Sugar Rush Page 17

  “Yes, well, it’s a good thing you skipped over that part in my background check about liking sharp things a little too much.”

  “I must have missed that part.”

  “In fifth grade home economics class, I gave Caroline Haxfield a haircut she’ll never forget.”

  He chuckled. “You have a long—what do you call it?—rap sheet, do you?”

  “Oh, yes, I was a delinquent of the first order.”

  “I find that rather hard to believe.”

  “Just ask Caroline Haxfield. I bet she’d still beg to differ.”

  “Just what did Miss Haxfield do to earn her new coiff?”

  “She said I cheated on my homework, that there was no way I could have made my strudel by myself. It was Great-grandmother Harper’s recipe, and it was complicated, but I made it with my own two hands. I’d done it dozens of times, right in Grandma Winnie’s kitchen in Savannah. I could have made it blindfolded. I was all ready to explain every step to the teacher during final tasting. But before she got to mine—and this was for our final grade in cooking—Caroline ‘accidentally’ knocked it on the floor and destroyed it. So, I got a failing grade. I’d never had anything less than an A in a class in my life.”

  “Well, I can understand the umbrage. Let’s hope you weren’t likewise blindfolded when you relieved Miss Haxfield of her ponytail.”

  “Yes, well, that too I could have done with my eyes clo—wait, how did you know I chopped off her ponytail?”

  “Maybe I did read your file.”

  “Okay, that was not in my file. I mean, it happened, but my dad assured me that even though Caroline’s mother called the police on me after Caroline got home that afternoon, no police report was ever filed. I’d already been sent home from school early, which if you knew me—the kid who’d never missed a single day of school—that was punishment enough. It ruined my perfect attendance record. I was ten, for God’s sake. I just had to give her all of my saved allowance so she could go get her hair professionally styled. And I know they didn’t normally go to Alexandre’s. She only went there so I’d have to give her every last penny.”

  “Was it worth it?”

  Lani could swear his eyes were twinkling. And maybe they were. “Every last snip and dime.”

  “Well done, then.”

  “So ... how did you know?”

  He grinned. “Good guess.”

  “Ah.” She eyed him consideringly, still not entirely sure.

  “So, your grandmother was from Savannah?”

  “My mom’s mother, yes. Grandma Winnie. And her mother, Great-grandmother Harper, lived here on Sugarberry. It’s where my grandmother grew up and where my mom spent most of her summers growing up. Harpers are very well respected here. Everyone loved my Grandma Winnie and my mom. And my mom has always loved the island.”

  “Is that why your parents relocated here?”

  “My dad was up for retirement right around the time I decided to head to Europe to study, and my mom was all done with him putting himself in danger every day. She was homesick for the South, and when she heard through an old friend that the sheriff’s position here was opening up, she pushed my dad pretty hard to go after it. She knew he wasn’t ready to stop working, she just wanted him out of the city. It’s a testament to how well loved the Harpers are that he got the job, given he’s otherwise an outsider. I know I owe a large debt to all my Sugarberry Harper forebears, and to my dad, too, for the goodwill that’s been extended to me by the locals here.”

  “I can’t imagine you wouldn’t have earned it anyway.”

  She smiled. “Thanks, that’s very kind of you, but I’m grateful for the hand up, nonetheless. All I have to do now is live up to it. And that’s no small thing, so it does motivate me.” She lifted her cup in salute. “Of course now, with my being responsible for bringing you here—even though I haven’t taken any credit—my future status is probably sealed.”

  Instead of accepting her toast, his expression turned more serious. “You know, I can’t help thinking about what you said, about wanting to know you’d made it on your own here, and not on the back of my show, or celebrity, or any of that rubbish. You’ve decided to be a good sport, and I appreciate it, deeply, but I still feel sorry that I’ve interceded where you—”

  “Baxter, it’s okay. No,” she said, when he started to argue. “I mean it. Charlotte said something to me on the phone the other night that made me think about it. Things happen in life we can’t control. Like my mom passing too young, and my dad almost following along right behind her. I don’t know what that might have done to me, or my projected goals and dreams. Just like I don’t know what my life would have been like here if my mother and her family hadn’t been so beloved. I’m accepting the benefit I get from that, and am grateful for it. So why is this any different?”

  “That’s family. That’s your bloodline, your heritage. It is different.”

  “Maybe. But, you understand what I’m saying, right?”

  He nodded. “Doesn’t make me less sorry for it, though.”

  “What’s done is done. I know I was hard on you when you showed up. Though there’s a lot of me you don’t know, or haven’t seen, I’m not generally like that. And I didn’t like feeling that way. If something unexpected happens that I don’t like, well, that stinks, but I usually try to find a way to deal with it, and maybe take something positive from it. Like with my mom passing. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, or for my dad, for what we lost, we tried to celebrate who she was, and led with that example, so all the good cheer and warmth she spread around her everywhere she went wouldn’t be forgotten. She was this bright shining star in our lives, in everyone’s lives that she touched. I really wish you could have met her.”

  “You talked about her often enough I felt as if I had. I was heartbroken for you when she passed away. You were so devastated and, from hearing all your stories, and occasionally hearing you talk with her on the phone ... the love you shared, the bond, was self-evident. It was a tragedy and I hate that it happened to you.”

