Just Desserts

by Barbara Bretton

  “Thank you.” Lizzie’s grin ran from right ear to left ear.

  She stifled a yawn. “What day is this? I’ve been working so hard I’ve lost track of time.”

  “Sunday,” Lizzie said, fingers dancing across the keyboard. “Almost noon.” She scanned the screen. “I sent you the tracking numbers for the gold and silver leaf from Autry Foods and the big drum of fondant from Non Pareil. Both shipments should arrive tomorrow morning but you never know.”

  “It’s Sunday?” Hayley asked. “Shouldn’t you be at Tracy’s party?”

  “It doesn’t start until two.”

  “Is Tracy’s father picking you up?”

  “I’m walking over with Amanda.”

  “Will Tracy’s father drive you home?”

  “I’m spending the night, remember?”

  “You know the rules.”

  “Don’t walk home. Call you for a ride if I decide to leave.”

  “Mr. G can repeat the words,” Hayley said, gesturing toward the gorgeous green parrot watching them from his favorite perch. “Do you understand the importance?”

  Lizzie rolled her eyes. “The world can be a dangerous place, blah blah blah.” She pushed her chair back from the desk. “I’m gonna go get ready.”

  There must be something in the air, Hayley thought, as she settled down again in front of the computer. Some strange transit of Venus or Mercury gone retrograde, an odd astral occurrence that would explain the bad moods, hurt feelings, and misunderstandings that had been breaking out from one end of the bakery to the other the past few days.

  Or maybe it was too much work for too many people in way too small a work space.

  Convincing Mercury to quit that retrograde nonsense would be easier than figuring out a way to pay for a larger building. She and Lizzie were still trying to figure out where the money for upgraded ovens was going to come from. Her dream of running the bakery operation separate from the cake-decorating side of the business was still a long way off.

  Thank God the orders had been pouring in at a fairly rapid clip. She had three designs that needed to be finalized before she could submit them. Usually she managed a twenty-four-hour turnaround time, but she had been so busy working on the cakes for the after-party that she’d let things slip. She thanked God on a regular basis for Frank and Maureen and Michie and everyone else at the bakery. If they ever tired of picking up her slack, her cake-decorating enterprise would come screeching to a halt.

  The bakery was Lizzie’s future. Stan had left it in her hands for a reason and that reason was her little girl. He knew his son’s faults better than anyone and he was determined to give his granddaughter the security his son would never provide.

  Stan hadn’t seen a future in fancy decorated cakes. His clientele was perfectly happy with buttercream rosebuds and “Happy Birthday, Tiffany” scrawled across the top layer with a pastry bag. The cake-decorating part of the business was Hayley’s baby and, unless she missed her guess, her future. One day she hoped to separate Goldy’s from the special-order-cake side of the business, but that was still a long way off. She wasn’t about to rock the boat until Lizzie was out of college and the tuition bills had been paid.

  Until then she had to continue to find a way to keep Goldy’s running smoothly while she poured her creative energies into her creations.

  She had worked out a production schedule that would bring her right up to the morning of the concert. Barring unexpected calamities, of course. One of Lizzie’s teachers had approached her about designing a cake for an engagement party three weeks out. A flaming red VW bug that would feed one hundred and not rack up more than three Weight Watchers points per serving.

  Of course, that meant she had to figure out what constituted a Weight Watchers point before she could promise anybody anything at all.

  Not that a new commission was a calamity, but it was time-consuming and right now time was the one thing she needed above everything else.

  She brought up the official Weight Watchers site and started reading about core plans and flex plans and points and was deeply immersed in figuring out how she could incorporate a hot fudge sundae into a weight-loss plan when her e-mail alert chimed.

  Not another royal missive from Jane, she prayed as she clicked over to her e-mail screen. She hoped her mother got the royal we out of her system before she showed up in Lakeside. This was South Jersey, the place where girls wore rhinestone tiaras with their swimsuits.

