Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie

by Donna Kauffman

  “For you, bella, I’d be honored to make the introductions. Consider it a favor to your aunt.”

  Honey grinned, feeling charmed, amused, and maybe even a little flustered—which, given he was also clearly gay, either said a lot about his bullshit skills or even more about the sad state of her only recently reborn libido.

  He opened the door with a flourish, then leaned in before she could enter. “So, Bea was always a laying-on-of-the-hands type. I’m guessing you’re more of a—”

  “Laying-off type,” she finished, nodding with him. “It’s a little more intense for me than it was for Bea. Direct contact is the trigger.”

  “Understood,” he whispered, leaning closer as the noise and music inside the kitchen came thumping out through the open doorway. “You’re safe with me.” He straightened and made an exaggerated doorman flourish. “Now, entrer vous with your bad self.”

  Already laughing, Honey met the cupcake ladies. And, much to her delighted surprise, that set the tone for the evening. Alva immediately came over with her official cupcake club apron for the evening. Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow.

  “A pirate is a girl’s best friend,” she said with a penciled eyebrow wiggle.

  Franco introduced Honey to Charlotte Bhandari, who had known Lani since they were in culinary school. She was striking with her beautiful, long black hair and exotic Indian accent. Honey had thought her more formal than the rest of the crew until she and Lani shared a snicker over the inadvertently phallic results of a roulade gone terribly wrong.

  Honey had also been introduced to Dre, who’d been there since the start of the club along with Alva and Charlotte. She learned their get-togethers had begun a few years before when they’d stayed after hours with Lani while she worked off her brand-new bakery—and new relationship—stresses by, what else . . . baking. Dre was in her early twenties, a recent art school grad and dedicated foodie who had met Lani when she’d proposed a shop logo and marketing ideas as part of a school project. She’d been Lani’s first part-time hire, and though she now worked full-time for a graphic art and ad agency in Savannah, she still pitched in when she could and seldom missed a “bitchy bake” as Alva called it. Honey was mostly fascinated by Dre’s midnight blue Mohawk, eyebrow piercing, and what looked like a gorgeous fairy tattoo on the back of her neck.

  Honey met Kit, of peanut pie fame and manager of the about-to-open Babycakes, and got a good look at the incredible piece of artwork designed by Dre that was the official Babycakes shop apron. A map of Sugarberry had been turned into the most complex, delightful, fully detailed fairyland Honey had ever seen. “We definitely have to talk,” she blurted out in awe and already in love with Dre’s artistic point of view.

  “Coolness,” Dre said in what was her standard, understated demeanor—which didn’t translate at all into an understated passion for what she did. Immediately, she produced a sheaf of drawing paper and slid it across the worktable to Honey. “I checked out your website. Awesome work. I had some ideas for signage, postcards, shop aprons. If you’re interested.”

  Honey flipped open the folder, and her jaw had dropped straight to the floor as she glanced through the first few pages. “Oh my God. These are”—she looked up at Dre—“coolness.”

  The corner of Dre’s mouth crooked into something that resembled a grin. Or it could have been the lip ring. Either way, she seemed happy, then ducked her head and went back to work on some elaborate chocolate structure Honey couldn’t begin to describe.

  Riley was the only one missing from the festivities. She and Quinn Brannigan—the drop-dead gorgeous, famous Southern mystery author—had taken her houseboat down to the Keys to meet up with some foodie friends from her Chicago days. She’d done all the food styling for Baxter and Lani’s latest cookbook, and had done a mouth-watering job. Honey knew that firsthand as Lani had gifted her with an advanced copy, signed by all three of them.

  Honey had seen Lani’s hot British hubby on television, and had met Kit’s significant other Morgan briefly in the alley behind the garage when her mind had been on other things, but not so much that she hadn’t noticed he was also quite gorgeous. If aunt Bea hadn’t already dearly departed, she’d have killed her for not mentioning the ridiculousness that was the stunning male population on Sugarberry.