  “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “You were very supportive, though I honestly don’t remember a whole lot about the time immediately after I heard. But ... I did, and do, appreciate how good you were in letting me go and do what needed to be done.”

  “You didn’t stay here, then. Afterward. Your father was alone, with her gone. Did you think about it then? Consider moving down?”

  “Not specifically. I was in such a different place in my career then, finishing my first year working for you at Gateau, and the nomination had just happened. My father, well, he was absolutely gutted by losing her. We both were. I think being here helped, because everyone felt the same acute sense of loss, so it was ... comforting. Very comforting. And healing. But no way would he have let me stay down here. In fact, he pushed me to go back before I thought I was ready. We Trusdales, we don’t wallow. We pick ourselves up, find something positive to focus on, and work toward making the one we lost proud of us as we move on.” She could still hear those words, spoken almost verbatim by her father more than once, echoing through her mind. “I also think he couldn’t stand it that I was watching him grieve. He wanted to be strong for me, and be that person who moved on, head up, eyes forward. So, he pushed, and I eventually went. It probably was for the best. It did make both of us move forward, and follow her example.”

  “You were always so good-natured, even-keeled, and optimistic, but I knew there was steel there. The way you handled the kitchen, the chaos. I was sad for you ... but I never once worried you wouldn’t find your way through it. I worried that you might feel you had to stay with your father out of family obligation, and that I might lose you that way ... but I knew grief wouldn’t cripple you, or make you walk away from what you’d begun.”

  “Thank you.” She was touched by his sincerity. “Ironic then, isn’t it ... that two years later, I chose to do just that.”

  He shook his head. “I thought so, at the time,
yes. I mean, I understood completely. You’d just gotten past dealing with the sudden death of one parent, only to risk losing the other so soon afterward. With the continued health concerns and your father being your only family, it made sense that you came down here. I’ll admit, I was surprised—gobsmacked, really—when you announced you were staying for good. But, your reasons for doing so ... I understood family sometimes trumps everything else.”

  She tilted her head, studying him. Her vision had long since adjusted to the moonlight, and she could see his features very well, but with the deepening darkness, she could no longer make out the nuances of his expression. She could hear them, though. “But you wouldn’t have, would you? Relocated, I mean, like I did. Change paths.”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “Because you’ve never been put in that position?”

  “Because I was never in the position where that could have happened to me.”

  She frowned, confused for a moment, then realized what he was saying. “Oh. I’m sorry. I can’t imagine losing both parents as a child.”

  “I never knew them, so it’s okay.”

  “Truly an orphan then? You weren’t adopted?”

  He smiled briefly. “Don’t get all Oliver Twist on me. Obviously, I made out fine.”

  “That you did.” She was thinking about what he’d revealed, and she’d bet his life had been a whole lot more Oliver Twist than Little Orphan Annie. But it was the kind of thing she could imagine forging him into the chef he’d become.

  She noticed him shift in his seat and he stretched his feet out, bumping hers. “Sorry,” he said, pulling them back. “Trying to sift the sand out of my socks.”

  She finished her coffee and slid the cup back to him. “Come on.”

  He took the cup. “Are we leaving?”

  “Just the picnic table.”

  He lifted his eyebrows in question.

  “Well, if you’re going to have sand between your toes, I was thinking you should experience it the right way.”

  “There’s a right way?”

  She laughed. “C’mon.” She nodded her head. “This way.”

  “The water is that way.”

  “Which is good, because that’s where the beach is.”

  “Oh.” He sounded less than enthusiastic. “Bloody fantastic.”

  Chapter 10

  “Okay,” Baxter said, after they’d trekked about fifty yards down the beach. “You might have a point.” Once they’d gone over the remaining dunes and through the rough sea grasses and washed up flotsam and jetsam, they’d ended up on sugar soft sand. A lot of which was in his shoes and, he was fairly certain, probably always would be. At the moment, his shoes and socks were fifty yards back up the beach behind them. The farther they walked, the more he forgot about them, and the sand currently in them.

  They were barefoot, pant legs rolled up, as they made their way down the narrow strip of sand. The water was a bit chilly, but the sand was still somewhat warm, or at least not cold.

  “For me,” Leilani said, “if you’re going to hear the surf, and look at the stars, you should feel soft sand beneath your toes. By now it would normally be too chilly for this, but with all the heat we’re still having, this is one of the nice benefits of an Indian summer.”

  “Well, I don’t see myself parking on a blanket under the blistering sun and risking sand in other interesting places, but the strolling, the surf, and the stars? Not a bad way to end the day at all.”

  They smiled at each other, and he was careful to keep from bumping into her, or wandering into her path, which, with the unevenness of the sand and occasional encroaching waves, was easy to do. But he couldn’t seem to keep from watching her as they walked. Well, he was walking. She was marching rather steadily down the shoreline.

  He smiled to himself, thinking she wasn’t quite as relaxed as she thought she was ... but in contrast to the constant chaotic dash that had been her life in New York, he supposed this could be considered a leisurely stroll.

