Bittersweet

by Jacquie Underdown

Tom nodded towards the store’s back door. ‘Come on, let’s go inside and get started.’

  As Amy unlocked the back door and nerves rampaged in her belly, a wave of self-loathing crashed into her for reaching this place where her dreams and passion for cooking were so worn that she didn’t feel capable of doing it anymore.

  Never in her craziest imaginings, as she dedicated the last decade of her life building and pursuing this dream with confidence and determination, did she ever even consider she’d end up here.

  Everything inside her was pulling her away. Her ego screamed at her to flee from this place because God forbid she should fail again.

  Tom pushed the door open. Hand still in hers, he went inside first and guided her in behind him. She followed, knowing there was no other option. Ego was not going to get in the way of helping Rachel. And besides, like that old proverb said, the best thing to do after a fall was to get straight back in the saddle or in her case, the kitchen.

  The back of the shop had a small room where Rachel attended to her paperwork. Beyond that was the production room lined with benches, three big ovens, a double door fridge and freezer, and shelves well-stocked with containers, cutlery and kitchen aids.

  The walls were candy pink as sweet as the lingering scent always present in this store: caramelised sugar, vanilla and subtle hints of chocolate. But the magic was found out the front—big glass cabinets and cloches that tomorrow would be filled with delicious cupcakes of all shades and flavours, decorated with sweet buttercreams, ganache, and colourful frostings.

  When Amy had first stepped inside the store three years ago on opening day, it conjured thoughts of pastel coloured butterflies, fairy tales, and romance—Rachel epitomised.

  Tom flicked on the lights and clapped his hands together. ‘All right, let’s get started. You’ve got tunes?’

  Amy nodded. She went to the back room where she knew Rachel had an iPod dock. She chose the most upbeat song on a playlist stored on her phone—one she had put together for exercising. That almost made her laugh because she hadn’t done anything like intentional exercise for over a year. No time for frivolous activities when you’re holding a failing restaurant on your shoulders.

  Brittney Spears’ Work B**ch, pumped from the speakers and anger burned a path through her veins to hear the lyrics.

  This was once her anthem, her mantra almost. She’d worked hard, but she had nothing that meant anything to show for it. She jabbed her iPhone screen hard and skipped to the next song, then hurried to the desk for the hand-written notebook Rachel had said every recipe she needed was laid out inside.

  Tom was still where she left him in the kitchen. Smiling. She couldn’t even make herself smile back at him, instead rested the book on the bench and opened it.

  ‘Recipes,’ she said, not meeting his eye and swallowing down the fast forming lump in her throat. Rachel was right, feelings sucked. They got in the way and made her throat ache and head heavy.

  ‘What’s your favourite cupcake?’ she asked, still flicking through the pages. Was that fear she heard in her voice?

  ‘That’s like asking what my favourite book is.’

  She peered up at him. ‘What kind of cupcake do you feel like eating now?’ A hint of impatience.

  He rubbed his palm along his jaw, drawing Amy’s gaze to that strong, square line of bone. No doubt about it, Tom had a great jaw.

  ‘Why don’t you shut the recipe book and make one I’ve not had before.’

  Amy shook her head hard, was a little breathless. She was not veering away from the tried and tested recipes Rachel had left for her. The more impersonal this experience was, the better. No emotions were going to ever enter this shop as long as she was in charge.

  Sure, she knew she could create a recipe and had the technical skills to bake anything, but she had bared herself enough over the last year, put heart and soul on a plate for public scrutiny. Too much, too soon, to do that again. Yes, even in a small-scale kitchen like this.

  To keep all this at an arm’s length, she was going to follow Rachel’s recipes line for line. If anyone criticised the product—not her fault.

  Flicking to a random page, she jabbed it with her finger, not caring what kind of cupcake it was but merely wanting to get this over and done with. ‘Strawberry meringue butterfly cakes.’

  Tom's eye’s widened, and the corner of his mouth curled upwards. He nodded. ‘Sure.’

  A small giggle broke through Amy’s staunch veneer when she thought about Tom in all his tall, rugged glory chewing on a pretty little cupcake with butterfly wings on top. Perhaps she should have thought before she blurted that type out.