  Of course, Bea had spent her formative years in Hollywood and Vegas, so maybe good-looking men had just been a blur of sexy grins and six-pack abs for her. Of course, that made Honey think immediately of Dylan. Thank you for leaving one for me, she thought with a private grin.

  “Taste test,” Alva called out above the thumping bass beat of Vicki Sue Robinson singing “Turn the Beat Around.” It was disco night at Cupcake Club.

  “I’m game.” Honey gladly put down the pastry bag Lani had trusted her with. She could handle sharp carving tools with ease, could mold a lump of clay into the cutest little garden sprite you’d ever seen . . . but give her a bag filled with rich, creamy Italian mascarpone and hazelnut filling and ask her to shoot it into little carved out cupcake holes and . . . well . . . let’s just say she made a better taste tester.

  “Oh, look. They are too cute!” Honey watched as Alva carefully lifted out one of the perfect little miniature apple pies and set it on a tiny plate.

  “You don’t have to go to all the trouble,” Honey assured her. “Just give me a fork.”

  “Oh no, dear. This pie is meant to be eaten only one way.”

  Lani popped up behind Alva with a carton of vanilla ice cream and a big metal scoop. “A la mode! After this early heat wave we’ve been having, we’re all taste testing this one.”

  Franco groaned. “I’m so glad you talked me into staying,” he said around a mouthful of ice cream and pie. “But I’m going to hate you in the morning. Fair warning.”

  “It’s really wonderful,” Honey agreed. “Like your own individual cupcake.”

  “Only it’s pie,” Kit said, her eyes closed in bliss as she licked her spoon. “I’m sorry. I know cupcakes are my future, but Alva, this is a genius tribute to my past.”

  “Well, you’re the one who helped figure out the recipe,” Alva said, but it was clear she was loving the adoration and praise.

  Lani and Honey ended up at the industrial kitchen sink at the same time with their empty tins and spoons. “I haven’t had the chance to even tell you,” Lani said, “but Morgan put together a folder for you. It has all the documents—copies of the lease agreement, the licenses, and inspections we went through during renovations, including the agreement signatures of the management company—okaying every change.”

  “Lani, I didn’t think you did anything wrong—”

  “I know, but I still feel like I’ve put you out on the curb. And as my new landlord, you’ll need all of this stuff, anyway.”

  “I got copies of most of it this morning from the courthouse and management company, but it’ll be good to have both sets in case I’ve missed anything.”

  “So . . . it’s true, about the bookstore space?” Lani clasped a hand to her chest. “I have to tell you, I’m so relieved and excited for you. Is it—are you okay with it?”

  “I’m a little overwhelmed, to be honest. It’s bigger and in need of an undetermined amount of work because it’s been empty so long.” Honey couldn’t stop the smile from turning up the corners of her mouth. “But I am excited. It’s really the perfect space. Better than Bea’s would have been, to be honest, if I can get it where I want to. I’ll know more in the next few days after I get it looked over.”

  “Oh! I can give you a list of everyone who did work for me, renovating this place and Bea’s—with notes on who to use, and who to run screaming from.”

  Honey laughed. “Thank you. That’s a big help.”

  “I almost hate to ask this because things seem to be turning out decently, but . . . have you figured out where you’ll be staying?”

  “Staying? Oh, I’ll . . .” Honey more or less froze. She’d been so focused on the should she�
��shouldn’t she question of taking Dylan up on his offer, she hadn’t even thought about that part. She couldn’t afford to keep paying B&B rates for a room, so . . . huh. “I haven’t figured that part out yet,” she admitted. “Maybe I’ll camp out at the store space, at least for the time being. It would be convenient, anyway.” Not to mention cost-effective.

  Lani frowned. “I haven’t been in any of those buildings, but I know they’ve been closed up for at least a decade or more. I can’t imagine it’s livable, at least not before you do some work to it. Plumbing, lighting, air, I mean. You have no idea—”

  “I know,” Honey said. “Don’t remind me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lani said, instantly contrite. “I’m not trying to rain on your parade. When I found this little place empty and made the decision to relocate here permanently to stay close to my dad, and to start something under my own name it was terrifying and thrilling all at the same time. If anyone had told me how hard it was going to be to get it up and running, I’d have hopped the next train back to New York. All I can say is, there will be those days, a lot of them, but hang in there.” A smile creased her face that was nothing short of blissful. “It’s all worth it, trust me. And then some.”

