the phone.

  “I’ve met his wife,” Viv says. “I can’t say that I blame the guy. Anyway, we struck up a conversation today and he mentioned he had to get back to work for an interview. They’re looking for an accountant and I told him about you.”

  A sliver of hope cracks through my heart. “I’m not certified. I just
have my B.A. in accounting.”

  “I told him that, Miss This-Can’t-Possibly-Be-A-Good-Thing-Because-Good-Things-Don’t-Happen-To-Me. He wants you to swing by tomorrow at one if you can. Get a pen—I’ll give you the details.”

  I grab a pen from my purse and search for a fresh sheet of paper in my notepad filled with business notes and recipes. I write down the information Viv recites.

  “Got it,” I say, feeling optimistic. “This could be good.”

  “How’d things go at your attorney’s office?”

  “The ball is in motion.” I see the young couple and the real estate agent come from the backyard. They follow the motion of the agent’s fingers as she points to the top of the house. New roof. Not even three years old, I’m guessing she’s saying. “Viv, I wanted to ask you a question.”

  “Make it quick—I’ve got a bird in the oven.”

  “Don’t worry, it can’t get any deader.”

  “Obviously, you’ve never seen one of my chickens. I give a whole new meaning to the word ‘blackened.’”

  “Do you remember when I told you that Grayson’s mother abandoned him when he was a kid?”

  “Yeah,” Viv says.

  “I bumped into her today. Or, I guess she found me. I think she’s been keeping an eye on Grayson. She was writing these weird notes, even some semi-threatening ones to me.”

  “Why didn’t you call the cops?”

  “Because I thought they were coming from my sister.”

  “But they from Grayson’s mom? What does Grayson think about all this?”

  “I never told him about the notes and I haven’t told him that I saw her today. I don’t know that I should.”

  “Why not? You have too much pride because of the way you two parted company?”

  “Only a little of that,” I admit. “The main reason is I don’t think he’d want to know.”

  “And you want to know what I think you should do?”

  “Yeah,” I say. The real estate agent leads the way for the couple to exit the gate in front of her. She nods at me and escorts them to her car. The couple is too wrapped up in the house to notice me. I’ve never met the agent before; perhaps she recognized me from the photographs in the living room.