How to Stir a Baker's Heart

by Candice Sue Patterson

  “I came to drop off the packet, but I also came to discuss—”

  “Harrison,” he finished, around a mouthful. Mr. Greene looked everywhere but at her. His cheeks turned a blotchy magenta.

  “Why are you holding the cat hostage?” Olivia shifted on the coffee-brown cushion and placed her hand over Mr. Greene’s to soften the sting of her words.

  He sighed and returned what was left of the brownie to the box. “I’m not holding him hostage.” He rubbed his hands together to rid the traces of chocolate. “GiGi’s welcome to come and get him whenever she pleases.”

  GiGi? “You mean she hasn’t tried that already?”

  He hung his head. “Haven’t seen her in almost a month.”

  Olivia sank against the couch. She hadn’t thought to ask Mrs. Campbell if she’d tried going to Arthur’s house to retrieve the cat herself. She’d assumed that had been the woman’s first move. Now, here Olivia was, stuck in a love triangle between two old people and a cat. “Why did you take Harrison in the first place?”

  Arthur ran his finger along the seam of the couch. “So she couldn’t cut me completely out her life again.”

  Again? This was worse than a soap opera.

  Her thoughts must’ve shown on her face because Arthur continued before she could respond.

  “Summer, 1955. The age of Elvis, Chuck Berry, and the best looking car Chevy ever created. I’d just taken GiGi to see East of Eden with James Dean and Julie Harris. The day had been perfect.” He sighed, his eyes glazing over with faraway memories. “We strolled along the harbor, hand in hand, enjoying each other’s company and the double-dipped cones I’d bought at Schweenie’s Ice Cream parlor.” A grin lifted the folds of his cheeks. “She let me try her orange creamsicle. When I offered mine, she leaned in too close and smeared butter pecan on the side of her mouth. I’d forgotten to grab napkins, so I—” Arthur cleared his throat. “Anyway, I knew she’d be disappointed when I told her I’d joined the Army, but I never expected she’d get mad enough to marry another man.”

  Oh. “She didn’t know you wanted to join the military?”

  “She didn’t understand my need to do my part. Things were heating up in Vietnam. There were rumors that Eisenhower might send in combat troops at any time. I was young, strong. Capable of helping my fellow men end the conflict within a few short months.” Arthur shook his head at his own naïvety.

  Harrison purred from his position cradled in Grandma’s arms. She rocked him like a newborn, his tail swishing from side to side.

  Olivia scratched between Harrison’s ears. “What happened?”

  “Her letters became scarcer each passing month. A year after boot camp, I received the final one letting me know she was getting married. I didn’t think she’d go through with it. Not after I begged her not to. I eventually got deployed and then returned home after an oxygen tank fell and crushed my left foot.” He tapped it against his walker. “After fighting in Vietnam, all I had waiting for me at home was years of physical difficulty and dreams that would never come true.”

  Olivia looked around the room. No pictures adorned the walls. No knick-knacks. Not the slightest feminine touch appeared to have ever lived here. “Did you ever marry?”

  He swallowed. “No.”

  Fat tears blurred her vision. Unconditional love.

  “When Jerry passed away two years ago—God rest his soul, he was a good man—I was ready to pick up where GiGi and I had left off. Even if our dates took us to the pharmacy instead of the drive-in.”

  Olivia smiled. “What happened?”

  “I asked her when she was going to take off Jerry’s ring and start wearing mine. She nearly exploded.”

  “That was a rather backhanded proposal.”

  “It wasn’t my words. It’s me. She started ranting about the past, waving her little arms in the air. The next thing I know, I’m on the sidewalk staring at the slammed door with only my walker for comfort. She refused my calls, my visits. So I stole her cat.”

  “Why?”

  “So she’d have to come over to get him. Then she’d have to talk to me. Look me in the eyes and tell me why she was throwing me away again.”

  Hostage-for-ransom. Not too unlike the criminal version, where the kidnapper holds someone hostage based on emotional upheaval. Arthur Greene didn’t fit the threatening profile so there was no need to alert the authorities. The situation did need resolved, however.

