Every day she was learning more and making fewer mistakes.
Through trial and error she’d whittled down her original fifteen recipes to ten, ditching some, replacing others, substituting ingredients here and there, experimenting when she had the time.
The cinnamon-apple simply hadn’t worked, the honey-sesame had morphed into ginger-sesame, the poppy seed–key lime had been a slow starter but now sold steadily—especially, for some peculiar reason, on Mondays.
She didn’t dare open without a good supply of at least two chocolate varieties. She’d learned to bag the leftovers in threes rather than sixes, and she’d introduced a special-offer variety each day. Thanks to Adam, she’d discovered an American Web site that sold discounted cupcake paraphernalia—themed paper liners, toppings, decorations—and she’d opened an account with them.
And she very quickly realized that mopping the floor at ten to five was practically a guarantee that she’d have a flurry of last-minute customers.
She was constantly tired. She dragged herself out of bed at three o’clock each morning and baked and iced and decorated solidly till just after half past eight, when she loaded the yellow van and drove to the shop. She fell into bed each evening, somewhere between eight and nine o’clock, to sleep soundly until the alarm beeped her awake again.
And on Sundays she regularly slept till midday, sometimes even later—a phenomenon that hadn’t occurred since she was fourteen.
She’d lost track of her TV programs. She hadn’t checked her e-mail in ages. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d opened a book; the only reading she did these days was a flick through the local paper in between customers, or a rummage in her cookbooks in search of new recipe ideas.
She’d forgotten what a social life was. In the month since Cupcakes on the Corner had opened she’d had the sum total of one night out, when Adam had finally persuaded her to visit the new wine bar with him a couple of weeks ago.
And while she’d enjoyed the buzz in Vintage—and the feeling that she was actually out for the evening—she relished even more her precious Saturday nights at home, when she could laze around the house or soak in the bath for as long as she wanted.
She had a few regular customers already. The secretary from the office block up the road who came in every Friday around eleven with the same order: “One coffee-cream, one vanilla-chocolate, three peanut butter, and four chocolate-coconut.”
The young man in a gray suit who stopped in every other morning for two of whatever was on special offer. One of Hannah’s old teachers, Mrs. O’Neill, who appeared every Saturday for a bag of leftovers for the three grandchildren who visited her each Sunday afternoon.
A young woman had come into the shop one day who looked familiar, but Hannah hadn’t placed her until the woman had smiled and said, Hey, I know you. You used to baby-sit me and my sister, Claire. She was Una Connolly, and she worked three afternoons a week in Clongarvin’s library, down the hill from Cupcakes on the Corner. She’d taken to dropping in with an order from the library at least once a week since then.
She told Hannah that Claire waitressed in the town’s only Chinese restaurant. She has a little boy, Una had said. Jason, he’s four. We’re all mad about him.
And every week Hannah made some money. Not much left over once the bills had been paid, not half enough to justify all her slaving, but it was her money, from her efforts. After running her own business for a month she was actually solvent, which seemed like a minor miracle.
And today, the eleventh of February, was her thirty-third birthday, and her feelings about this particular date were mixed, to say the least.
There was the memory of last year, of course. Boarding the Aer Lingus flight to Paris, still unable to believe what Patrick had arranged. Sharing a bottle of red wine in a tiny late-night bar, eating thick slices of rustic bread topped with peppery salami and gloriously pungent cheese. Dipping the crusts into the bowl of buttery, garlicky juice in which Patrick’s moules had been served.
Not mentioning that he’d packed the wrong shoes for her burgundy dress and not nearly enough woolens for the subzero temperatures, not caring that the shower in their hotel’s ensuite bathroom trickled tepidly. They’d huddled together under blankets that smelled of grass, and they’d listened to the ancient pipes clanking, and to a woman holding a one-sided shrill conversation somewhere nearby, and the faint horns and sirens and shouts in the street far below their two narrow, shuttered windows.
She blocked out the image of the Parisian bedroom—the flowers on the wallpaper had been blue!—and thought again about Adam sharing her house. Of all the people she could have picked to be her housemate, Adam would have been her unhesitating first choice.