  “The company isn’t so bad, either,” he said as the silence between them stretched comfortably.

  She sent a sidelong smile his way, but kept up her steady pace—perhaps picking it up a bit. It occurred to him that maybe her inability to relax wasn’t so much an indicator of the impact of her life in the city ... but her company of the moment. Since climbing into the car earlier, she’d shown a completely different attitude than she had since he’d first stepped into her kitchen. He’d been relieved, happily so, for them to regain their even footing, despite being quite unhappy that all he’d be leaving Sugarberry with was a week’s worth of programming. And, perhaps, after this evening, some very special memories.

  He wished that felt like enough. It would take considerably more than a simple stroll on the beach to feel anywhere near close to enough. And longer still before he was at peace with the idea of walking away when the show was done filming.

  He considered and immediately tossed the idea of putting a moratorium on interacting with Lani in any capacity not directly work related. She was making an effort to be a sport about the chaos he’d brought back to her life. Likely it wasn’t coming as easily as their banter and laughter made it seem. The least he could do was make a similar effort.

  So, the stroll continued.

  “I’d have thought you’d be a city girl, too,” he said. “When did you learn to appreciate the sand and surf?”

  “Nanny—my great-grandmother Harper—passed on when I was fairly young. I think I was six. When we’d come down to Savannah to visit Grandma Winnie, we’d usually make the trek to Sugarberry and spend some time with her. There was no causeway then. You had to take a ferry over. I think I have more specific memories of the ferry rides than any real memories of the island itself. I do remember Nanny’s kitchen here.”

  “Is the house still here?”

  Lani nodded. “Harper House has been in the family through four generations. Five, with me, I guess. Nanny’s husband, Roy, grew up here. He passed long before I was born, but I’ve seen pictures. There aren’t too many from back in that day, but the ones that did get preserved are pretty fascinating. The town wasn’t much more than a fishing lodge and a combination general store and post office back then.”

  “So, Harper House isn’t your cottage then—”

  “No, my father lives there. Nanny left it to Grandma Winnie, who used to rent it out. Then she left it to my mom, who continued with the leasing, until she and dad decided to come back down. They did a major overhaul on the place before they moved in. It’s really wonderful.”

  He smiled. “I can see it’s a place of good memories.”

  “Oh, definitely. I remember Nanny teaching me to make cobbler in her great kitchen, which my mom updated but kept otherwise intact. It’s a grand old Southern-style kitchen, big butcher block island, huge oven, glass front cabinets on top and maple underneath. Mom resurfaced the counters, but kept the butcher block. That’s where we made cobbler and I learned to can my own peaches. Well, I was too young to actually do the cutting and canning, but I sat on a stool and watched. And I got to help whip the topping for the cobbler.”

  “So you come by your baking skills honestly,” he said.

  Fond memories softened her moonlit smile and Baxter felt the ache bloom inside his chest again. He’d long ago come to terms with his past, but listening to her stories, seeing the affection and joy she had reminiscing, it made him wonder how it would feel to have a connection like that, reaching back through the generations.

  “I like to think so,” she said. “My mom was a wonderful cook in her own right. My father, on the other hand ... well, he’s good with the grill and he can make a mean pot of chili, but beyond that, grilled cheese, canned soup, and scrambled eggs pretty much round out his skill set where pots and pans are concerned.”

  Baxter smiled, trying to imagine a kitchen filled with warmth and laughter. The kitchens of his youth had been filled with yelling, swearing and chaos, thoug
h that had still been family to him. “I think it’s nice, family stories and traditions passed down through the generations.”

  “Do you know anything about your background at all?”

  “No. That’s all right, though. There’s not much to tell. I was given up as an infant.”

  “Did you ever look? At the records, I mean?”

  He shook his head. “If they’d wanted me, they’d have come for me. They didn’t, so I don’t see the point.”

  “Since you’ve become a celebrity, no one has come crawling out of the woodwork, hoping to cash in?”

  “That won’t happen.”

  Lani smiled, but her expression said she wouldn’t be so sure of that. “Well, if it hasn’t by now, you’re probably right. So, where did you grow up?”

  “I spent my first half dozen years in a church-run orphanage, then, when I wasn’t adopted, I was sent to live in a home for boys in the east end.”

  “How long were you there?”

  He shot her a quick grin. “I wasn’t there at all when I could help it.”

  “Ah.” She matched his smile. “So, this isn’t going to be a story about how you were taken into the bosom of the boys’ home head cook, who became like a surrogate mother to you, teaching you everything she knew from the old country, and inspiring your journey to culinary greatness?”

  “Um, no,” he said, on a surprised chuckle. “Old country? Really?”

  “I’m a pastry chef, not a novelist. I was picturing someone like a Helga or a Brunhilda.”

  “The cook at Peckham’s was named Harry. His food was inedible. When he was sober enough to cook it and remember to feed us at all, that is. I regularly stole my supper from the dust bins and garbage cans behind kitchens all over London from the time I was eight. By the time I turned ten, I figured out it was better if I actually got a job working in the kitchen. Then I got food I didn’t have to steal, and a chance to sit somewhere warm and dry while I ate it.”