  TO: cakes@goldysbakery.biz

  FROM: finnrafferty@tommystiles.com

  SUBJECT: cats and dogs

  I took the “who’s the right dog for you” quiz on the animal rescue site and it said I’m a Chihuahua. As you can imagine, that’s a lethal blow to my self-image.

  TO: finnrafferty@tommystiles.com

  FROM: cakes@goldysbakery.biz

  SUBJECT: re: cats and dogs

  Thanks for my first laugh of the day!! There’s a lot to be said for being a Chihuahua. The first time I took the test it said I was a Rottweiler.

  TO: cakes@goldysbakery.biz

  FROM: finnrafferty@tommystiles.com

  SUBJECT: re: cats and dogs

  Sounds like we both have issues. So how did a Rottweiler end up a Lab mix?

  TO: finnrafferty@tommystiles.com

  FROM: cakes@goldysbakery.biz

  SUBJECT: re: cats and dogs

  I went in looking for a small, older, nonshedding dog. I ended up with a giant six-month-old Lab who sheds for a hobby.

  TO: cakes@goldysbakery.biz

  FROM: finnrafferty@tommystiles.com

  SUBJECT: re: cats and dogs

  I’m thinking maybe a cat.

  TO: finnrafferty@tommystiles.com

  FROM: cakes@goldysbakery.biz

  SUBJECT: re: cats and dogs

  Do you like cats?

  Her cell phone rang. Somehow she wasn’t surprised.

  “I don’t know any cats,” Rafferty said. “But what’s not to like?”

  “The litter box, for one thing,” she said with a smile so wide her face hurt. “If you’re looking for tail-wagging devotion, you might want to stick with canines.”

  “I’m definitely looking for devotion.” She could hear the answering smile in his voice. “I want someone waiting at the door for me with my slippers in her mouth.”

  “Her mouth?”

  “Or his mouth.”

  “Much better.”

  “So cats don’t do that?”

  “Not quite.” She started to laugh out loud. “Most cats expect you to be waiting at the door when they get home.”

  “That’s one of the problems,” he said. “The cat would have a long wait. I’m not home that much.”

  “How much is not much?”

  “We’re on the road six or seven months out of the year. And that’s a slow year.”

  “That’s horrible!” She grimaced. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I mean, I really do think it’s horrible, but I still should have kept that thought to myself. Not that I keep many thoughts to myself, but this might have been a good place to start.”

  “It’s not for everyone,” he admitted, “but it has its good points.”

  “I’m sure it does.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means what it means. I’m sure being on the road half of every year has some wonderful benefits.”

  “You’re talking groupies.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You thought it.”

  “You don’t know what I thought.”

  “Lawyers don’t have groupies. We have accountants.”

  She didn’t even try to hold back the laughter. “Do you like being on the road so much?”

  “I used to,” he admitted, “but it’s gotten old. Or maybe I have.”

  “You’re a lawyer. Why can’t you do your lawyering from East Hampton?”

  “Because I’m not just Tommy’s lawyer. I fill in on rhythm guitar.”

  “You
play rhythm guitar?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “No, I’m shocked. What are you, one of those Blues Brothers types?”

  He groaned. “Can’t get past the suit, huh?”

  “You have to admit your tailoring doesn’t exactly scream rock star.”

  “Come to the concert Thursday night and I’ll show you what else I can do.”

  A delicious shiver moved up her spine. Now it all made sense. He was a bona fide bad boy in good-guy camouflage. She switched the phone to her other ear to give herself a moment to regroup. This flirting business was unsettling.

  “Listen, I should have thanked you right up front for that extra backstage pass but I really won’t be able to use it.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “Actually I do,” she said, “and that’s why this is killing me. Give me your address and I’ll send it back so somebody else can use it.”

  “Keep it,” he said. “Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  “I wish I could.”

  “You can always press it in Lizzie’s scrapbook if you don’t use it.”