The trouble was, she didn’t want a housemate. She wanted to share her home, and her life, with a romantic partner, like most women her age. Instead she had her best friend and an overweight black Labrador.
Still, it was better than living alone, wasn’t it? Eating a solitary dinner night after night, putting on the TV purely to drown the sound of your cutlery clinking as you speared a bit of sausage or scooped a mound of beans. Washing up your one plate, your single knife and fork.
Buying a toothbrush you didn’t need, because one on its own sticking out of the tumbler on the bathroom shelf was far too pathetic. Switching on the radio just to hear someone else’s voice as you cracked your umpteenth egg into flour, butter, and sugar—
The shop door opened, and she blinked the thoughts away. “Hi there—I wasn’t expecting you.”
Geraldine approached the counter. “I wanted to wish my only child a very happy birthday.”
Hannah regarded her with amusement. “You rang this morning, and you and Dad are coming around for tea later.”
“I know, but Adam will be there, and I just wanted to see you on your own and give you this, from both of us.” Geraldine reached into her basket and produced an envelope. “Happy birthday, love. It’s a check, I’m afraid, but we thought it was probably what you needed most right now.”
Hannah smiled as she took the envelope. “It certainly is—thanks a million.”
“And here’s a little something extra,” Geraldine added, taking a box from the basket, “because I couldn’t let money be your only present.”
“Ah, you didn’t.” Hannah opened the box and looked in delight at the pink shoes. “Oh, Mam, they’re gorgeous—you always know exactly what I like.”
As she slipped off one of her black pumps, her mother spoke again. “So how’s the new arrangement going with Adam?”
Hannah took a shoe from the box and bent to put it on. “Mam, he moved in yesterday.”
“I know, but you’d have some idea.”
“We’ll get on fine, I’m sure. He’s threatening to cook dinner every evening though.” She stuck out her foot. “Look—a perfect fit.”
Geraldine didn’t even glance down. “He’s going to have dinner ready for you when you get home? Isn’t that very thoughtful. Not many men would do that.”
Hannah hid a smile as she slipped on the second shoe. “I know—I’m really lucky. I should snap him up before someone else does.”
Geraldine looked sternly at her daughter. “I can’t imagine why you find the idea so amusing—”
She broke off as the shop door opened again, making the bell ping loudly. They both turned.
“Hello there.”
A man came toward them, his eyes traveling from one woman to the other. Hannah thought he looked familiar but couldn’t for the life of her think where she’d seen him. He held a sheaf of pages.
“I was just wondering if I could leave these on the counter.”
His accent wasn’t Irish. He held out a page, and Hannah took it and scanned it quickly.
“Carpenter available,” she read. “Custom-built kitchen and bedroom furniture. All jobs considered. Free estimates, recession-beating prices. Quality guaranteed.” And beneath, in smaller lettering, “John Wyatt” and a mobile-phone
number.
“I’m trying to spread the word,” he said. “Would you mind?”
“Of course not.” She took the bundle from him and placed it on the counter. “Are you just starting out?”
He didn’t seem young enough to be starting out. He was her age, easily, or a few years older. His hair was cut tight into his head, so short it was hard to determine its color. His chin was dotted with dark stubble. He reminded her of a PE teacher she’d had in school—Mr. Flaherty, was it, or Flannery? Maybe that was why she thought he looked familiar.
“I’ve not been long in this area, just a couple of months,” he told her, “but I’ve been a woodworker for quite a while, about fifteen years.” He switched his attention to the cupcake display. “Now, these are interesting—who’s the baker?”
“My daughter here,” Geraldine said immediately, smiling brightly at him. “Hannah. She makes the most wonderful gourmet cupcakes.”
“Well,” he said, studying the display, “in that case I shall take two of the…” He scanned the colored labels. “Vanilla-chocolate, please.”
“That’s a Scottish accent, is it?” Geraldine asked as Hannah pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and put his order into a box.
