Love and Cupcakes

by Susan Bishop Crispell

  Jack touched her lips, remembering the sweetness of her first kiss.

  Graham glanced up and smiled at her. Thank God he can’t read minds. She forced herself to look away. No matter what she felt for him, he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—love her back. According to the Hollingsworth family legend, their first touch, which was also their first kiss, would have sealed their fate.

  He was her business partner and her brother’s best friend. Thinking of him as anything else, even in the privacy of her daydreams, was counterproductive.

  ***

  Although the shop was in the wrong direction, Graham detoured on his bike to make sure Jack had gone home. The shop lights were off so only a faint glow shone from the open stairwell that led upstairs. She had every light on in the apartment. The florescent glow poured out of the windows, drawing oblong shadows on the street below as it hit parking meters and car bumpers.

  He watched her shadow glide along the wall, like she was dancing. He slowed, letting his shoe drag on the pavement with a dull scraping of rocks on rubber until he’d stopped. The breeze ruffled his hair.

  Jack walked into view, spray bottle in hand. She’d changed into a tank and shorts and her hair was pulled back into a knot on the back of her head. For the second time that day, he found himself thinking about her in a way he couldn’t allow.

  He couldn’t break her heart. If he acted on his feelings, there was a good chance he would. He had enough of his dad in him for that.

  Graham pushed off and peddled hard. The physical distance he put between them did nothing to stop the image of her from replaying in his mind as he biked to Hutton’s.

  He let himself in the back door without knocking. “So, you really think it’s a good idea for Harp to move in above the shop?” he asked after Hutton had popped the caps off two beers and handed him one.

  Hutton’s kitchen was dim, with only the lights under the cabinets on. The refrigerator hummed in the background. Graham leaned against the granite countertop. It was slick under his palms.

  “She’s mentioned it a few times over the last year or so, so it’s not like it was my idea or anything,” Hutton said. He took a swig of beer and eyed Graham over the end of the bottle. “Think Jack’ll be nice about it?”

  “Give her a little more credit, man. She was caught off guard the other night. You know how they are with each other. You can’t blame Jack for not jumping for joy.”

  Graham moved to the table to sample the baked salsa and cream cheese dip Hutton’s wife, Aria, had made. He scooped some onto a Frito and burned the roof of his mouth. The cheddar cheese topping singed his throat when he swallowed. Coughing, he managed a weak, “Shit.”

  “By the way, it’s hot,” Aria said as she stepped into the room. Her husky laugh and Mediterranean skin always made Graham think of gypsies.

  “I noticed. If I can taste anything after that, I’ll let you know how it is.”

  “I’m counting on it. I’ve got a tasting for a Cinco de Mayo party next week and I need to get together a few options. I’ll leave y’all to your man talk.” She smacked her husband’s ass on the way out of the room.

  “Pregnancy’s made her frisky,” Graham said.

  “Not exactly,” Hutton said, grinning. “She says it’s only fair that if people are touching her belly all the time without asking then she gets to grab asses whenever she feels like it. We compromised on her grabbing mine only.”

  “Probably safer.” He smothered a chip in some dip and blew on it. The peppers sparked his taste buds as the cream cheese soothed. It was addictive, he decided, as he loaded a few more chips.

  Hutton joined him at the table and dumped a handful of chips onto the placemat. “How does Harper seem to you? You think she’s happy?”

  “I don’t know, I guess,” Graham said.

  “She hasn’t really given me a reason for coming home yet. She’s seemed really good the past few times we’ve talked so, I guess it’s the older brother in me that’s worried something’s wrong.”

  “If there is, she’ll tell you. To be honest though, I’m more worried about Jack.”

  With a chip halfway to his mouth, Hutton asked, “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. She’s been jumpy around me. Just not quite herself. Has she said anything to you? Did I do something?”

  “What are we, twelve-year-old girls?”

  The chair groaned when Graham shifted, straightened. “C’mon, Hutt. I’m not asking you for relationship advice,” he said.