  Question was, how deep into the lives of the residents of Stone Harbor was Olivia willing to wade?

  15

  Blake grunted as the screw slipped off the drywall and plinked to the floor. He should’ve taken Dad up on his offer to help after they’d torn out the old plaster in the spare bedroom yesterday. The man’s pinched lips and the tight skin around his eyes told Blake that Dad had pushed his old back injury too far. Stubborn man. He bent and picked up the screw when a faint voice hit his ears. He stood and cocked his head toward the open bedroom door.

  “Blake? Are you home?”

  Olivia. With dinner. Was it really five o’clock already? “Be right down.” Dropping the screw into a pocket of his tool belt, he inhaled the aroma of something delicious wafting up the stairs. He detached the battery from his cordless drill and plugged it in to charge. Before he had time to remove his tool belt, Olivia entered the room.

  “I brought dinner.” The last word plunged. Her gaze roamed his unshaven face, his shirt, the tools hanging from his waist. By the time she made it back to his face, her creamy skin had toasted with a beautiful flush.

  She must’ve noticed his amusement because the heat instantly doused to irritation. “Flannel again? It’s a hundred degrees up here.”

  As if the temperature had anything to do with it. He smoothed a hand down his shirt. “Yep. It’s not above seventy outside yet.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What do you do then? Have flannel tank tops specially made?”

  “Nah. I just cut off the sleeves.” He chucked his elbow out.

  “You don’t.”

  “Chicks dig it.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Wait and see, sweetheart.” He winked, barely able to contain his laughter over her curled upper lip and lowered brows.

  “No thank you.” She nodded her head at the hallway. “I left Grandma on the porch with Scooby. Dinner is in the kitchen.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  He followed her downstairs. Halfway down, his nose caught something spicy. He sniffed again. “Is that—?”

  “Buffalo chicken wings with homemade bleu cheese dressing.”

  He almost missed the last step.

  Olivia turned, arms crossed. “I notice you’ve about worn out that baseball cap.” She flicked a hand at his head. “They play tonight at six. I figured you for the type to never miss a game.”

  Homemade wings. With baseball. This woman would make the perfect girlfriend. She giggled, and that’s when he noticed he’d been rubbing the warm sensation on his chest.

  “There’s also celery and carrot slices, focaccia bread, and peanut butter cupcakes—after the wings have settled.”

  “Eat with me.”

  “I’ve already eaten.”

  “Stay for dessert then. Watch the game with me. Please.”

  The battle warred behind irises that darkened from sky blue to stormy. “As nice as that sounds, Flannel Man, I can’t.” She turned and stepped onto the porch, the screen door slapping shut just like his opportunity to impress her.

  He’d wear her down. Eventually. The way she looked at him these days proved she was softening toward him. Blake followed her out.

  Mrs. Hudson sat on the top step, Scooby half-laying in her lap. She hummed, stroking the dog with a tenderness only a grandma possessed.

  The evening sun cast a golden glow on the side of Olivia’s smiling face, making Blake desire more than ever to scale the wall she hid behind. Earn the right to touch her soft cheek. He pointed at the dog. “Now he’ll expect me to
hold him.”

  Olivia set that smile on Blake, and he had to force himself not to beg her to stay. “Grandma’s whole personality changes around animals,” she whispered. “Of all the things she’s lost, she still possesses the instinct to love and nurture.”

  “Have you thought about getting her a pet?”

  She shrugged. “Not really. Maybe I should. I just don’t know that I could handle one more thing to take care of.”

  “You could get a low-maintenance pet like a goldfish or a cat. Just not both.”

  She laughed. “A cat might not be bad. Other than a litter box they generally take care of themselves. And she did enjoy spoiling Harrison yesterday.”

  “Harrison?”

  “Oh.” She rubbed her fingertips along her forehead. “That’s another mess I’ve gotten myself into.”

  Blake shifted his weight to the other foot and tucked his hands in his pockets. “What do you mean?”

  “Eugenia Campbell came in Wednesday, upset because her boyfriend had stolen her cat, Harrison. Turns out the boyfriend is—”

  “Arthur Greene.”

