The Tea Shop on Lavender Lane (Life in Icicle Falls)

by Sheila Roberts

  “My business is trashed. My life is trashed. I don’t even have money to pay for the lawyer.”

  “Samantha and I told you not to worry about that,” Cecily told her. “It’s being taken care of.” News had traveled as fast around Icicle Falls as it had in L.A., and Dot Morrison and Pat Wilder, two of the town’s older businesswomen, had already set up a special bank account for Bailey’s defense fund.

  Not that she was going to need it. Anyone with eyes could see the actress had pulled a cheap publicity stunt. The lawyer was on top of things, and Cecily was sure that before the month was over, Bailey would be out from under this. She said as much, hoping to calm her sister.

  “It’s just...this article,” Bailey said between sobs. “I’m nothing like that. And I worked so hard to build my business. Now it’s...gone.”

  Cecily wished she could reassure her, but in Hollywood, where making an impression was everything, well, it didn’t look good for Sterling Catering. “Come home,” she said.

  “I can’t.”

  Cecily knew how hard it was to give up a dream. She also knew how hard it was to come full circle, right back to where you started. She’d done it herself. It had turned out to be exactly what she needed, and she was much happier working in the family business than she’d been trying to match up gold diggers with shallow men who wanted Playboy bunnies.

  “Think about it,” she urged. “Everyone here loves you.”

  “That’s for sure,” Cass said over her shoulder.

  “I can’t even leave my apartment. There are reporters hiding in the bushes.”

  “They won’t hide there forever. And I can guarantee they won’t follow you here,” Cecily said. At least she hoped they wouldn’t. “The story will die down as soon as the next manufactured scandal hits. Which, I predict, will be sometime within the next seventy-two hours.”

  “I asked her if she had any allergies,” Bailey said. “I have all kinds of menus to choose from, and she chose that one.”

  “Don’t worry. This will all work out,” Cecily promised.

  It was as if Bailey hadn’t heard. “I’m ruined,” she said again.

  “Only temporarily.”

  “Well, how long is temporary?” Bailey cried.

  That was something for which Cecily had no answer.

  * * *

  Ruined, Bailey thought miserably as she ended the call with her sister. She’d gone to the hospital to see Samba, thinking maybe they could talk, that she could explain why her food couldn’t possibly have made the actress sick. She’d even brought flowers. She’d encountered a hired guard at the door of Samba’s private room, and all he’d allowed in had been the flowers, along with the get-well card on which Bailey had written, I hope you feel better soon. But now she hoped Samba contracted terminal acne.

  Well, okay, not really. She liked to think she was better than that.

  Samba was out of the hospital the next day, shopping on Rodeo Drive, pretending to look annoyed when photographers took her picture. Of course, she’d given a quote to any paper that was interested. “I really don’t know what happened.”

  Bailey knew what had happened. She’d been duped.

  “All I want is to put this behind me,” Samba said, posing like a tragic heroine.

  Sure, now that she’d milked all the free publicity she could out of ruining Bailey. Rumor had it that Samba had been offered a part in a pilot for a new TV series, some sort of female detective show. (That was rich. Samba Barrett, who had just faked her own food poisoning, solving crimes.)

  Meanwhile, Bailey couldn’t even get a job catering to street people. She’d been dubbed “the party poisoner,” and not only had she lost business, but she was also the butt of everyone’s jokes. One late-night TV host had cracked that he’d planned to hire a caterer for his birthday party but changed his mind since he wanted to live to see his next birthday. Ha-ha.

  She’d finally given a quote to the Star Reporter, a diplomatic but strongly worded quote, insisting, “I don’t know what happened to Samba, but I know it wasn’t my food that made her sick. No one else at that party got ill.”

  The paper had run with it, and the next headline proclaimed, Caterer Claims Samba Barrett Faked Food Poisoning. Great. That was almost as good for business as the original incident.