He nodded. “But my mother comes from Tipperary, so we spent a lot of time here as kids.”
“And what’s brought you to Clongarvin?” Geraldine didn’t see, or chose to ignore, Hannah’s frown.
He didn’t seem to mind the interrogation. “Change of scene.”
“You like it here?”
“I certainly do. Nice, friendly place.”
Hannah was terrified that her mother was going ask if his wife liked it too. “Three-fifty, please,” she told him quickly. “I hope you enjoy them—the vanilla-chocolate is one of my bestsellers.”
“Thank you.” He took the box and pocketed his change. “And I notice,” he said, nodding at the empty shoe box, still sitting on the counter, “that you also sell footwear.”
Geraldine laughed. “Actually, they’re a birthday present. It’s Hannah’s big day today.”
“Happy birthday”—he smiled—“and many more of them.”
“Thanks,” she replied, willing him to leave. She wouldn’t put it past her mother to tell him precisely how old she was, and how she was available if he fancied taking her out.
“Good luck with the work,” Geraldine said. “We’ll do our best for you here.”
“I do appreciate it.” As he turned away, the rocking chair on the wall caught his eye. “Well, now, that’s what I call an original design feature.”
“It belonged to Hannah’s grandfather,” Geraldine told him. “He made it possible for her to set up this shop, so she thought it would be nice to remember him in some way.”
“Good—I like a bit of family history.” He studied the chair, nodding. “Lovely workmanship. And the color is very…eye-catching.”
“Hannah has extremely good taste,” Geraldine said. “She has a way with color—you should see her house.”
“Mam,” Hannah murmured, throwing him an apologetic look.
He was amused; he could see exactly what was going on. “Well, I’d best be off,” he said, heading finally for the door. “Bye for now.”
They watched him walk out. “What a nice man,” Geraldine said. “And works with his hands—I like that.”
Hannah folded the plastic gloves and laid them aside.
“I love the Scottish accent, don’t you?” Geraldine said. “It’s so soft.”
Hannah replenished the supply of vanilla-chocolate cupcakes.
“I think he liked you. I mean, there was no need for him to hang around admiring that rocking chair.”
Hannah slid the full tray back into place.
“I wonder if he’s married,” Geraldine said. “He wasn’t wearing a ring, but maybe men don’t in Scotland.” She took a leaflet from the bundle. “Wyatt—does that sound Protestant to you?”
“I just love these shoes,” Hannah said.
At least Adam’s eligibility, for the time being, had been forgotten.
The best thing you could say about Clongarvin, Nora Paluzzi decided, was that it wasn’t as cold as New York in February. On the other hand, it was a whole lot wetter. It hadn’t stopped raining since she’d arrived, and thirty-six hours of nonstop driving rain were every bit as bad, in her opinion, as cold that cut right through to your bones.
But at least it wasn’t Dunmallon, where her parents had dragged her and Adam every summer, back to the farm where her father had grown up. Dunmallon with its single petrol pump, sub–post office, pathetically stocked supermarket, and scatter of pubs, all equally dreary. God, what a hole, everyone knowing everyone else’s business, or letting on they did. Everyone looked for you at Mass on Sunday, and woe betide you if you were missing without good reason. Ma and Da delighted to be back there now, God help them.
At least Clongarvin had some semblance of life about it, however parochial. The clothes in the few boutiques weren’t bad, there was a halfway decent deli—although the prices had shocked her; had Ireland always been so horrendously expensive?—and the two-screen cinema (two whole screens!) was actually showing movies that she’d seen in New York just a few months ago.
Not that she intended to make Clongarvin her home for any length of time—perish the thought. But it would do while she caught her breath and planned her next move. And it might be fun to look up some of the old gang from school—Francine, Jojo, Leah, Dee. She assumed at least one or two were still living here.
She walked into Adam’s tiny kitchen, which smelt of dog. The whole damn place smelt of dog—what had possessed him to get a huge Lab in this tiny apartment? She took the box of Cheerios from the shelf above the refrigerator—the fridge, the fridge—and shook out a handful. She shouldn’t eat, with dinner at Hannah’s just over an hour away, but her body clock was still all screwed up from the trip, so mealtimes were either forgotten or totally confused, and she was starving right now.
