Babycakes

by Donna Kauffman

  “Rule number one,” Alva said, stepping forward. “What happens in Cupcake Club—”

  “Stays in Cupcake Club!” everyone finished in unison, with the occasional brandished spatula or pastry bag.

  Kit grinned. When you had an eighty-four-year-old, five-foot-nothing senior standing in front of you sporting pink hair, pearls, and another pirate apron—Errol Flynn this time—it was pretty much impossible not to. “Got it.” She made a zipping motion across her lips. “Thanks for the warm welcome. It smells incredible in here.”

  “It’s my new recipe,” Alva offered, ushering her farther into the room. “With Thanksgiving here in just a few short weeks, I wanted to celebrate the season.” She picked up a cupcake from an industrial-sized cooling rack positioned on one of the rows of worktables. “My very own Sweet Potato Tater Cakes. Have a taste.”

  Kit took the proffered cake. “That sounds . . . amazing.”

  “Cardamom Cream Cheese frosting. Lani’s recipe,” Alva added.

  “Can I?” Kit began peeling off the wrapper.

  “Of course!” everyone said, again in unison.

  She peeled off half the wrapper and used it as a cup to catch the crumbs as she sank her teeth into the cupcake. “Oh,” she said with her mouth still half full. “Wow.”

  Alva beamed with pride. “I’m serving them at my holiday poker party next week.”

  Kit took another bite, then thought did she say poker party?

  Before she could ask, a tall, muscular, and very swarthy young man approached, took her free hand, and bent over it in a deep, Gallic bow. “Bonjour.” His voice was a pleasant, deep rumble. “Pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Kit.” He straightened and smiled. “I am Franco.”

  Wow, again, Kit thought. Handsome, at home in the kitchen—and French. The evening was getting better by the second.

  “Wait . . . Franco? As in Charlotte’s—” She realized she was speaking out loud and broke off mercifully, before adding “gay best friend.” God. Five minutes in the door, and she’d already put her foot in it.

  “Partner in crime?” he finished, but with a twinkle in his eye that said he knew what she’d been about to say.

  “Oui, monsieur.” Kit laughed, recovering more quickly given his good grace. “I’ve heard great things.”

  “Of course you have, mon amie,” he said, still grinning, “for I am a great chef.”

  Kit laughed again, charmed. “I’m not usually so clumsy, sorry. I’m excited and happy to finally meet you.”

  “Forget about it,” he said, in his native Bronx accent, which made Kit laugh yet again.

  She knew he was a close friend of Charlotte and Lani, going back to their days in New York, and had made the move south the same time as Charlotte. He worked with her and Carlo in their catering business and as an assistant chef on Baxter’s television show. The times Kit and Charlotte had crossed paths at the same catering functions or foodie events, she’d talked a lot about Franco, but Kit had never had the opportunity to meet him.

  She wasn’t quite sure she recalled what Charlotte had said about why he’d adopted the whole French persona thing, but, he worked it so well, and was so damn over-the-top charismatic with it, she really didn’t much care.

  She turned to Charlotte, who’d woven through the tables to meet up with them. “You didn’t mention how good looking he is.”

  “Please stop now or we shall never hear the end of it,” Charlotte instructed, her lovely Indian accent accentuating each word. She glanced at Franco . . . who was preening. Even sporting a Pink Panther apron with Chef Clouseau stitched on the front, he managed to look hot as hell. “Although there really is no stopping him.”

  “I’m a force of nature, ma charmante amie.”

  “Oui,” Charlotte said. “Of the Category Five variety.”

  They all laughed.

  “I love the aprons, by the way,” Kit said.

  “Oh, I almost forgot!” Lani picked up a flat, folded bag and carried it over to Kit. “Dre made one for you. She’ll be here later. It’s a little different from our usual silliness here, so if it’s not ‘you,’ don’t worry. We just wanted something to celebrate the new business and your arrival.”

  “How is our Miss Dre liking her new job?” Alva asked. She’d gone back to her table and was presently swirling cream cheese frosting on the remaining Tater Cakes.