  Tom chuckled, then rolled his head back and laughed. ‘I’ve seen those. All the eight-year-old girls choose that type after school. Are you trying to tell me something?’

  Amy laughed and laughed, imagining him lined up, stabbing his finger at the strawberry meringue butterfly cakes sitting behind the glass. ‘Suck it up, Mister, because that’s what I’m baking.’

  ‘Fine. I’m sure they’ll taste … delicious. Now, what do you need me to do?’

  ‘You can go to the store cupboard and grab out caster sugar, self-raising flour, and vanilla extract.’

  He mumbled her list to himself as he headed to the cupboard. Meanwhile, she collected all the remaining ingredients from the fridge: milk, eggs, butter, jam, fresh strawberries, and cream.

  Tom placed the dry ingredients on the bench. Along the back wall sat a mix master. Amy pointed to that one as it was smaller than the industrial-sized mixer that had a permanent position on the bench. She wasn’t going to make the full batch today, so was scaling down the whole operation.

  While Tom retrieved the mixer and plugged it in for her, she ran through the recipe that made forty-eight cupcakes and wrote the measurements out on a spare sheet of paper, reducing each by a quarter. She checked and double-checked her calculations.

  As she placed her pen down, her heart was racing and her hands were unsteady. She was petrified and didn’t understand what of exactly. She stared at the ingredients and bowls laid out before her and drew in a deep breath, trying to calm the adrenaline racing through her limbs.

  Tom opened and closed drawers until he found a set of measuring cups. He stood beside her, bumped her hip with his. He was trying to distract her, cheer her up, and though it wasn’t quite working, her body sighed with gratitude.

  ‘I’ll measure the flour for you,’ he said, reaching for the self-raising container. ‘How much?’

  She glanced at her measurements on the loose page, cleared her throat. ‘Two cups. But we need to cream the butter and sugar first.’

  A cheeky grin spread across his lips. ‘That shouldn’t have sounded so sexy, should it?’

  She grinned. ‘No.’

  ‘Righto,’ he said, reaching for the sugar. ‘Creaming of butter and sugar. How much do I need, sugar?’ She smiled, and his brow furrowed. ‘Wait, did I say that right?’

  Amy giggled. ‘Not quite.’

  As though to set his thoughts right, he shook his head. ‘Sugar, how much?’

  ‘That’s no better. But before you ask again, you need to put one cup into the mixer.’

  ‘Exactly?’

  She nodded. ‘Baking needs to be precise.’

  He stamped his feet together at attention and saluted her. ‘Yes, Captain.’

  ‘I so much preferred sugar,’ she said with a pout.

  ‘We can’t always get what we want.’

  No, we can’t.

  While Tom dealt with the sugar, Amy measured out two hundred grams of butter and spooned it into the mixing bowl, along with a teaspoon of vanilla extract.

  The mixer rumbled when she flicked it on, competing with the bass of the music pumping through the speakers above her.

  ‘Can you crack an egg in there?’ she asked.

  The egg mixed in, and she instructed Tom to crack another two in until all combined, followed by the flour. The mixture was light and
oozie and smelled sweetly delicious.

  She flicked the mixer off and pulled the bowl out. ‘That’s it.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘That easy?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  Amy laid out patty tins into cupcake trays and spooned in the cake batter.

  ‘Want to lick this?’ she asked holding up the spoon.

  Tom baulked, eyes widening, then cleared his throat. The innuendo in that question hung between them, charging the air. ‘Please.’

  Cheeks hot, she gave the spoon to Tom, and he licked it, making little appreciate groans all the while.

  Amy’s heart warmed to see his eager reaction because she had always thought it such a treat too. As a child, when she’d baked with her grandfather, he’d always let her lick the bowl. Those times with him were some of her most favourite childhood memories.

  ‘Do you know how awesome it is to have a sister-in-law that owns a cupcake shop? She brings me a box every time I come home from the mine,’ Tom said.

  Amy smiled. ‘I’m amazed you’re not fat.’ Not fat at all. In fact, tall and broad with ripples of muscle.