  “I hope so,” Honey said, intimidated and bolstered. “Don’t worry about the rest of it. I’ll figure it out. I did want to ask you one thing. No one seems to know where my aunt might have stored her personal things. I found out she took most of her furniture and things like that when she moved to the senior center, but none of her personal effects—the things she gathered over a lifetime, her mementos, photo albums, that sort of thing—are at the center. Neither her attorney nor the management company have them, either. I thought she was still living over her shop, so is it possible she left anything there? Or had it stored somewhere on the island when she moved to Savannah?”

  “She did!” Lani put her hand to her forehead. “I’m so sorry. I completely forgot about that. We turned the upstairs into Kit’s office and storage, but yes, yes, there is a big old steamer trunk and some other boxes. I was going to ask the management company what to do with them, but never got around to it. They’re tucked in a back corner and, honestly . . . I sort of forgot about them. I’m so sorry!”

  “No, no, that’s okay.” Honey’s heart squeezed and emotion choked her throat, so it took a moment before she could continue. She’d have something of her aunt’s after all, and she hadn’t realized how much that really meant to her. “I’ll . . . I’ll arrange to have it all moved over to the shop space. I’m just—”

  She paused, dipped her chin, and pushed at the corners of her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, smiling through the glimmer of tears. “Truly. It’s all been such a shock, but that makes it more bearable, more . . . tangible. I—thank you.”

  “You let us know whenever you’re ready and I’ll have it taken over. No hurry. If you want to go up and look through it all before moving stuff, that’s fine, too. Whatever is good for you. I feel so bad. If Kit wasn’t still living in the apartment upstairs over this place, I’d invite you there, but with Morgan having Lilly and all, they’re being a bit more careful about her staying at his place and—”

  “Stop. It’s fine,” Honey said, realizing it really was. “Nothing may be going as I’d thought it would, but it’s all going. I’ve got something to work toward and that’s all I really wanted. Meeting you all tonight, having everyone so open, and so . . . understanding has been great. You can’t know how much that means to me. You really can’t.”

  “I can’t claim to know what it’s like to be that isolated, no,” Lani said. “My life in pastry kitchens was the exact opposite. I might have wished I had your life then.” She laughed. “And I’ll have you know it’s still killing me not to hug you right now. But I do know something about wanting to start over, wanting something for yourself . . . to be respected for your work, and to build something worth growing. I got so much more than I ever bargained for, coming here. If you talk to Kit or Charlotte or Riley or Franco, they’ll all tell you the same thing. You came to the right place, Honey. None of us are ‘normal,’ you know?” She grinned as she made quotes.

  “It’s like the island of misfit toys, only we’re bakers and stylists and . . . well . . . and carvers. I can’t wait to see your work. I can’t even imagine looking at a chunk of wood or a lump of clay and seeing something in it.

  “I can’t imagine looking at butter, eggs, flour, and sugar and whipping up the things you do. I’m lucky to scramble an egg and make a decent piece of toast.”

  “Well, you come to our bitchy bake nights and we’ll make a baker out of you yet. Or just give you a place to bitch. Trust me . . . you’re going to need it.”

  Honey laughed. “Gee, thanks. I mean that. And I might take you up on it. The bitching and the baking. I know I will master the first, but you have your work cut out for you with the second.”

  There was a knock on the back door, right next to where they were standing. Honey looked over to spy Dylan on the other side of the screen door. It was pitch black outside. She glanced at the clock on the opposite wall, shocked to discover it was after ten o’clock. She looked back and caught Dylan’s gaze.

  He touched two fingers to his forehead in a little salute. “Taxi service, ma’am.”

  Lani looked at Dylan, smiled, then looked back at Honey, then back at Dylan . . . and her smile grew wider. She leaned closer to Honey and, out of the corner of her mouth, whispered, “I know I’m totally stepping over all boundaries here and risking the start of a very good friendship, but if a guy who looked like him looked at me the way he’s looking at you . . .”