  As if on cue, her darling daughter appeared in the doorway.

  “Just a second,” she said to Finn, and then to her daughter, “You’re wearing that?”

  Lizzie glanced down at her faded jeans and favorite sweater. “Yeah.”

  “To Tracy’s party?”

  “It’s the twenty-first century, Mom. This is what you wear to a party.”

  She could hear Finn laughing on the other end of the line. “How about putting on the skirt you bought at Target last week?”

  “I’m late,” Lizzie announced. “Amanda’s waiting downstairs. I’ve gotta go.”

  “Don’t forget what I said: call me if you change your mind about spending the night. Do not walk home alone.”

  “Whatever.” Lizzie leaned in to peck Hayley on the cheek.

  “Not ‘whatever,’” Hayley retorted. “Just do it.” She softened a little. “Where’s her gift? Do you need any money?”

  “I got her an iTunes gift card and no, I’m okay.”

  With that her beautiful little Clydesdale thundered down the back stairs and out the door.

  “This time I wouldn’t blame you if you fell asleep,” she said to Finn. “Family business.”

  “Now I believe she’s really only fourteen.”

  “It gets confusing,” Hayley admitted. “One second I’m talking to Alan Greenspan’s long-lost granddaughter and the next second she’s Hilary Duff’s little sister.”

  “You handle it well.”

  “So far, so good, but if she takes after her mother, I’m in for a rough ride between here and her eighteenth birthday.”

  “You seem pretty levelheaded and goal-oriented to me.”

  “You should have seen me when I was her age,” she said, laughing. “I dyed my hair black, rimmed my eyes with kohl, and declared myself Queen of the Goth. It wasn’t pretty.”

  “Bad poetry and existential pain.”

  “Of course. And that lasted until I found out the really cute guys were the rockers and I turned all hippie chick.”

  “You still have a hippie chick vibe going for you.”

  “Did you just say ‘vibe’?”

  “I told you I wasn’t just a lawyer.”

  “Now I’m starting to believe you.”

  He was flirting with her. (Wasn’t he?) The teasing. The laughter. The underlying buzz of something more. And she was flirting back. (Okay, she was trying to.)

  “All things considered, I’d say you’re a dog person living a cat person’s life.”

  “Run that by me again.”

  “You want the devotion a dog gives you but your absentee lifestyle would work better for a cat. And not all cats, just the very independent ones.”

  “I thought all cats were independent.”

  “Not mine. They’re lap cats.”

  “What you’re saying is either I get off the road or settle for a houseplant.”

  “I’m not so sure about the houseplant.”

  “You don’t mince words.”

  “You asked,” she reminded him. “You wouldn’t want me to lie to you, would you?”

  “Give it a shot,” he said. “I’ll let you know.”

  They were back on familiar footing again, bantering back and forth, keeping that shimmering bubble of champagne dancing in the air between them.

  He was going to ask her out. She might have been out of the romance loop for a while but some things a woman knew without being told. This was goal-oriented flirting and any second he’d take it to the next level.

  She waited. He talked. She waited some more.

  They talked about cats. They talked about dogs. They ventured into birds, reptiles, and fish. God help them if they started on primates because after that it was a hop, skip, and a jump to ferrets.

  She couldn’t have been that wrong about the electricity between them. You could almost see the sparks leaping from her cell phone. She was sending out receptive signals. At least she thought she was. Flirting hadn’t been part of her skill set for a long time, but short of shrieking, “Ask me out, Rafferty!” into her cell phone, she had made it clear she was wide open to the possibility of breaking bread together.

  She babbled on about her menagerie. He responded with stories about Tommy Stiles’s considerable menagerie. She was a half step away from discussing the pros and cons of nonclumping litter.

  This wasn’t going well at all.

  “Here’s an idea,” she said. “Why can’t you bring your dog or cat with you to Mr. Stiles’s house during the day?” She took his silence as encouragement and pushed forward. “Your pet could board with his pets when you’re on the road.”

