Second Time Around

by Beth Kendrick

“But I just closed escrow! No one said anything about ‘outdated and potentially dangerous’ during the home sale inspection. They said the electrical stuff looked fine!”

  The inspector rubbed his chin. “Follow me.” He led her down to the basement, where he pointed out the electrical service box tucked back by the laundry room. “Here’s the problem. The fuse box and the meter box look like they were upgraded in the 1960s or ’70s. Whoever upgraded them also put in a new breaker box and spliced a few yards of Romex wiring to the old knob-and-tube wiring. Then they put up paneling over the studs in the basement and the first-floor joints, so you can’t see the knob-and-tube system unless you know what to look for.”

  Brooke tried to appear as if she was following this explanation, but she hadn’t comprehended a syllable after the words “breaker box.”

  “I see.” Her mouth went dry. “And how much do you think replacing the wiring might cost?”

  “A lot.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “Well, it’s a pretty big house, so your material costs are gonna add up, plus you’ll need to pay by the hour for a contractor or two.”

  She steeled herself.

  He adjusted the brim of his cap and threw out a dollar amount.

  “How much?” She stumbled back against the cold concrete wall.

  “It’s just a ballpark figure,” he said defensively.

  “That’s more than my down payment!” she cried. “This is outrageous. I will—I will sue!”

  The inspector squinted one eye. “Who you planning to sue?”

  “The college. The realtor. The home inspector. Somebody!”

  “The home inspector’s evaluation is limited by what he can see. If he didn’t rip open the paneling here, there’s no way he coulda known the whole house wasn’t up to code.”

  “But you figured it out!”

  “Only because I took a plug out of an outlet upstairs to make sure it was properly grounded.” He looked proud.

  “How very thorough of you.”

  “It wasn’t, by the way. Grounded. So as long as you’re rewiring the house, you need to install GFCI outlets, too.”

  She clenched her hands together. “What am I going to do?”

  “Way I see it, you’ve got two choices. One, you can bite the bullet and hire an electrician who really knows what he’s doing.”

  “And sell a few vital organs on the black market to pay for it? No thanks. What’s my other option?”

  “You can hit the library and the hardware store and try to do it yourself.”

  And here she thought the seller’s agent had been doing her a favor by expediting the title search and agreeing to a fourteen-day escrow. “I don’t suppose this is the kind of thing one can master with a trip to Home Depot and a few hours on Google?”

  “Not hardly.” He chuckled. “If I were you, I’d pay an expert and get it done right the first time.” He handed her a sheaf of flimsy pink carbon paper. “Your copy of the report.”

  “This is a nightmare. How am I—” She stopped short. “Hold on. You’re saying this whole house could burst into flames at any moment? We could all burn in our beds with no warning?”

  “Oh, you’d have plenty of warning, ma’am. The smoke detectors all work great. Have a nice evening.”

  Here’s the master plan: I’m making five separate sheet cakes with white icing, and I’ll pipe on the details with yellow and blue.” Anna waved her wooden spoon over the cooling cake pans like a culinary clergywoman delivering a sacrament. “I’m thinking the college’s Latin motto for the round cake and maybe the outlines of a few of the campus buildings on the square cakes. Like the student union, the president’s house, the chapel …”

  Jamie whistled in admiration. “You can freehand the chapel?”

  “If I can freehand the Eiffel Tower, I can freehand the chapel,” Anna assured her. “I just need a photo to work from. And then, for a little extra pizzazz, I thought I’d do a sampler of historical desserts. You know, like 150 years of pastry to celebrate 150 years of Thurwell.”

  “That’s a very cool idea,” Jamie said. “But I feel compelled to point out that we have less than thirty-six hours til the reception.”

  Anna put down the spoon and wiped her hands on a dish towel. “That’s plenty of time if we all work together. I’ll even whip up a batch of my famous caffeinated cupcakes if you’re lucky.”