  “Damn right you’re not. And in case you’re thinking of changing that, the rule about if you break Jack’s heart then I break your face still stands. So you can just take your soul mate–less self and find someone else’s sister to talk about.”

  Graham shoved away from the table and walked to the sink. He rinsed his bottle and dropped it in the recycle bin. “Screw you.”

  “Geez, you’re touchy,” Hutton said.

  I’m not the only one. Knowing his friend’s buttons, he pushed another. “Did you ever think that Harper wants to move above the shop to be closer to me?”

  Hutton’s shoulders tensed, only for a second, but long enough to let Graham know he’d hit a nerve. “Nah. She’s immune to you,” Hutton said.

  “I’ve got news for you. So’s Jack.” Even if she wasn’t, the Hollingsworth family myth stood in their way. Why the hell can’t I remember our first touch?

  Hutton waited until Graham had walked to the door. “You’re seriously worried about her?”

  Sighing, Graham went back and dropped into the chair. He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “I just don’t know what’s going on with her. She usually talks to me. But she’s been keeping stuff from me. Some of it’s personal and some of it’s work-related. But either way, it’s just not like her.”

  “No, that’s not. Think it’s Harper?”

  “That’s part of it, but she’s been like this for a few weeks so there’s something else going on. Will you see if you can get something out of her?”

  “I’ll do what I can. But if she’s not talking to you, she’s probably not talking to me, either.”

  four

  In Harper’s haste to get settled back in Sugar, she’d neglected to remember that Crumbs was there for one purpose—to sell cupcakes—and had initiated move-in in the middle of a week day without bothering to clear it with Jack.

  Jack didn’t know which annoyed her the most—the banging and scraping as her father and brother lugged Harper’s couch up the too-small staircase or her mother’s repeated insistence that Harper moving into the apartment was a good thing. She was trying to remain optimistic, but it was getting harder by the minute.

  Three customers had paused outside the door and walked on by when they noticed the furniture and boxes crowding the few feet of space between the tables and the counter. If Harper’s move made her lose another sale, Jack might call the whole thing off.

  She jumped when the floor above boomed and the wall shook hard enough to rattle the art hanging on it. Glaring at one of the paintings, she dared it to fall. She walked over to straighten it and reconsidered. The ceiling rumbled again, quieter this time, as her family maneuvered the sofa across the floor. Better wait until they’re finished, she decided and sighed.

  Not that her sister had that much stuff. From the looks of the belongings cluttering the front of the store, Harper only had the necessities: two sausage-like duffle bags; the bed from her room at their parents’ house; and reams of art supplies, including blank canvases in three or four different sizes, brushes, paint tubes, paint-spattered sheets, and three easels.

  Some things never change. As long as Harper had enough materials and space to paint, she could make anywhere home. And if this was now home, Jack figured she’d better make the best of it.

  She listened to the tinkling of voices drifting down the stairs as she surveyed the remaining pile of her sister’s things. Jack lifted a couple three-by-five-foot canvases and, gauging t
he weight, decided she could handle it. If she went up the stairs slowly.

  “Got a load coming up,” she called and shifted sideways to make the turn into the stairwell.

  Her dad was at the top, holding the door. His dark hair was flecked with gray, which stood out in the florescent light. “Thanks, darlin’.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Taking a quick break and then I’ll be back at it. Don’t have much left though.”

  She smiled up at him. “You got the heavy stuff. The least I can do is haul up some of the rest.” Resting the load onto her hip, she angled it so neither end scraped wall or floor as she went up. She was halfway when a rush of warmth traveled up her arms and settled in her head, making her dizzy.

  The tangy scent of mint and lime knocked her back a step. Graham. His desire—whatever it was—was unmistakable.

  She braced a hand against the wall to steady herself. The air was thick and clogged in her throat. It pressed against her, making each heartbeat vibrate under her skin.

  “Need help?” Graham asked.