  “Fido won’t want to come home to Montauk after seeing the Hamptons.”

  “Fido will cope,” she assured him. “Anyway, it’s something to think about.”

  “What I’ve been thinking about is checking out one of the shelters.”

  “That’s a great idea. We have a wonderful shelter a few miles from the bakery. I volunteer there once a week and it takes every ounce of my self-control to keep from bringing them all home with me.”

  In the movies this would be the moment when the guy cleared his throat and asked the girl out on a South Jersey/Long Island shelter crawl, but Rafferty let the opportunity slip between his fingers.

  “So don’t be a stranger,” she said as the conversation wound down to a whisper. “Keep in touch.”

  She waited for the laugh.

  “That was a joke,” she explained quickly. “I was trying to give you an exit line.”

  “Maybe I don’t want an exit line.”

  Her heart stopped. This time she didn’t mind getting it wrong. If one of the Grey’s Anatomy interns saw her now, they’d slap paddles on her chest and prepare to call it.

  “Oh.” It was hard to say more when you were fibrillating.

  “Hayley, I—”

  He stopped. She waited. He remained at a full stop.

  “That’s it?” she asked. “‘Hayley, I—’ then nothing?”

  Awkward silence number 522.

  “You know what?” she said. “I’m all for letting a good silence run its natural course but you’re starting to drive me crazy. You called me, remember? The least you can do is finish your sentences.”

  Nothing. Not even heavy breathing.

  “That’s it. I’m going to hang up now.”

  “What are you doing for dinner?” He sounded almost as surprised as she was by his question.

  “Leftover pizza and whatever else I find in the fridge. Why?” Don’t jump to conclusions. Maybe he just wants to inventory your pantry.

  “How do you feel about take-out Chinese?”

  “Pretty much the same way I feel about dark chocolate and winning lottery tickets.”

  “Spicy or mild?”

  “Spicy. Is there any other way?” Was this going somepla
ce or was he just taking a survey for the Food Network?

  “There’s a great place here in town. Best Hunan chicken you’ve ever had.”

  Thanks for sharing, Rafferty. “Too bad they don’t deliver to South Jersey.”

  “They might.”

  “Yes, but that two-hundred-dollar surcharge is a killer.”

  “No surcharge,” he said. “But tips are appreciated.”

  “What exactly are you saying?”

  “If I break a few speed limits I can be there by four.”

  “You’re going to drive four hours to deliver Chinese food?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  She couldn’t help it. The word popped out: “Why?”

  “Because it’s the best take-out Chinese on the planet.”

  Not bad as far as reasons go.

  “And,” he said, “because I want to see you again.”

  But that was even better.

  Finn hung up the phone and wondered what in hell he had just done.

  Only a total head case would drive four hours on the freaking Jersey Turnpike to deliver Chinese take-out. The thing to do was call her back and cancel. He must have gone temporarily insane.

  Only a total head case or a man in—

  He wasn’t going there.

  He liked her. That was all. She made him laugh. Even better, he made her laugh. He liked her unpredictable turn of mind. He liked the fact that the woman got his jokes. Not even people who had known him since childhood got his jokes, but she did.

  She was unpretentious, down-to-earth, about as grounded in reality as anyone could be. She didn’t play games. If she wanted to say something, she said it. She asked questions. Sometimes painfully direct questions.

  Maybe this time those questions would get an honest answer.

  12

  By 2:30 Hayley had showered, washed and blow-dried her hair, applied then reapplied her makeup three times, tried on six different outfits, settled on jeans and a sweater, changed into a short black skirt and blouse, decided that was too date-y, changed back into the jeans and sweater, then suddenly realized her entire place was covered in a fine layer of cat fur, dog hair, parrot feathers, and the type of clutter usually associated with people who ended up on the local news after the township condemned their house.