As she crunched, the calendar on the wall caught her eye. Valentine’s Day coming up—big freaking deal. She was finished with love and romance: been there, done that, got the divorces to prove it.
Mind you, she was a damn sight better off now than before she’d met her exes, neither of whom could live with the knowledge that everyone fooled around in New York. Nora only wanted a bit of fun on the side; where was the harm in that? But the professor had run for the hills before the ink was dry on the marriage license, and Dr. Paluzzi couldn’t hack it either, couldn’t turn a blind eye, more fool him. At least she’d had the sense to marry men with lots of cash—and Nora had enjoyed her share from the first divorce, and was looking forward to the next.
She wondered about the men of Clongarvin. She wondered if she’d find what she wanted among them while she was here. Just because she was done with love didn’t mean she was done with men—far from it.
She closed the Cheerios box and replaced it on the shelf. She left the kitchen and went into the doggy-smelling bedroom to make herself pretty for dinner.
“Does he look like you?”
Patrick shook his head. “Not in the least. He’s shorter and balder, and his eyes are blue.”
“And you said he’s younger.”
“Yeah, by three years.”
Leah’s hand rested on his thigh as he drove, her fingers stroking absently. He enjoyed how tactile she was—presumably from force of habit, since her job involved so much physical interaction.
“I’m dying to meet this brother of yours,” she said. “The first of your family to check me out.”
“That’s right.”
The surprise trip had been more awkward to arrange than last year’s. Getting time off for Hannah had been easy—a phone call to Joseph Finnegan at the bakery, and it had been sorted. With Leah he’d had to plan his strategy more carefully.
The reason for his brother’s imaginary visit home from London became a cousin’s imaginary fortieth-birthday celebrat
ion in County Offaly the following day, Saturday, to which he and Leah had also been invited. “They want us there by lunchtime,” Patrick had told her, “so you’ll have to take the whole day off. I’ve booked us into the local hotel for the Saturday night.”
“And what about Valentine’s Day?” she’d demanded. “Am I spending that in Offaly too?”
He’d assured her that he’d made plans for Sunday. What she didn’t know was that his plans were due to begin that very evening. He was assuming that the discovery that they were headed to Paris as opposed to Offaly would cancel out any annoyance Leah might feel at having been duped into thinking she was going to meet some of Patrick’s family. She’d met none of them so far, since Patrick’s father had left for his Greek Islands cruise just before Patrick and Leah had become an official couple, and now she wasn’t meeting his brother either.
He hoped she’d be pleased with the hotel he’d found for them on the Internet, which had better live up to its impressive description. No way could he risk ending up in a dump like last year’s—Hannah might overlook faulty plumbing and erratic heating, but Leah liked her comforts. Patrick had paid considerably more this time around, and he expected to be well rewarded.
“What time did you say his plane is in?”
“Ten to eight.”
Interesting how easily both women believed his lies. Hannah, of course, had had no reason to doubt him—until Leah, he’d covered his tracks well, been discreet on the few occasions he’d wandered. But Leah, who’d been party to his deceiving Hannah, who had seen him covering his tracks and telling his half-truths, still happily trusted him. Interesting how easy it was.
Interesting, too, how intoxicating deceit could be. Until Leah had managed to get pregnant and Patrick’s cover had been forcibly blown, the excitement of having both women, each so different from the other, had been wonderful. Sex, regardless of whom he was with, had been amazing.
And if Leah hadn’t gotten pregnant, who knew how long the situation might have gone on, despite her constant urging him to tell Hannah, to leave Hannah? Soon, he’d said, when the time is right, knowing, even as he spoke, that he was repeating the mantra of so many men—and indeed women—before him. Knowing that he would happily have lived with the situation long-term. What man wouldn’t, for Christ’s sake? And was it really so bad, trying to keep them both happy for as long as he could?
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