  “You know this?”

  “Everyone knows.”

  “Well, I didn’t.” She sighed. “Anyway, she begged me to take him a box of brownies and talk him into returning her cat he’s holding for ransom in exchange for a viable reason why she’d dumped him. I had to drop off the itinerary for the Fourth of July festival anyway, so…”

  “You felt sorry for Mrs. Campbell and talked to Arthur.”

  The corner of her mouth twisted. “Guilty.”

  Olivia might portray a cold, independent woman, but her heart was softer than sifted sugar. “How’d it go?”

  “He’ll return Harrison when she comes herself to get him—which I thought she’d already tried. He’s basically forcing her to hear him out.”

  “Lover’s quarrel.”

  “Part of me just wanted to snatch the cat and return him to his rightful owner so it would all be over. But considering their history…I couldn’t do it.”

  Blake nodded. “Arthur told you about the summer of 1955.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You knew that too?”

  He chuckled. “He tells that story to anyone who’ll listen. As many times as they’ll let him tell it.”

  “Sounds as though you need to be on the Case of the Hostage Cat.”

  Blake threw his palms out and backed up a step. “Sorry, I’m no expert at matters of the heart.”

  She studied him a moment. A shadow crossed over her features. Olivia gazed at the pasture. “Apparently, I’m not either,” she mumbled.

  Her tone implied the comment wasn’t based on Arthur and Eugenia’s situation.

  “Most of us aren’t, I’d say.” Blake spread his feet wide, prepared to investigate as far as she’d allow him. “When I was a kid, my mom had this flowery picture on our living room wall, a paraphrased printing of First Corinthians, thirteen. ‘Love is patient, love is kind. It is not jealous. Love is not pompous, inflated, or rude. It does not seek its own interests, is not quick-tempered, does not brood over injury. It does not rejoice over wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I remember that. Whenever my brother and I would fight as kids, Mom would make us copy it in cursive like ten times. And it had to be legible.” That heavy cloak of fury that smothered Blake whenever he thought of Lucas settled over him. Why had he mentioned his brother?

  After a few moments of silence, Olivia looked at him, a sad smile curling one side of her mouth. “I think only dogs are capable of that kind of affection.” She looked at Scooby.

  As if recognizing he was the topic of discussion, Scooby flopped over on his side so Mrs. Hudson could rub his belly, and let out an I’m-in-doggie-heaven moan.

  Blake knew Olivia was deflecting the topic by turning her attention to the dog, but the ache in her voice made him think she believed her words. “Dogs and Jesus.” She blinked at him. Swallowed. Gave a slight nod.

  If Olivia believed anything, Blake hoped she believed that.

  A shiver rocked her body, and she rubbed her arms. “We should probably go, Grandma. Blake’s putting up new drywall.”

  “It can wait.” The mention of Jesus had obviously affected her enough to retreat. She descended the steps until she stood in front of Mrs. Hudson.

  The woman ignored Olivia and continued stroking the dog. “I love peaches.”

  “His name is Scooby.” Olivia patted the mutt’s head.

  Oh, she was calling the dog Peaches.

  “I love Peaches.” Mrs. Hudson’s words grew louder.

  Olivia closed her eyes for a few seconds, then looked to Blake for help. He snapped his fingers at the dog, and Scooby slowly raised his arthritic body and padded to his side.

  “Peaches…” Hurt laced Mrs. Hudson’s words.

  Blake felt like a jerk.

  Olivia helped her grandma stand. “How about we go to the shelter next week and get you a pet of your very own. A cat maybe? You can name her Peaches if you want.”

  “Peaches?” Mrs. Hudson nodded.

  “We’ll go Monday.” Olivia turned to Blake and mouthed Thank you.

  He lifted his hand in a wave. “There’s another game on next Saturday. I’ll save you a seat in front of the big screen.”

  “You don’t give up easily, do you?” Olivia said over her shoulder.

  Not when it was something important.

  16

  A Stone’s Throw Beauty Shop was located two blocks from the bakery, across from what used to be Hammond’s Shrimp House. Olivia had to squint to read the faded letters on the sign. Shame the place wasn’t still around. The building held a coastal ruggedness that would appeal to tourists.