  “Always the overachiever,” said Cait, who had returned from the store with a trunkload of baking staples. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

  “Get pregnant,” Anna said matter-of-factly. “Have a happy marriage.”

  They all abandoned their respective tasks and focused on Anna.

  “And please don’t start with platitudes and consolation.” Anna leaned over to check the oven temperature. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I came here to get away from all that.”

  Brooke finally screwed up her courage and asked the obvious question. “So you and Jonas are having big problems?”

  A crisp nod. “Affirmative.”

  “Do you think you’ll work it out?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Is there anything we can do to help?”

  Anna finally stopped fussing with the stove, drew herself up to her full height of five foot two, and regarded each one of them in turn. Her brown eyes were clear and her voice was steady. “Thank you, but no. I can take care of myself.”

  Meaningful glances ricocheted around the kitchen. Jamie and Cait clearly wanted Brooke to drop the whole topic, but Brooke, for all her ladylike delicacy, had never been fazed by Anna’s bluntness.

  “Of course you can,” she replied gently. “But if you want to talk—”

  “I don’t,” Anna said. “Being here, with you guys in this house, is therapy enough. Now let’s stop jibber-jabbing and get down to brass tacks. Or in this case, blue food coloring.”

  Everyone resumed working. Though the night outside grew chilly and dark, the kitchen stayed warm and cheery. They stirred and seasoned and sang along with the Go-Go’s and Liz Phair and the Indigo Girls until the first light of dawn.

  “This cake-decorating session is hereby adjourned for a nap,” Anna declared. “I’m so tired I can’t even pipe straight.”

  “I’ll stay up and make another batch of buttercream,” Jamie offered.

  “No, we need a break. Especially our little magnolia here.” Anna turned to Brooke. “You don’t look well.”

  “You do seem a bit peaked,” Cait agreed. “Ever since you came up from the basement. Everything go all right with the inspection?”

  Brooke retreated to the sink to wash her hands. “Yes, for the most part. Just a few minor things here and there: fix a loose board on the porch, replace a toilet, that sort of thing.”

  She couldn’t tell them about the wiring. Not now. Not while they were still in the process of bailing her out from her last careless mistake. If she were to break down and confess her mounting money woes, Anna and Caitlin would probably feel honor-bound to offer up their portions of Arden’s inheritance. Jamie definitely would. Brooke had already accepted more than enough assistance. They might all be back in their college residence, but this time they were living in the real world, and the time had come to stand or fall on her own merit.

  Thirty-six hours later, tired but triumphant, Brooke watched Anna and Jamie carry the cakes and confections out to Anna’s Volvo. Jamie waved as she climbed into the front seat. “See you in a few hours!”

  “Thanks again, ladies!” Brooke called back. “I’ll be on-site to help you right after lunch.”

  But first she had to squeeze in a quick meeting with Hank Bexton, the local contractor recommended by all the guys in Brooke’s office. Hank had sounded both authoritative and affable over the phone, and Brooke found herself daydreaming about a handsome, muscle-bound maintenance man, complete with chivalrous manners and washboard abs.

  At first glance, Hank appeared to fit the bill. He was young and str
apping, just over six feet tall with skin still tan from the summer sun and a chiseled jawline. Brooke introduced herself with a renewed sense of hope.

  “Paradise Found Bed-and-Breakfast, huh?” He nodded at the sign hanging over the porch. “That’s quite a name.”

  “Thank you. I’m hoping to open for business as soon as the electrical issues are resolved.” She summarized the insurance inspector’s report.

  He listened intently, then asked, “Mind if I poke around by the breaker?”

  She offered to lead the way, but he instructed her to wait in the living room. A few minutes later, he tromped back up from the basement, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Calling me was a good decision,” he said. “It looks like they let a band of chimpanzees loose behind that paneling. I’m surprised you have any electricity at all.”

  “But you can fix it?” Brooke asked.

  “Sure. It’ll cost you, but I can fix it.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and rocked back on his heels. “I’m probably the only one in town who’s got the know-how and the tools.”