  “We haven’t really talked much.” Lani nodded at Kit to open the bag. “She’s only putting in time here on weekends now, and I’m thinking that’s not for much longer—which, totally selfishly stating, is killing me—but I’m thrilled for her. After all those years in school, I’m so happy she found something in her field so soon after graduation.” Lani turned to Kit. “Dre is a graphic artist. She designed all the signage and business cards and what-have-you for Cakes by the Cup. That’s how we initially met. She’s just landed a job with a small marketing firm in Savannah that works mainly with gaming companies, graphic publications, and things like that. Go ahead”—she waved her hands at Kit—“I’m dying to see it.”

  “You haven’t seen it?” Kit asked, dusting the flour from Lani’s hands off the bag.

  “She said she wanted to do something for Babycakes and to welcome you.”

  “That’s so sweet.” Kit was truly touched. “I look forward to meeting her.”

  “Open it!” the other four shouted in unison, all but bouncing on the balls of their feet.

  “Okay, okay,” Kit said, laughing, already feeling at home.

  She opened the paper and carefully slid out the folded apron wrapped in tissue. She laid it on the nearest clean work surface and folded back the tissue. Her gasp of surprise and delight was echoed by the rest as they crowded around the table. “Wow. Just . . . wow.”

  Kit looked up at Lani, stunned. “She designed this?”

  Lani was beaming like a proud parent. “Sure did. She’s brilliant and amazing.”

  “And then some.” The apron was a mural, top to bottom, side to side, of a rich, vibrantly colored fairy world, rendered in such elaborate detail it was truly breathtaking. A banner at the top, held up by tiny fairies, read BABYCAKES in beautifully stylized Old English script.

  “Oh, look!” Lani said, pointing. “It’s the shop. Wait, it’s all of Sugarberry!”

  Lani was right. The apron featured the whole island, transformed into a fantastical fairy world, with cupcakes perched in trees.

  “Ha! There we are!” Charlotte pointed at the seven fairies flitting about over the town square with tiny cupcakes in their outstretched hands.

  Kit smiled as she figured out some of them. The Alva fairy had perfectly coiffed silver hair and pearls around her neck. Lani’s fairy wings had an elaborate pastry with a heart in the center as part of the diaphanous detail. Charlotte’s fairy also had creative wings, a wedding cake etched on one side. Kit pointed to the red dash on the wings. “Is that a . . . chili pepper?”

  Charlotte smiled and her cheeks bloomed with a little color. “Yes. Carlo’s family is Cuban.” She reached out and traced the tiny wings and the heart that was on the tip of one of them.

  “Where’s Franco?”

  He pointed to the fairy with the French beret tilted at a jaunty angle. His was bigger than the others, and sported black peg-leg pants rather than a dress.

  “Who knew guy fairies could be so sexy?” Kit said, sending him a fast smile.

  “Oh, honey,” Franco drawled, “I’ve known that for years.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Alva pointed out the Dre fairy, who was the most . . . well . . . macabre of the bunch. Something of a punk fairy hairstyle, with a tiny eyebrow ring and detail of whimsical dragons in the wings made Kit even more curious to meet her.

  “Who’s that?” She pointed to a fairy with blond curls and a big smile. “Is that a Band-Aid on her wing?”

  “That’s Riley. She did all the photography for Lani and Baxter’s cookbook.” Alva traced the tiny bandage on the wing. “And she’s f
ine. She’s just what you might call a little. . . ungraceful, at times.”

  “She did the food styling,” Lani said, “not the photography.”

  Alva’s neatly penciled brows furrowed. “I still don’t understand why you need to pose the food. You put it on a nice plate, maybe add a pretty candle.”

  Lani looked at Kit over Alva’s head and they smiled. “She’s amazing. Wait till you see her work in the cookbook. We should be getting advance copies in soon.”

  “I can’t wait. Where is she? Does she come to these bake sessions, too?”

  “She’s one of us,” Charlotte said. “You’ll love her. Everyone does.”

  “She’s on book tour with her significant other right now.” Alva wiggled her eyebrows. “Really big deal.”

  “Oh?” Kit asked, surprised. “She’s a cookbook author, too? Or . . . he is?”

  “Oh, no. He’s Quinn Brannigan.”

