Sugar Rush Page 8

  “Alva?”

  “I’ve mentioned her before. Poker player, renegade octogenarian, resident Betty White?”

  “Right,” Charlotte said, clearly not getting the reference. But she’d spent the first twelve years of her life in New Delhi. There were some cultural gaps.

  “It doesn’t matter. Except I had to keep vouching for her, which meant everyone is now speculating about me and Baxter. Thank God no one knows about the kiss.”

  “Kisses. Plural.”

  Lani might have growled a little.

  “I’m just stating that it’s only a matter of time before it’s common knowledge, as he’s clearly intent on—”

  “Oh, I know what he says his intentions are, and, so far, he’s not shy about exhibiting them. That’s my whole point. I don’t know what his next move is going to be. Where, when. Or what he’s planning to do. And it’s making me neurotic, Char. I know I’m completely wigging about this, but I have to find a way to deal with it. With him. I swear, it’s like ... it’s like ... he looked inside my head and plucked out the worst possible thing he could do to me.”

  “I don’t think it’s what’s in your head he plucked at,” Charlotte said, her tone considering now.

  “You might be a pro when it comes to mincing chocolate, Char, but with words, not so much.”

  “You don’t need me choosing my words carefully or coddling your sensitivities. And I was talking about your heart, not your—”

  “Okay, okay.” It didn’t help that that part of Lani’s anatomy had also undergone a reawakening. Every time she thought about him, in fact.

  “That’s not what friends are for,” Char went on. “And if you were a friend, you’d use your words, many of them, to tell me exactly what happened. Every last tiny detail.”

  “Charlotte—”

  “You know, some women, women who’d been mooning over the same man for eons, would think they’d died and gone to heaven when that very man finally noticed them. Not you. You think it’s the worst possible thing. I don’t understand you.”

  “You understand me better than anyone walking this earth. You know I don’t believe him. I mean ... come on, Char. Me? All this time, he’s been pining after his all-but-invisible number two? Really?”

  “Hardly invisible. He kept you pinned to his side from the moment he met you. Handed his beloved baby over to you. I’d say you’re about as high profile in his eyes as you could be.”

  “As a baker.” Lani enunciated each word. “As a chef. Not as a woman.”

  “Put the bowl down,” Char responded. “I can hear those whites turning to meringue all the way here in New York.”

  “They’re supposed to be.” But Lani clattered the bowl onto the worktable, not sure which she was more annoyed at: the eggs for not needing to be beaten longer and thereby giving her an outlet for her frustration ... or this extended pity party she was throwing, starring herself as the featured guest.

  “This isn’t like you, Lan,” Charlotte said, more quietly. “You’re usually the grounded, rational, calm one. It’s my job to be the neurotic, cynical, self-involved one. I’m worried about you. I simply think ...”

  When she trailed off, then didn’t continue, Lani pushed back. “Think what? How else could I feel? Just finding out that he knew the whole time how I was being treated ...”

  “His explanation made sense,” Charlotte offered, not unkindly.

  “I know. It did. And ... he’s right. All things considered, he did the right thing, but he should have talked to me about it. Or I should have with him. But right now, after all that time ... it’s still a lot to take in, to process. I know this whole attitude thing isn’t like me, but I feel ... stuck. I’ve thought about it, a lot.” It was why she was in her kitchen after her biggest business day ever, whipping up a pavlova roulade, when she should be happily falling asleep, with the lovely sound of ka-ching of her antique register still echoing in her ears.

  “And?” Charlotte prodded.

  After a short moment, Lani just spilled it all out, hoping Charlotte could help her make sense of her feelings. “I think—no, I know—I was never wholly myself with Baxter. He even commented on being surprised that I had a dry sense of humor today.”

  “In a bad way?”

  “No, in a good way. But that’s missing the point.”

  “So you say.”