  She batted her eyelashes for all she was worth. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could cut me a deal?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “I think my rates are fair and reasonable.”

  “Yes, but you see, I’m dealing with quite a lot of start-up expenses here and—”

  “That’s the cost of doing business. Old houses like this? It’s not all gingerbread trim and flower boxes. There’s a lot of upkeep.”

  “I’m aware.” She set her jaw. “And I’m not one to shy away from hard work. In fact, that’s what I’m proposing: I can help you. Evenings, weekends, any time I’m not at my day job, I can do whatever needs doing here. I’m a fast learner and very diligent.”

  He glanced at her immaculate manicure and one side of his mouth tugged upward in a smirk. “Yeah. I don’t think so.”

  “All I’m asking for is a trial period.” She let a trace of her lilting Southern accent creep into her voice. “Don’t be fooled by the dimples and the blond hair.”

  Hank’s smirk turned to a grin, and for a moment, she thought she had him. Then he winked at her and said, “Hey, have you heard this one: Why can’t blondes put in lightbulbs? Give up? ’Cause they keep breaking them with the hammers.”

  Brooke frowned. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Wait, I’ve got another one. Even better. How many blondes does it take to change a lightbulb? Three—one to find a bulb, one to find a ladder, and one to find a man.”

  “You know, I don’t think I’ll be requiring your services, after all.”

  “Aw, relax. It’s just a joke.”

  “Thank you and good-bye.” She marched across the room and held open the front door.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Quite.”

  “But I’m the only one in town who can get this job done before winter. Look, I’m sorry I offended you, lady. But you’ve got no other options here.”

  “A true lady always has options. I may have a manicure, Mr. Bexton, but I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.”

  “My cake is dough.”

  —William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew

  My word, Jillian, just look at this! It’s a work of art!”

  “I agree. It seems a crime to cut it.”

  “Did you see the chapel over here? And the student union? These cakes should be in a museum.”

  “They’ve really outdone themselves this time. Do you think the college hired a new pâtissier?”

  Jamie strolled into the crush of oohing and aahing trustees gathered around the cake. “Isn’t it incredible?”

  Everyone nodded. “Absolutely.”

  Anna hung back under an ivy-laden trellis and watched Jamie work the crowd. From the moment they’d arrived at the college president’s home to set up the garden reception, Jamie had assumed full command of the troops. She had charmed the caterers and joked with the students working as waitstaff, and now, an hour into the anniversary bash, everyone deferred to her. Even the weather cooperated; the afternoon was mild and sunny with only a slight snap of autumn in the breeze. Anna had to grin as she watched her housemate turn what could have been a stodgy social obligation into a rollicking party. Some things never changed. Jamie doted on the elderly guests, bantered with the younger ones, and cajoled everybody into having the time of their lives.

  Everybody except President Terrence Tait, that is, whose face reverted to a dour expression between animated bouts of glad-handing deans and trustees. Which was odd because, back when Anna had been a student, President Tait had been known for his humor and approachability. This afternoon, his negative energy tempered even Jamie’s ebullience. The two of them flitted across the lawn, alternately spreading sunshine and storm clouds, their paths never quite intersecting.

  Suddenly, Jamie grabbed Anna by the elbow and pulled her into the center of the throng.

  “Allow me to introduce the brilliant and talented Anna McCauley. Former Thurwell student and future pastry chef.”

  A smattering of applause broke out. “You did this? All by yourself?” asked a white-haired woman in a purple patterned dress.

  Anna shook her head. “God, no. I had lots of help. Including Jamie.”

  “Please.” Jamie waved the comment away. “All I did was turn on the mixer and grease the pan. Don’t be so modest, Anna!” She gestured to the baked goods with a flourish. “We gave her two days, and not only did she whip up these incredible cakes, she put together an entire dessert retrospective! Check it out: 150 years’ worth of delicacies on a silver platter.”