  Jack took a deep, steadying breath. “I’ve got this one. But there are more down there, if you want to bring some up.” She readjusted her grip on the canvases, continued up, and brushed her lips against her father’s stubbly cheek when he took them from her. “Thanks.”

  “You and Graham go on. We can finish the rest,” he said.

  “Too late,” she said when Graham rounded the corner carrying an easel under each arm. She watched him come up the steps without distraction. Stepping out of his way and into the apartment, she noticed again just how little stuff her sister had.

  The studio layout maximized the space by eliminating any unnecessary walls. The living room fed into the kitchen, which was separated from the bedroom by a pocket door. Harper’s full-sized bed was against the back wall with a stack of folded sheets and blanket on one corner. Jack recognized them from her parents’ house. Harper didn’t have a dresser that Jack could see, but with only two bags of clothes, her sister could probably fit them all in the closet.

  Other than the one framed photo of Jack, Harper, and Hutton as kids that Hutton had brought that morning as a housewarming gift, there was no evidence her sister had had a life in the past five years. No pictures of friends, no ribbon-tied bundle of love letters. The only thing that came close was one portrait of a man half turned from view, which was propped on the kitchen counter. Harper had captured him—whoever he was—in mid-smirk. The mischievousness all but popped off the canvas.

  Catching her staring, Harper laid the painting facedown.

  Jack shrugged when Graham sent her a what-was-that-about? look.

  Her mom stood by the window. From the back, Charlotte Pace might have passed for her youngest daughter, minus the choppy pink sections of hair. She was slim and toned from walking miles on her treadmill each day. Jack walked over to the window seat and they sat together, looking out.

  The oak trees outside shook in the wind like a pack of wet dogs. Last year’s foliage flew from the trees and spiraled to the ground, a few at a time. The new spring leaves still on the branches were a deep, vibrant green. A woman tugged her toddler down the sidewalk by the hand and into the grocery store on the corner.

  “The wind’s getting crazy out there,” Jack said.

  “I know you’re not thrilled about your sister moving in, but—”

  “I’m gonna have to start a drinking game where we all take shots any time you tell me this is a good thing,” Jack said.

  “Very funny.” Her mom watched Harper a moment before turning back to Jack. “I was going to thank you. Your sister seems a little down and I think it’ll help her to be so close to you and your brother.”

  “Hey, Harp, do you have any liquor? Mama’s forcing me to drink.”

  “I am not,” her mom protested. She wrapped her cool fingers around Jack’s wrist when she tried to stand. “Harper, did you hear me say it was good?”

  “It was implied,” Jack said.

  “Aren’t you and Graham supposed to be downstairs working?” Harper asked.

  Before Jack could respond, Graham caught her eyes from across the room and shook his head. “We’re working on it,” he said.

  She clenched her jaw and told Harper off in her head.

  By the time Jack got back downstairs, two women were waiting outside Crumbs. Their hands cupped around their eyes, they peered in the front windows for signs of life. Jack waved to them from inside. They waved back and motioned for her to unlock the door.

  She rolled her eyes. Did they even try it before deciding it wouldn’t open?

  She swept the door open to a rush of vanilla. It wasn’t strong enough to ruffle the air—boring flavors usually weren’t—but she sensed it just the same.

  “Sorry for the wait,” she said.

  “Oh, that’s all right, hon,” the first customer said. She set her purse on the counter and rifled through it. “We saw the lights on, but with all those boxes we thought you might be done for. But you’re here now.”

  “The boxes are my sister’s. She’s moving in upstairs,” Jack clarified so they wouldn’t start spreading rumors that Crumbs was closing.

  “Can I get a dozen of your French vanilla for next Thursday?”

  Jack jotted down the order and ran the woman’s credit card. “Can I talk you into one for today, too?”

  “Oh, no. I shouldn’t.” The woman patted her curvy hips. “I’m trying to be good.”