  “My apron collection, that surprised him, too. He doesn’t really know me, Char, that’s what I’m getting at. I was only the chef part of myself with him. That meant I had to keep the foolish swooning girl with the crush locked away in the privacy of my own head, and, along with that, I kept a lot of the rest of myself locked away as well. I was never fully me. Certainly not with the staff, and not with him, either. When I came here, I think that’s why I was so relieved. Here, I can just be me. Totally and utterly, without having to think or worry about ... anything. Here, I am simply cupcake baker, daughter, island denizen, shopkeeper. And you have no idea how lovely, how heavenly, that has been.”

  Charlotte said nothing.

  So Lani continued. “Then I read that stupid article yesterday morning, and my safe little haven wasn’t safe anymore. Certainly everything that has happened since then has only made it worse. Far, far, worse, than even I could have imagined.”

  “I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn about this,” Charlotte finally said.

  Lani might have choked a little. “Stubborn?”

  “About believing he really can feel what he feels for you. I mean, yes, it’s inconvenient in some ways, but it’s also kind of ... exciting.”

  “Like watching a train wreck is exciting, maybe. Are you not hearing me?”

  “I’m hearing you say you don’t believe he knows you. Maybe not all of you, but enough to know that he wants to learn more. You might have only been a chef with him, but, Lan, a chef isn’t just what you are, it’s a big part of who you are. Possibly the biggest part. So, I think you need to have a little more faith. In Baxter—who, as far as I know, is not a manipulator or a liar—and in yourself. You two were perfect together.”

  Baxter’s words about her all but calling him a liar echoed through her mind. “In the kitchen, as chefs, yes, we were in sync. But did you know I honestly thought he’d have respected me more as a chef if I were a man?”

  “What? Since when?”

  “I mean, I do know he respected me, obviously, but you and I have bitched many, many times about the gender bias we face in this industry, even as pastry chefs. Not that he ever said such a thing, but there was always this kind of vibe—under the surface—that he respected me despite my gender.”

  “You two were like a well-oiled machine from Day One. You were Yin to his Yang. And, if you ask me, vice versa. You made each other better. It wasn’t just you who benefited from the Master-Grasshopper relationship. Why do you think your co-workers were so insanely jealous?”

  “It was there, Charlotte. And how is it you can make an arcane character reference from Kung Fu, but have no idea who Betty White is?”

  “I haven’t the vaguest clue. Except I used to have a thing for David Carradine. He was hot, in this inscrutable, mysterious, sensitive but entirely alpha kind of way. I used to watch reruns of the show in New Delhi and want him for my very own. But, even if we go with your gender bias theory”—her tone made it clear what kind of stock she was putting in Lani’s supposition—“did you ever stop to think maybe the thread of ... whatever it was, the hint of disquiet you detected, was because of the very reason he stated?”

  The sudden loud buzz of Charlotte’s Kitchen Aid mixer blasted through the phone, making Lani flinch. It also, conveniently, kept her from being able to respond.

  When it abruptly shut off again, Charlotte continued without giving her a chance to speak. “Your being a woman did disquiet him ... but, if you ask me, it had nothing to do with gender bias.”

  Charlotte’s mixer went back on, and stayed on, forcing Lani to think about what her closest frien
d had just said. Grumbling, Lani bumped the sound down on the phone and picked up the copper bowl and whisked in the sugar, one scoop at a time, until it thickened. She set it down and went to get the bowl of coffee and corn flour she’d whisked together earlier. The scent of the ground coffee made her crave a cup. She glanced at the clock. Ten-thirty. Definitely past a good little baker’s bedtime. And it was going to be another very early morning.

  Even after baking that afternoon while Dre covered the counter, she’d been left with very few cupcakes to refrigerate overnight, as she routinely did, selling them as day olds the next day, for a reduced price. She still had fresh frozen extra batches of unfrosted cupcakes, her base vanilla bean cake and semi-sweet chocolate, which she’d thaw, then pipe fresh frosting on in the morning. Even with those she’d still be behind with her freshly baked trademark flavors, no matter how early a start she got. She’d whipped up some of those frostings this evening, but everything else would have to be made fresh from scratch in the morning.

  She should be in bed, sleeping. Not standing in the shop kitchen, experimenting with a pavlova roulade she didn’t need and couldn’t sell. But therapy was therapy, and she needed that, too.