  “That is so clever,” declared a postmodern flower child with long brown hair, a batik skirt, and the subtle but unmistakable air of wealth. “And it all looks delectable. Tell me, what are these over here?”

  “Those are little slices of Election Cake. It’s sort of like fruitcake; they used to bake it in New England on Election Day. Lots of butter and brandy.” Anna overcame her reticence and started to enjoy the opportunity to share her passion for baking with an enthusiastic audience. “These are called ammonia cookies. Don’t be alarmed, I wasn’t pouring cleaning fluid into the dough! They’re just peppermint sugar cookies made with baker’s ammonia instead of baking soda. And here we have Victoria Sandwiches, which are basically layers of cream and strawberry jam between sponge cakes. Popular in Britain during Queen Victoria’s reign.”

  The flower child took a nibble and closed her eyes in a display of culinary ecstasy. “These are heavenly. Do you have your own bakery?”

  “No. I’m what you might call a dessert dilettante.”

  The older woman in the purple dress wagged her index finger. “Don’t sell yourself short, young lady. I know a thing or two about baking. It’s an art and a science.”

  “I suppose,” Anna said.

  Jamie slung her arm around Anna. “I always knew she was destined for greatness. We were housemates back in our college days. Both English majors.”

  “But you’re baking cakes now?” one of the student waiters asked as he passed by with a tray of empty water glasses.

  “Yep,” Jamie said.

  “And she’s an event planner,” Anna said. “We English majors are very versatile.”

  “Cool.” The waiter nodded. “That gives me hope.”

  “Why? You’re an English major, too?” Jamie motioned for him to pause so she could adjust his crooked black bow tie.

  “Yeah, my parents keep harping on me to study something quote-unquote ‘practical.’” He heaved a weary, put-upon sigh. “They want me to sell out to The Man and be a corporate bean counter or whatever. But I told ’em I’d rather be poor and authentic than rich and spiritually bankrupt.”

  “If I may offer a word of advice …” Jamie said.

  Anna’s cell phone rang and Jonas’s name flashed on caller ID, so she turned away as Jamie launched into an arm-waving, frothy-mouthed rant on the many benefits of selling out to
The Man.

  “Look into law school!” Jamie exclaimed. “You’ll thank me later.”

  Anna ducked under the trellis, flipped open the phone, and said hello with deliberate casualness.

  “Hi.” Jonas sounded even more guarded than she did. “How’s it going up there?”

  “Great, actually. The cakes turned out better than I expected and I decided to do a bunch of old-school pastries to commemorate the sesquicentennial anniversary theme.” She went on in this vein for several minutes before she realized he wasn’t responding. She broke off and asked, “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” He coughed. “It’s just—my boss wants to send me to Europe to review the production records at the new factory in Brussels.”

  “Really?” She brightened. “That’s wonderful!”

  “I didn’t think you’d be in favor.”

  “Are you kidding me? Free trip to Europe? Of course I’m in favor. When do we leave?”

  He paused. “That’s the thing. We wouldn’t be going. Only me.”

  “Is that the company’s decision, or yours?”

  “A little of both.” Another pause. “I think you and I could use some time apart.”

  “Oh.” Anna swallowed back her fear and frustration and asked, “How long will you be gone?”

  “Not long. A few weeks, maybe two months.”

  “Two months!”

  “I know,” he said. “Two more ovulations you’ll never get back.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.” He sounded rushed and rehearsed, as if he’d been dreading this conversation all day. “Look, my boss has been hinting that I might be up for a promotion if this trip goes well, and I was thinking we could use the extra money to—”

  “Try in vitro again?” She perked up.

  “No. We’re done with IVF. I told you, it’s time to move on.”

  “I see.” And with that, she put her emotions on autopilot and focused on getting to the end of this conversation without any more dashed hopes or hurt feelings. “Well, if you’re worried about wasting your money, you shouldn’t. I’ve already offered to use my inheritance from Arden to pay for all our future fertility treatments.”