  “I admire your willpower,” the other customer said. She was bent over, examining the cupcakes in the case. Her breath fogged on the glass. “I could eat them all.” Straightening, she tugged at her dress. When she released it, the floral print fabric suctioned back to her stomach.

  “I can help with that,” Jack said. She took the signed receipt from the first customer, wished her a good day, and asked, “Which one’s caught your eye?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess I’ll take three of whatever’s the most exotic.”

  Jack scanned the display case. Though she loved every flavor they offered, nothing jumped out at her as exotic. The chocolate turtle cupcake had the most potential. She boxed them up, adding extra toasted pecans and caramel drizzle to the tops.

  The woman smiled and said, “Don’t those look fun?”

  “They’re to die for.” But Jack was already thinking of ways to turn the flavor up a notch.

  When the shop was empty again, she looked up and followed her sister’s frenetic footsteps. Back and forth. Pause. Back and forth. Maybe I’ll get her an area rug as a house warming gift, she decided. Maybe she won’t burn it just because it came from me. Shaking her head, she resolved to try and get along with Harper.

  She and Harper had been friends once—back when she was ten and Harper five. She remembered one summer afternoon when the rain had been relentless, coming in droves that beat on the windows and rattled the doors. They’d pretend-baked mountains of cupcakes and pies, meat loaf, and garlic bread. They gorged on the exotic delicacies they’d invented until they rolled back on the cushy shag carpet, patting their imagined fat bellies, their heads inches from each other as if they were whispering secrets.

  Jack rolled over and pushed to her knees to stare out the window. The sky was rotten. Dark and splotchy from the clouds that whizzed by in the wind. She stuck her tongue out at it, and Harper mimicked her displeasure.

  “Stupid rain,” Harper said.

  “Don’t let Mama hear you say that,” Jack cautioned. She turned to hide her smile.

  Her sister’s lips pouted and puckered like she had eaten a lemon. Her little twig arms crossed defensively over her chest when she began to cry.

  “I have an idea,” Jack said, cuddling her sister. She rocked back and forth, swaying to the rhythm of Harper’s sniffles. “Do you trust me?”

  Harper nodded and the stream of tears rolled faster down her red cheeks.

  “Okay then. You wait here.” She went to the scratchy, plaid chair in the corner and shov
ed it. She pressed her feet against the wall to move it two feet to the left. Positioned underneath the window, it was the exact height for her to stand on the arms—pressing her slender frame against the threadbare back cushion—and heft the glass up enough for them to squeeze through. She was thankful there wasn’t a screen.

  “C’mon,” she whispered.

  When her sister stood on the chair, she bent and fitted her shoulder under Harper’s bottom, then lifted her to the sill. Jack mimed for her to jump down and pressed a finger to her lips for silence. Something below popped, followed by a loud rush of air. Scrambling up and out of the window, she avoided landing on the green plastic dome of the turtle sandbox, which already had two Harper-sized footprints.

  The gravel crunched under her sneakers like Pop Rocks. She lifted the top of the sandbox and smoothed out the dents with a loud pop before putting it back in place and joining her sister.

  Three black, rubber swings hung in deep Us from the sun porch above. With Harper already settled in her usual end swing, Jack took the one in the middle. The chains groaned in the warm air. But the girls refused to slow their pace. They pumped their legs harder, leaned back farther to coax the swings high enough that Jack could’ve toed the ceiling if she’d tried.

  The air was thick as Jack breathed in through her mouth. It tasted like vanilla pudding and freedom.

  She turned to smile at Harper, who had her eyes closed, head lolled back so her hair hung down in a blond sheet. “Harp,” she whispered. “It’s fun, huh?”

  “Can we stay out here all night?” Harper asked, her voice low and raspy.

  “We can’t let Mama find out,” Jack said.

  The rain transitioned between a drizzle to a ticklish mist to fat raindrops that pelted their legs as they left the protective covering on the outswings. She shivered as the wet wormed its way into her socks.