  He patted his stomach and grinned. ‘I spend the next twenty-one days working them off, and then some.’

  While the cupcakes baked, Amy hulled strawberries, and Tom sliced them. She whipped cream by hand and crushed meringues. And after the cakes cooled, she cut circular holes in the top, spooned in strawberry jam, then the cream and meringue until it formed a little mound.

  ‘And now for the pretty butterflies,’ she said, smiling as she looked at Tom. ‘I know you’re hanging out for this part.’

  He laughed. ‘A dream-come-true moment, for sure.’

  ‘If you slice those cake circles into half for me, I’ll arrange them on top.’

  While he sliced, she positioned the pieces of cake so they looked like tiny butterfly wings, then added two slices of strawberries for colour before dusting with icing sugar.

  Amy stood back, appraising the result; the cakes were well-risen and had an even, pale colouring. Adorable. She understood the appeal for little girls.

  Amy handed one to Tom. He pulled back the paper and bit into the cake, nearly shoving the entire thing in his mouth. Cream oozed out onto his lip, but he caught it with his tongue before it fell onto his chin. As he chewed, he moaned and closed his eyes.

  When he looked at Amy again, who was waiting rigidly for his verdict, he said, ‘Oh. My. God. I will never mock an eight-year-old girl again.’

  Amy laughed. Relief eased her muscles for having made a yummy batch. Tom peeled back the patty paper on a fresh cupcake and brought it to her lips. Heat was quick to rise again in her cheeks.

  His gaze never left her lips as she opened her mouth wide and bit down on the sweet sponge. Cream squeezed out onto his fingers, which he licked off, still focusing on Amy as she chewed.

  ‘Good, ha?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘Would you have done anything differently?’

  She would have made her own meringue, instead of packaged, so it had that crunchy, sweet chewiness she loved. Also, she would have made her own strawberry jam, so it wasn’t as gluey and sweet as the commercial conserve while possessing a touch of zing from a squeeze of fresh lime. And to the batter, she would have added a pinch of salt to bring out the simple flavours more and used vanilla bean paste instead of vanilla extract so little specks of flavour permeated the batter.

  She shook her head, swallowed. ‘No. It’s fine how it is.’

  Tom narrowed his eyes, holding her gaze, but she didn’t back down because she couldn’t risk thinking she knew better, when she didn’t. Sugar Cakes had been successful for three years so far; her restaurant had nose-dived in less than one.

  Amy took the cake from between his fingers and finished it. ‘Perfect,’ she said with her mouth full.

  ‘If you say so.’ A tonne or so of disbelief in his tone, but she could ignore it.

  After cleaning up, Amy placed a sign on the front door notifying customers that the store would be re-opening tomorrow. Rachel had already spoken to the suppliers and bulk-buying customers. All Amy had to do now was show up tomorrow morning … and bake.

  Amy boxed up the remaining cupcakes and handed them to Tom to hold during the drive back to the vineyard. Her eyes were stinging a little, and her muscles were heavy after the long day of travel and emotion.

  ‘How are you feeling about baking now?’ Tom asked as they drove home.

  She met his eyes. ‘Better. Thank you.’

  ‘When there're cupcakes at stake, I’ll do anything.’

  Amy laughed, which made him chuckle too. ‘I’ll be sure to bring you some home tomorrow afternoon then.’

  ‘I won’t say no.’

  A sidelong glance passed between them ‘Maybe even more grown up, manly type flavours.’

  He chuckled again.

  Amy pulled into the driveway and drove under the wrought iron arbour that spelled out Mathews Family Vineyard. On either side of the track were rows and rows, as far as the eye could see, of trellises flush with green leafy vines that ascended all the way up the sloping hills. Bunches of plump blue grapes hung like long, fat Christmas baubles.

  As they arrived at the top of the slope, the view extended all the way to the hazy mountains. Sunset painted the sky with bright orange and pink clouds.

  ‘This place takes my breath away,’ she said, somewhat incapable of keeping her eyes on the road.

  ‘I’m pretty lucky.’