  This will all work out, she told herself. Just like Cecily had said. When life gives you lemons make lemonade. Or eat chocolate. Except her chocolate stash was gone. Okay, she needed a drink.

  She went to her fridge to pull out a Coke. None left. The refrigerator was a giant, near-empty cave, containing a bag with a few spinach leaves, half a tomato, some canned olives and pickles and a dab of Gruyère. At some point she was going to have to go out and get groceries.

  Not today, though—at least, not in broad daylight. She’d have to wait until nightfall.

  Around ten-thirty, she deemed it safe to leave her apartment. No one jumped up out of the bushes as she dashed to her car, and she convinced herself that she was being paranoid.

  She drove to the supermarket; once inside, she hurried through the store, picking up produce, milk and juice. No photographer dogged her, and she let out her breath.

  But when Bailey went to pay, the checker kept studying her, all the while trying to appear as if she wasn’t. She could almost hear the checker thinking, Why does this woman look so familiar?

  The customer behind her had a copy of the Star Reporter and was eyeballing her, too.

  Now another shopper joined them, and he, also, began staring inquisitively.

  It was all Bailey could do not to pull out her hair and shriek. Instead, she paid for her groceries and said, “I didn’t poison Samba Barrett. She just got sick. Okay?” She didn’t stick around to find out whether it was okay or not. She grabbed her bag and left.

  As the doors swooshed open, she heard one of the gawkers say, “Do you think she did?”

  She rushed to her car, tripped in the process and dropped her grocery bag. A head of cabbage went rolling, and she dived to rescue it. As she plopped it back in the bag, she looked over her shoulder to check whether anyone had seen her clumsy moment.

  That was when she spotted the man with the camera lurking on the other side of the parking lot. Great. She could see the headlines now. Crazy Caterer Cracks Up at Supermarket.

  It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t done anything to anybody. And these buzzards knew it. Frustration and anger finally took over, and she did something she’d never done in her life. She lifted her hand and saluted the rat across the lot with one finger, and it wasn’t her index finger. There. That said it all.

  That would probably say it all in the next issue of the Star Reporter, too.

  But it didn’t make her feel any better. With a sob, she put her groceries in the car and drove away. How long was this going to go on? How long were people going to look at her as if she were some kind of sicko?

  How long was her money going to last?

  Chapter Two

  Not for the first time, Cecily asked herself what she was doing as she walked into the murky interior of The Man Cave on a lovely spring Friday evening. It was, of course, a rhetorical question. She knew what she was doing here. She’d been moving in this direction ever since she’d hit town and encountered Todd Black. It had been only a matter of time until she gave in and agreed to do more than trade insults with him.

  It was eight o’clock, and the place was full, mostly with men. The mechanic from Swede’s gas station was playing pool with Billy Williams and one of Billy’s cowboy pals, Jinx Woeburn, as well as a skinny woman with long, stringy hair wearing Daisy Duke shorts, cowgirl boots and a tight tank top. A couple of bikers and their babes stood in a corner, playing darts and drinking beer. The rest of The Man Cave’s patrons were lined up along the bar, draped over drinks,
watching a baseball game on the TV that hung over the array of booze bottles. They ranged in age from men in their twenties to grizzled old guys looking to get out of the house for a while. The vibe here sure was different from the bar at Zelda’s. That place buzzed with success and hospitality. The Man Cave was more of an “Aw, what the hell” kind of retreat.

  The clack of pool balls acted as a rhythm section for Trace Adkins’s “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk,” which was blasting from speakers in all four corners of the tavern, and that competed with the noise of the baseball game playing on the TV. The place smelled musty, as if no one had thrown open a door or a window in months. The pinball machine, Todd’s excuse for luring her over, sat in the far corner with an out-of-order sign on it. So much for his invitation to come in and show him what sort of pinball wizard she was.