  Of course, she could be baking in her own little galley kitchen, where she’d at least have a bed close by. But her place hadn’t become home yet. It didn’t feel ... therapeutic, or haven-like. Yet. She spent all her time in the shop, happiest in the absolute haven of her first, very own professional kitchen ... so she hadn’t quite gotten around to doing much more than shoving in the stuff she’d shipped down from her tiny apartment in New York. It had hardly made a dent in her far more spacious, though still small, island cottage. At some point she needed to work on that, but beyond wondering how she could make the sandy soil into a vegetable garden the next spring, she hadn’t really given much thought to what she wanted to do. Most of her thoughts and all of her energy were spent on baking and developing her business.

  Besides, this feels like home, she thought. Kitchens always had for her. Her earliest memories involved helping her mom make dinner in the little kitchen in their row house in D.C., and baking with her Grandma Winnie in her big country kitchen in Savannah. Growing up, kitchens were always warm, lively, happy environments, filled with the most heavenly scents, some of which she’d helped create with her very own hands. She’d loved everything about cooking, about baking, especially for others. The fulfillment, the innate joy of making something that brought such pleasure to those she loved had only deepened as time went on.

  Lani smiled at the memories, knowing those were the kind of memories she wanted to make here, even as the thought of it made the ache in her heart bloom as she missed her mom all over again. Her mother would have loved Cakes By The Cup. Lani would have given anything to be able to bake with her right here. Grandma Winnie, too.

  Char’s mixer abruptly stopped buzzing, jerking Lani from her thoughts. “So,” Charlotte said, “can’t you see that I might be right? I think he’s had feelings all along. Why not give him a chance to prove to you he means what he says? You’re understandably wary, but as you have that going in, you’ll be careful enough.”

  Lani put the copper bowl down and leaned her hip against the stainless steel worktable. “And then what, Charlotte? What am I supposed to do? Have some sort of—fling—with him? I can’t do that.”

  “Why on earth not? Last I checked you were both single, available, and now it seems, apparently willing. What’s to stop you?”

  “The part of me he’s plucking at that’s not my head. The part that will get hurt.”

  There was a pause and Lani braced for the mixer sound. Only it didn’t come.

  “Right,” Charlotte said, at length. “You might have a point there.” The sound of a knife, rapidly cutting on a board came through the phone. “So ... it’s still that strong for you, is it?”

  Lani didn’t answer. She was feeling foolish enough.

  “When you saw him,” Charlotte asked, “right at the first, when you turned and saw him standing in your kitchen, your initial reaction ... what was it? That ball of dread? Or ... ?”

  “Or,” Lani answered, then sighed.

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Why do you think I left New York? I mean, not entirely. I came here for my dad, but Char, we both know I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a big part of it.”

  “You didn’t even see him much, once he started his television show.”

  “Exactly. And nothing changed for me, nothing abated. It was like I couldn’t have a life because I was too busy being stupid pining girl. Just running his kitchen was being too close. If I wanted any chance at moving forward with my life, my personal life, then I knew I had to get out of there. But I didn’t. Couldn’t.”

  “But you didn’t have to give up your professional life, too. Why not another kitchen in the city? You could just about name your place with Gateau on your résumé.”

  “Because of the other part. My dad. I know you don’t understand, Charlotte, not entirely, and you know how much I appreciate you supporting me anyway.” Charlotte wasn’t close to her parents, both of whom still lived in India and whom Lani had never met. But she knew from being with Charlotte during times when she’d been dealing with them that their cold, austere, judgmental attitudes made any real closeness all but impossible.

  Thinking about her own father, Lani let out a half laugh that wasn’t much of a laugh at all. “Actually, you’re not alone. I found out yesterday morning that my dad doesn’t really understand, either. But it’s not just about me wanting to be here for him, with him. It was discovering that what made me happy and fulfilled was family, but also a sense of community, of putting down roots in a place that matters to me, that I can care about and will care back. About me. New York doesn’t care whether I’m there or not.”

  “I care.”