  Many of the current businesses were nearing the completion of their makeovers, while the bakery was just today getting started. They closed early on Wednesday afternoons, and she’d promised Blake her help as soon as Grandma got her hair done.

  Olivia parked on the curb and walked around to the passenger side to Grandma’s door. “How do you want her to do your hair this time?”

  Grandma took her offered hand and stepped onto the sidewalk. “Braids.”

  While braids would be much easier for Olivia to handle every morning than Grandma’s short bob shellacked with hair spray, it wasn’t feasible. “We’ll see what she can do. Would you like her to add some color? Dark gray, maybe? Blue, purple?”

  Grandma made a disgusted face.

  “My thoughts exactly.” Olivia shut the door and clicked the lock button on her key fob.

  The pungent odor of perm solution assaulted them as they stepped inside the salon. With today’s technology, why couldn’t someone invent a liquid that didn’t make a person cringe?

  Six women, all around Grandma’s age, sat beneath ancient bulbous hairdryers.

  “Hello, Elizabeth.” Wanda Russelburg tossed her magazine aside and stood from her swivel chair. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  Grandma clutched Olivia’s arm and pulled her closer, shrinking away from the hairdresser. Wanda had been doing Grandma’s hair for fifteen years.

  “She’s a nice lady,” Olivia whispered. “She’s going to trim your hair so it’s easier for me to style. She’s done this for you lots of times. I’ll make sure she treats you right.” She patted Grandma’s hand.

  Reluctant, Grandma moved forward at Olivia’s prodding. The stylist’s chair presented a bit of a challenge for Grandma this time, but within a few minutes she was seated with a smock covering her body.

  Wanda grabbed the comb and scissors and looked at Grandma in the mirror. “What can I do for you today?”

  “Braids.” Grandma raised her chin much the same way she had as a child, Olivia was certain.

  Wanda raised a questioning brow.

  “I was thinking something in the way of this.” Olivia pulled out her phone and showed Wanda a pic
ture of an older, classy actress. “I like the dark gray lowlights.”

  “Ooh, I love it.” Wanda took the phone and showed Grandma, who curled her lip.

  “She’s old.”

  “She’s mature. Like we are.” Wanda, at least twenty years Grandma’s junior, patted Grandma’s shoulder and returned the phone. “I think you’ll look fabulous. What do you say?”

  “Braids.”

  Olivia leaned down to Grandma’s eye level. “That’s the great thing about this style—it can be braided because it’s longer without the perm. If you approve, I promise to braid your hair every night before bed.”

  Grandma’s eyes narrowed. She glared at Olivia for a long time before finally nodding her agreement. “Braids.”

  Olivia held up her hand. “Deal.”

  Wanda winked and left to mix the hair color. Olivia fetched Grandma’s book from her purse. The title indicated a murder mystery in a flower shop. She wondered, not for the first time, if such books were healthy for an Alzheimer’s patient. The genre had always been Grandma’s favorite though, and reading kept her mind active while she still possessed the ability.

  Olivia settled in a chair of her own and skimmed through the pamphlet they’d gotten at the animal shelter. Grandma had been crushed when they’d pulled into an empty parking lot to find the shelter was closed on Mondays. She’d thrown a fit to rival any toddler. The bakery had been swamped with two birthday cake orders, and an order for six dozen yeast donuts for the American Legion breakfast, so a return trip yesterday was out. The security company was installing a wireless monitoring system at home this evening. Olivia’s promise of a pet would have to wait until the weekend. Thankfully, Grandma hadn’t brought it up again.

  Olivia was strongly leaning toward a cat. An online newspaper source had written about a nursing home in Connecticut that had brought abandoned newborn kittens to dementia patients for bottle feedings. Studies showed the loving, nurturing instinct was one of the last traits lost in the majority of patients. Not only did the kittens thrive, but so did the patients.

  A young stylist with blonde streaks in her black hair, or vice versa, sashayed to the hair dryers and turned one of them off. “All right, ‘Genia, you’re all done.”