  She felt several pairs of male eyes on her as she walked in. This was nothing new. She’d always attracted male attention. But here, in this tavern, she felt as if she were the one in the tight tank top instead of a conservative pink sweater and loose-fitting jeans. This place, it was just so...ugh.

  Todd had been behind the bar helping his bartender, Pete, but at the sight of her he came around and started moving toward her. He was dressed casually in jeans, loafers and a black T-shirt. It wasn’t so tight it looked spray-painted on like the one Bill Will was wearing, but it clung enough to let a girl know he was sporting some splendid pecs beneath it.

  He smiled at her, sending a jolt through her that ran all the way from her bra to her panties. What was it about this man? Did he have pheromone overload?

  She shouldn’t have come. If he kissed her, that would be it; she was bound to do something stupid and get her heart broken for the third time.

  Well, she had a great excuse to leave. There was no sense staying if the pinball machine was out of order.

  “You’re looking especially pretty tonight,” he greeted her, taking in her pink sweater. “Why do I look at you and think cupcakes?”

  She motioned to his black T-shirt. “And why do I look at you and think devil’s food?”

  Of course, he wasn’t insulted. Her comment served only to produce a grin on that handsome face of his.

  She didn’t give him a chance to say any more. “I might as well go. Your pinball machine is broken.”

  “No, it’s not. I just put the sign up there to keep everybody else off it.”

  She shook her head. “You could’ve put up a sign that said Reserved.”

  One dark eyebrow shot up. “What does this look like, Schwangau?”

  Good point. The Man Cave was hardly an upscale restaurant.

  He nodded toward the bar. “What would you like to drink?”

  “Coke.” If she were at Zelda’s she’d have indulged in some girlie drink like a Chocolate Kiss or a huckleberry martini, but his place was no Zelda’s. Anyway, it was a given that an evening of verbal sparring with Todd Black would require her brain to be in top working order. She wasn’t about to cloud it with alcohol.

  “Rum and Coke?”

  “Just Coke.”

  “You live dangerously, Cecily Sterling.” He held out some coins and said, “Go on over and warm up. I’ll get the Cokes.”

  “Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.” She took the coins and walked over to the corner. It was a vintage model from the seventies called Pin Up—a sexy name for a game with a bowling theme. This was going to be fun. By the time Todd joined her she’d studied the landscape of the machine and was ready to rock and roll.

  He set their drinks on a nearby empty table and said, “Okay, let’s see how long you can go.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go first? I’ll last a lot longer than you,” she taunted him.

  He leaned in close, his breath tickling her ear. “You have no idea how long I can last.”

  That hit her zing-o-meter. She made a determined effort to ignore it and turned her back on him. “Okay, you had your chance.”

  She positioned herself in front of the machine, standing straight. Then she put the ball in play, waiting patiently, not overworking the flippers, nudging the machine enough to get it to work with her but not to the point where it would tilt and end her game. The play went on. And on. Oh, this was fun!

  At some point she became aware of the fact that she’d gathered a crowd. And soon the crowd began whooping and clapping. It finally messed up her concentration. Her game ended, and she stepped back from the machine with a frown.

  “That was something else, Cec,” Bill Will said reverently.

  “Impressive,” Todd admitted.

  “I thought this was broken,” one of the bikers said, glaring at Todd.

  The man wasn’t much taller than Todd, but he was twice as big and he looked like a block of cement with legs. And attitude. Weren’t most bikers these days supposed to be nice, middle-aged men? Dentists who’d always wanted to own a Harley? Maybe this particular specimen hadn’t gotten the memo.

  Todd wasn’t fazed by the customer’s ire. He merely shrugged and said, “I guess she fixed it.” He motioned to the game with his hand, and the big guy pushed his way up to it.

  “That was convenient,” Cecily teased. “Now you don’t have to compete with me.”

  He grinned. “I can think of other things I’d rather do than compete.”

  Zing! So could she. Meanwhile, Jake O’Brien’s new hit song, “Hot and Bothered,” boomed from the speaker.