  Lani sighed. “I know you do. I miss you and Franco like crazy. Leaving you was the only real sacrifice I made, but that says something all by itself, doesn’t it? I don’t miss the city. I don’t miss the grind. I don’t miss anything but the two of you. Now that I’m here, I can honestly say I know I wasn’t meant for the intensity, the pressure of that lifestyle, that career. I thought it was what I wanted, what I had to reach for, to be the best I could be. I got all the education I could have dreamed of. And more. But this is where I really fit in. I love it here. The pace, the people. I feel like I’ve come home. And yes, running my own place has its own kind of insane pressure, because I don’t know what I’m doing and I don’t want to screw it up, but, Charlotte, I’m absolutely certain this is what I want to do with my life.”

  “I know,” she said, unable to keep from sounding somewhat forlorn despite being supportive.

  “So, I really and truly felt like I’d finally moved on,” Lani explained. “In all ways. And then ... and then, Baxter just strolls in and announces he wants to give me the one thing I thought I’d wanted above all else? I can’t risk allowing myself even a nibble of that, Char, can you understand? I mean, then what? If it doesn’t work out, then he’s forever left his imprint on this island, my place, my haven. That sucks. Sugarberry was supposed to forever be a Baxter-free zone.”

  “But what if it did work out?” Charlotte asked, though in a far more thoughtful tone than before. “Will you be okay if you never find out what might have been? Have you thought about that?”

  “That’s just it. It’s almost all I have thought about. Since he walked out of my shop yesterday—for the second time—I haven’t been able to string two thoughts together without him popping up between them. That’s why I dreaded him showing up again. I didn’t—don’t—have an answer for him. Or for myself. Not one that makes it all better, anyway. I mean ... the way he looked at me, and said the things he said, the way he kissed me ...” She trailed off, then pressed a fist against the little tug she felt on her heart. “What if I do go after him, Char, and ... and it works for us ... then what? I’m not going back to New York, to ru
n his kitchen or open my own there. He’s hardly going to relocate his television show to Sugarberry full time, much less open his own place down here, or even try to run Gateau from here. So, what kind of future would we have? Some kind of long distance deal?”

  Charlotte said nothing. Because, Lani well knew, there was nothing to say.

  “So, it’s just ... it feels cruel to me,” Lani said. “You know? Him coming here, dangling this dream I’d let go of in front of me. Why couldn’t he just stay in New York, and let me move on?”

  There was a knock on the back door, which had Lani whirling around, clattering the empty sugar bowl to the floor. “Jesus, what is up with people scaring the crap out of me lately?”

  “Lani?” Charlotte called. “What happened?”

  “Someone’s at the delivery door. It’s after ten-thirty at night.”

  “Don’t open it! Grab a rolling pin! Get your taser!”

  Lani smiled as she put the bowl in the sink, wiped her hands, and walked to the back door. “I’m not in New York any more, Char. I hardly think it’s someone come to kill me.” Just to break my heart, she thought, girding herself for whatever was about to happen. Or, more to the point, whoever. At least he hadn’t just strolled in. Of course, the door was locked.

  But when she peeked through the curtains ... it was Alva Liles standing on the other side of the door. Not Baxter. Lani quickly flipped the dead bolt, undid the lock, and opened the door, leaving the screen door between them. It was early October, but the night air was still quite warm as Indian summer lingered. And lingered. “Is everything okay?” Lani asked, not able to fathom what would bring the older woman to her back door at such an hour.

  “I saw your light on in the back. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion this late at night. Would it be okay if I came in? It will only take a moment.”

  “Uh, sure, of course.” Alva stepped back so Lani could open the screen door, then moved around and stepped inside.

  Lani had to bite down on a smile when she saw what Alva was wearing. It was a teal velour track suit with white piping on the jacket and down the sides of the legs, matching the bright white of the track shoes on her feet. Her hair and makeup were still first-thing-in-the-morning perfect. Only Alva. Lani had learned early on from Grandma Winnie that southern women never left the house without eyebrows properly penciled, lipstick applied, and cheeks rouged to rosy perfection. Since Lani had never even seen Alva in pants, she wouldn’t have thought the senior owned such a casual outfit. Much less that she would be seen in it in public.