  “Quinn Branni—wait. The Quinn Brannigan?” Kit had seen his handsome face smiling at her from the back covers of his books for years. “I didn’t know he lived there.”

  “Moved in just this past summer,” Lani said.

  “Whirlwind romance,” Alva added, hands clasped under her chin. “Real fairy tale.” She smiled up at Kit, eyes twinkling. “He’s a real hunk.”

  “First, Baxter Dunne and now Quinn Brannigan? What, is this like the Island of Hot Authors or something? And, if that’s the case, what was I doing in Atlanta all these years? Where do I line up?”

  Alva patted her hand again. “I told you, dear, just give us a little time.”

  Grinning and shaking her head—but not entirely sure Alva was kidding—Kit looked back at the apron. Riley’s fairy had a little heart on her wing, too. She noted that Dre’s didn’t . . . and neither did Franco’s. Maybe that signified who had a love in their life and who didn’t. She noticed Alva’s had a heart on hers. And the heart itself had little angel wings. She felt a tug in her own heart at that. The late Harold, she was guessing.

  She looked up at the group gathered around the table. “You all are amazing.”

  Lani put an arm around Kit’s shoulders, leaned in, and pointed with her other hand. “There’s you.”

  That tug tightened a little more when Kit spied her own fairy likeness—short red hair . . . and a slice of pie in her hand—and gave a soft gasp. “Oh.”

  Lani’s arm around her shoulders tightened. “I’m sure she meant it as a tribute, not to hurt—”

  “No,” Kit said quickly, which was hard to do over the sudden lump in her throat. “I love it. It’s just right.” She blinked back the threatening tears and smiled. “I can’t wait to meet Dre and thank her. This is just . . . tremendous. I don’t know how she did this so quickly. I haven’t even been here a week—”

  “I think she had a lot of the apron done and was just waiting to see who the newest addition would be.”

  “I’ll cherish it. I almost hate to think about actually wearing it. I wouldn’t want to mess it up.”

  “It was meant to be worn,” Lani said.

  “I know, it’s just, I’d feel awful if anything hap—”

  “Put it on!” everyone shouted, once again in unison, making them all laugh, Kit included.

  She wanted to look at it longer, but did as commanded and slipped the apron loop over her head. Franco brushed her hands away and took the side straps, making quick work of the bow, then snugging it tight and flipping the ends with a flourish. God, he was so cute.

  “Give us a show, mademoiselle,” he said, twirling his finger over her head.

  Kit held her arms out and spun in a circle.

  Alva did a fierce wolf whistle, surprising a laugh out of Kit and loosening her up a little more. She shook her hips and turned again, much to the delight of Franco, who swept her into his arms and twirled her effortlessly around the table. She squealed in surprise, but did her best to keep up with him.

  “Just go with it,” Lani said.

  Someone punched on some music, and a moment later they were all shaking their groove thing. Yeah yeah. Alva and Charlotte were doing The Bump and Lani was doing some kind of backup singer line dance.

  Kit thought they were all a little nuts . . . and kept right on dancing with Franco . . . and laughing like she hadn’t in far, far too long.

  She might not have a heart on her fairy wings, but her own heart was much fuller. Welcome to Cupcake Club, indeed.

  Chapter 6

  “Can I wear my green skirt?”

  Morgan looked up from the papers he was sorting through on his recently uncovered desk. “Let me see.”

  Lilly held up the bright green skirt. It was made mostly of long netting with what looked like sparkles attached all over it. “Where on earth did you get that?” He smiled, unable to imagine Olivia ever allowing something so . . . frivolous.

  Her expression smoothed. “I wore it to Mallory Worth’s birthday party. We all dressed as fairies.”

  “It’s quite . . . amazing,” he said, not meaning to dampen her spirits. He propped his elbows on his desk. “Does it come with proper wings?”

  Lilly’s mouth tilted tentatively at the corners and she nodded. “It’s my very favorite dress in the whole world.”

  “Then of course you should wear it. This is a very special day. Wings, too.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, then turned to run out, but stopped short and turned back around. “Thank you, Uncle Moggy.”

  So polite. He sighed, but it was accompanied by a sincere smile. “You’re very welcome. Hurry and get dressed. We don’t want to be late.”