  Todd picked up her glass from the table and handed it to her. “The darts corner is empty. Wanna give it a try?”

  “Try is about all I can do,” she said.

  She proved it right away. She could barely hit the dartboard, let alone the bull’s-eye, and he beat her soundly.

  He was about to give her some pointers when things got noisy over at the pinball machine. The big biker was not happy, and the whole room (with the exception of the TV and the music coming through the speakers) got quiet. Cecily watched as Bill Will, his buddy and the tank top chick casually moved away to the relative safety of the bar. The men on the barstools hunched even lower over their drinks. Meanwhile the biker animal was swearing and pounding on the machine. Bad pinball etiquette.

  “He’s going to break that,” Cecily predicted. If her big sister, Samantha, had been here she would’ve fearlessly strode over to the creep and let him have it. Cecily was not her sister.

  Todd didn’t have a problem, though. He went to the bar and had a quiet word with his bartender, Pete, then strolled across the tavern to where the gorilla’s friends stood nonchalantly watching as he tried to beat up the pinball machine. Trying to get in touch with her inner Samantha, Cecily followed, not sure what she’d be able to do if things got ugly.

  “Sorry, pal, but I’m gonna have to ask you to stop beating on that,” Todd told the man. “It can’t take that kind of abuse.”

  The biker stopped, and the way he scowled was clearly a challenge. “The machine’s rigged.”

  “What, to favor women?”

  Now the biker gorilla loomed over Todd. “Are you trying to make me look like a dick?”

  “Not at all,” Todd said easily. “It looks like you don’t need any help with that.”

  A couple of the older patrons at the bar snickered. Everyone else in the room braced for the fight that was about to begin.

  The biker poked Todd in the chest. “I don’t like smart-asses.”

  “And I don’t like jerks. I guess we’re not gonna be friends, so you may as well leave.”

  Todd’s antagonist puffed out his mammoth chest. “Yeah? Who’s gonna make me?”

  “The cops. We already called them.”

  “We haven’t done anything,” protested one of the biker chicks.

  Todd nodded. “So far, you’re good to go. I suggest you do that.”

 
The big man stood for a moment, obviously torn between his desire to pummel Todd and the wiser choice, which was to leave. Finally with a snort of disgust, he smashed his beer bottle on the floor, turned around and marched out of the tavern. His companions followed him out.

  Todd shook his head and went to his back room. A few minutes later he returned with a broom and dustpan and a garbage pail.

  That was when Tilda Morrison and Jamal Lincoln, two of Icicle Falls’s finest, made their entrance. Cecily watched as he stood talking with them, still unfazed by his close encounter with Godzilla. The man had nerves of steel. He also wasn’t above doing his own menial labor. There was more to Todd Black than a gift for flirting.

  “That little confrontation was either very brave or very dumb,” Cecily said after Tilda and Jamal had left. She took the dustpan to hold it for him.

  “You can’t wimp out with guys like that. Otherwise they eat you for lunch.” He smiled. “Anyway, it’s easy to be brave when you know the cops are on the way.”

  “I suppose,” she said dubiously. “Although he could have done some damage to you before they got here.”

  “Could have but didn’t.” He cleaned up the last of the mess and took back the dustpan. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Where?” she asked.

  “Someplace where I don’t have to stop what we’re doing to mop up beer. Let me get my stuff out of the office.”

  Talk about assuming that she was up for whatever he suggested! Well, maybe she was, since she hadn’t protested.

  He disappeared into the nether regions to stow away the broom and garbage, then reappeared wearing a black leather jacket and carrying two motorcycle helmets. After talking briefly with Pete, he walked over to Cecily and handed her one. “Want to take a ride?”

  She’d run into Todd around town more times than she cared to count, but she’d usually seen him in a truck. Why was she not surprised to learn that he rode a motorcycle?

  “So that’s why you weren’t afraid of that guy. You’re one of them,” she teased.