  ‘It’s stunning. I don’t know why you’d choose to swap this for a dusty mining town.’ Not until she’d finished did she want to bite her tongue.

  Tension swept through the car. Tom sat taller in his seat. ‘Mitch and you both.’

  Amy winced. ‘I’m sorry. I forgot that it’s a bit of an issue between you and Mitch.’

  He shook his head and sighed. ‘A big issue.’

  ‘Okay. Big. Little. Either way, I’m sorry to bring it up.’ They drove a little longer in silence until she neared Rachel and Mitch’s house. ‘Do you want me to drop you back at your place?’

  ‘Yeah. Just head up this way,’ he said pointing to the right when they arrived at a cross intersection. Being a city girl her entire life, it still confounded her how much space these brothers possessed that they could have their own intersection on their property.

  A short distance over the undulating property, through more fields of vines, past the cellar, bottling building, administration, and restaurant, she pulled up out the front of his house.

  Amy cast her gaze over the quaint brick, single storey place. It possessed a charm that well-tended old buildings could. But what drew Amy’s attention, and held it, was the deep garden of colourful roses, their brightness thwarted by shadows as twilight blanketed them. Reds and purples, pinks and yellows bloomed with amazing intensity and stretched around both sides of the property.

  ‘Wow! You have a green thumb?’

  He chuckled. ‘Not me. Sam. He lives here too.’

  She shook her head, mouth gaping, still unable to look away. ‘So beautiful.’

  ‘Come on, I’ll show you the greenhouse out the back.’

  She turned to him, eyes wide. ‘There’s more?’

  He nodded. ‘Much more. I’ll just run these cupcakes inside. You don’t want to come in for a drink first?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m fine. I’ll just wait out here for you.’

  ‘Give me thirty seconds.’ He slid from the car and jogged up the front porch steps, taking them two at a time, and into the house.

  Amy lingered around the garden, spying all the vibrant varieties.

  The front door closing sounded.

  ‘These roses are natural pest repellents for the vines,’ Tom said as he jogged down the front stairs. ‘Sam grows these and other varieties so we can take cuttings and plant them between the rows of vines to ward off the nasties.’

  She squeezed the silken petal of a red rose between her finger
and thumb. ‘How interesting. Beautiful, perfumed pest control.’

  ‘We try and use as little unnatural pest control on the property as possible.’ He nodded towards the path that led around the left side of the house. ‘Come on. I’ll take you around.’

  At the back of the property stood a big glasshouse, the windows misted as the night air crept in. From here, the colours inside were already on display, as though each glass frame was a water-coloured painting.

  Inside, the scent of fertile soil and flowery sweet perfume wafted around her. They walked down gravel pathways bordered by shelves filled with flowers and plants.

  ‘Your brother has an amazing talent.’

  ‘Please don’t tell him that. His ego’s already big enough.’

  They ambled up and down the rows of potted beauty.

  ‘Why does he do all this?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s loved gardening since he was a kid. Grandma taught him everything he knows. And after she died, a decade ago now, he kept tending to her garden, then when we moved into this house, he built this,’ he said with his arms out wide. ‘He supplies some of the local florists, but it’s mostly a hobby.’

  She shook her head. ‘Wow.’

  They headed back out. ‘That’s why he’s in Chelsea at the moment.’

  ‘For the flower show?’

  Tom nodded as he drew the door closed behind him. ‘Mitch would never allow holidays so close to harvest time, but this is Sam’s passion.’

  They headed around the front of the property and lingered at the front porch. Tom leaned against the stair railing, his arms crossed over his chest.

  Thoughts of poring over the evidence of her financial failure in that big, quiet house made her cringe. She much rather enjoyed Tom’s company, how he distracted her and made her believe that her situation wasn’t as bad as, deep down, she knew it was.

  Tom was smart, funny and sexy as all hell. The more time she spent with him, the more little idiosyncrasies she noticed—like when he laughed the left side of his lips didn’t quite pull up as high as the right, and the pale crooked scar that sat above his right brow, and the way his nose wrinkled when he full-on laughed, and how deep and chocolatey rich his eyes were.