  He expected her to dash off, but she hung in the doorway a moment longer.

  “Do you need me to help you with it?” He was still a bit awkward with the whole dressing the little girl part. Mostly he let her choose what she wore, just making sure she was warm when she needed to be and cool enough when it got hot. He supposed that would change when it came time to put her in school, but he had the holidays yet to sort that all out.

  “No, I can do it. But”—she looked at the dress—“do you think Grandmother Wiggins will like it?”

  Morgan laid the newly found folder down and pushed back from his desk. “She’ll love it.”

  He walked over to Lilly and crouched in front of her. “She’ll probably wish she had one of her very own.”

  Lilly cracked a smile at that. “Grandmothers don’t dress like fairies.”

  Morgan had an immediate image of his mother in such a getup and choked a little. “Maybe. But I bet some grandmas would think it’s pretty cool.”

  Lilly thought about that. “Will Grandmother Wiggins think that?”

  “I have a pretty good hunch she might. And I bet she’d really like it if you just called her Grandma Birdie. But let’s go find out for ourselves. Hurry, we’re picking up cupcakes on the way.”

  Lilly’s eyes widened. “Cupcakes?”

  Morgan nodded. “Birdie—Grandma Birdie—asked if we’d bring dessert to the picnic. And there’s a bakery on the square that makes very special cupcakes. Good idea?”

  “Best idea.” She turned and raced down the hall toward her room.

  Morgan stood and stared down the hall, even after she’d closed her door. Some days with Lilly were good days, some were more challenging. It was starting out to be a good day. A really good day. He prayed he still felt that way when it was over. His own stomach was in knots over the pending picnic. He couldn’t imagine how Lilly was feeling.

  “Watch the wings,” Morgan cautioned Lilly as he pulled open the door to Cakes by the Cup.

  “I am.” She stopped as soon as she stepped inside, blocking Morgan in the open doorway. “Whoa,” she marveled.

  Morgan shuffled her inside and closed the door behind him. The cold snap had gone, but it was still cooler than usual. “Whoa, indeed.”

  The shop was outfitted like a retro ice cream shop—except it was for baked goods. At least that’s what he equated it to. Antique glass display cases toppe
d with old-fashioned glass domed cake stands were filled with amazingly decadent-looking cupcakes.

  “Awesome fairy dress.”

  Lilly and Morgan turned toward the voice and saw a twenty-something girl manning the register, which was also a gorgeously restored antique. Behind her was a set of floor-to-ceiling inset shelves filled with kitschy retro baking items and a display of cookbooks written by the shop owner’s husband. Morgan recognized him as Baxter Dunne, television’s famous Chef Hot Cakes.

  However, his attention was focused exclusively on the counter help. In his defense, given her stubby, purple Mohawk and the multiple silver rings piercing one eyebrow, it was kind of hard to look anywhere else.

  “Thank you,” Lilly said, responding to the compliment, her private-tutor voice back on display as she edged closer to Morgan’s leg.

  “I’ve got fairy wings, too,” the girl said. “Wanna see?”

  Morgan felt Lilly press her body more firmly against his leg, but she nodded, her eyes wide.

  The girl came out from behind the counter, revealing an apron with Gandalf from Lord of the Rings on the front. It was rather stunning, actually, with a gorgeously designed backdrop that almost looked hand painted. Lilly crowded against Morgan as the girl came closer.

  Morgan noted the stitched word Dre on the top border of her apron and extended his hand. “Hello, Dree, I’m—”

  “Morgan Westlake,” the girl said, with no hint of derision. With no hint of anything, really. “Small island. And it’s pronounced Dray.”

  “Ah. Well, hello, Dre. We’re here to pick up a few cupcakes.”

  “For the picnic—with Birdie Wiggins.”

  “How could you know that?”

  A hint of a smile played around her surprisingly makeup-free mouth. Maybe she’d used it all up around her eyes. “Really small island,” she repeated, then crouched down to Lilly’s level and spun so her back was to them. She reached back and lifted up the Mohawk spikes that covered her neck.

  Lilly drew her breath in. “Does your hair hurt?” She sounded concerned. “It’s very pointy.”