  From the corner of her mouth, Honey said, “You forget, I know what your husband looks like.”

  Lani’s grin was broad and devilishly wicked. “Exactly. And I married him.” She looked at Lani and winked. “Just sayin’.”

  “Not before he had to all but drag her by the hair into his proverbial man cave,” Charlotte put in. She had come up to stand behind them. “Whereas I, on the other hand, jumped Carlo at the very earliest opportunity. And every chance I got after that. Still do, in fact.

  “Yes, but you’re a slut,” Lani said in the way only best friends could.

  “Unrepentant-until-I’m-too-tired-to-see-straight slut,” Charlotte responded with that elegant accent of hers that made it much more amusing. She glanced at Honey. “And trust me, we have way more fun. Lani knows this to be true as well. Once you join the unrepentant slut club, you never go back. It’s all about finding the suitable member of the opposite sex for initiation.”

  “And I’ve heard he has a very suitable . . . member,” Lani murmured, then snickered, while Charlotte kept a perfect ladylike smile on her face.

  Honey’s mouth dropped open.

  “You comin’, sugar?” Dylan asked quite innocently.

  All three women choked on gales of laughter. The deeper his scowl, the harder they laughed.

  Alva came over and pressed a paper bag into Honey’s hands. “Give him some pie and he won’t be so surly. I put a few in there.” She leaned closer. “Bribe as needed.”

  Honey took the bag, hung up her apron, and thanked everyone. “I’ll come back by tomorrow to get the folder and talk about . . . everything.”

  “Everything?” Lani asked, and Charlotte wiggled her eyebrows.

  Honey almost lost it all over again, but managed to leave through the screen door Dylan held open before he abandoned her there for the night, leaving her to walk back to the B&B. It suddenly occurred to her she probably wouldn’t have had to walk back. She could have asked any number of people for a ride. Her people.

  “Good night, I take it?” Dylan asked as they crossed the alley.

  She looked at him and beamed. “The best. Dylan, I have friends!”

  Chapter 13

  For the next week and a half, it was the memory of that smile on her face that kept Dylan from wishing he’d never offered to let her move in next door. Not because she
was pestering him with questions or asking for his help, quite the opposite. Her bike would be parked in the alley behind the bookstore when he arrived at his garage in the morning and would still be there when he closed up shop at night. The only way to see her or talk to her was to poke his head in and see how she was doing.

  She’d always stop whatever she was doing and make time to talk with him, bring him up to date on how things were going, but he could see her mind was racing on to the million and one things she had to do—all of which were detailed on the clipboard never far from her hand. He’d managed to go thirty-one years without having her around, so why it was bugging him that she was so unavailable to him he had no idea.

  “Dude, you’re pouting. Not cool. You need to man up.”

  Dylan lifted his head from working on Honey’s old Beetle to give Dell a withering glare. Of course, Dell being Dell, it didn’t so much as faze him.

  “Chicks don’t dig it when guys get clingy.”

  Dylan bent back over the engine. “For your information, I don’t pout and I don’t cling. Never have, don’t plan on starting now.” He caught his knuckle on the carburetor piston valve spring and swore a blue streak, thankful for the opportunity. He sucked at the blood, spit out the grease, then pressed the gash against his T-shirt until it stopped bleeding. “Least she could do is ask about how things turned out with Frank,” he muttered. “Ask someone a favor, you should follow up. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  “You should ask her out on a date. Get her out of the shop and away from work.” Dell looked up from shelving air filters and lining up quarts of synthetic oil and grinned. “Then she can focus all her attention and make it all about you.”

  “I hired you, you know. I can fire you.”

  “Then who will be nice to your customers? Who will talk to Mrs. Bingle three times a day when she brings her car in every other week, convinced that her late husband jinxed it before he died? And who will listen to Ned Stultz tell us how he worked on Jeeps in the Army, and if anyone knows how to take apart and put together an engine, it’s him? Of course, that does his Cadillac no good whatsoever. And who—”