Sugar Rush

by Donna Kauffman

  “Lan?” Charlotte called out. “Is everything okay?”

  “Oh.” Lani dashed back to the phone. “I’m sorry, Char, it’s ... a neighbor.”

  “Not—”

  “It’s Alva, it’s fine.” Lani cut her off, shooting Alva a quick smile. She scooped up the phone and flipped it off speaker. “I just—I need to let you go.”

  “Okay,” Charlotte said. “We’ll talk tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow is the town picnic and softball game.”

  “I thought the festival was today?”

  “It was. The picnic and softball game is a thing they do every Sunday afternoon, at least until we turn the clocks forward next month. Then it’s touch football and a bonfire.”

  “How ... quaint.”

  Lani laughed. “You’re such a snob.”

  “I know. My parents would be so proud.”

  Only because the topic of Charlotte’s parents and her rigid upbringing had long since been beaten to death in previous baking therapy sessions was it okay for Lani to laugh—which she did. “If they could only see you now.”

  “Right,” Charlotte said. “Baking late night red velvet therapy cakes in my no-bedroom studio walk up over Mr. Lu’s carryout.”

  “And to think, they wanted you to be a heart surgeon.”

  “The mind boggles. I can’t imagine why I’d rather spend my nights elbow deep in red gel paste and shaved chocolate, instead of in red blood inside a cracked open, shaved chest.”

  Lani made a gagging noise. “Yuck.”

  “My sentiments exactly. I’m in charge of a small evening cocktail and dessert event tomorrow, so I’ll be in by ten for prep. Call me.” Charlotte paused. “I want to know how things are going. Don’t torture me.”

  “I won’t. I’ll call. Promise.”

  “Love.”

  “Me, too.” Lani hung up and turned back to Alva with a true smile. “So ... what’s up?”

  “I’m so sorry. I’ve clearly interrupted.” She looked past Lani to the worktable. “You’re working on something else special for us, aren’t you? I shouldn’t have intruded on your work time—”

  “No, no, this is just”—Lani realized she couldn’t explain baking therapy, so she smiled—“experimenting. It’s how I come up with new ideas.” It wasn’t entirely untrue, just not exactly the case that evening.

  “Oh. Well, then!” The worry left Alva’s face, and a bit of that gleam returned to her eyes. She stepped to the table to take a closer look. “How exciting.” She sounded entirely sincere. “It must be fun to work with new ideas.” She turned and beamed up at Lani. “When my Harold was alive, I used to try out new recipes on him all the time. Bless his heart, he never said an unkind word. And there were some duds in there, let me tell you.”

  Lani’s smile deepened. “Cooking for people you love is always the best.”

  Alva nodded in agreement and went back to examining the table. “Don’t let me keep you from your work. I can talk while you do whatever it is you’re doing.”

  From behind Alva, Lani sighed a little, but kept her smile.

  “What is it, exactly, you’re making, dear?” Alva asked.

  Lani stepped back over to the worktable. “It’s a mango passion fruit with coffee meringue roulade. Sort of like a pavlova, in a roll.”

  “Well, my goodness, that sounds exotic. Like something you’d have on a cruise ship. Harold and I took a cruise once. To Bermuda. Made the poor man sick as a dog. I don’t think I’ve ever seen skin turn that particular shade of green.” She stopped and glanced up at Lani again. “Perhaps not the best story to discuss while baking.”

  Lani’s smile warmed. Alva was just so ... Alva. “Why don’t you tell me why you stopped by?” Lani picked up the copper bowl and looked at the meringue mixture of whipped egg whites and sugar and saw that it had begun to break down, so she gave it a quick whip, then went ahead and folded in the corn flour and coffee she’d whisked together earlier.

  “Well, dear, I need a word with you, and I don’t want the whole town to know about it. I stopped by your place, but it was dark as a crypt, so I came by here and saw the light. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind. It’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”

  “No, that’s fine.” Lani began spreading the meringue in a thin, continuous layer on the baking parchment she’d layered into the prepared Swiss roll pans. It would set up okay. Besides, it wasn’t like she was serving it to anyone.

  “Here,” Alva said, stepping around to the same side of the table. “I can do that for you. Then you can get to the next step.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to—”

  “Dear, I’ve been making fruit rolls since your mama was a little girl. I can spread a meringue.”

  Lani handed her the spatula. “It should make four. When they’re spread, layer these evenly over the tops.” She handed Alva a bowl of pistachios sliced lengthways.

  “Oh, that’s going to be almost indecently delicious.”

  Alva went to work as Lani nodded. What she was going to do with four fruit rolls, as Alva called them, she had no idea, but it wasn’t in her to just make one of something. Bakers baked. And, tonight, she’d needed the distraction.

  She glanced at Alva, intently spreading away, tongue tucked in the corner of her cheek, and smiled at herself. Okay, maybe not this much of a distraction. It definitely wasn’t like having Charlotte in the kitchen for a late night bitch-and-bake session, but ... it wasn’t so bad. Not so bad at all, really. And maybe Alva would take one of the roulades with her. Or two. “Let me get you an apron.”

  “Oh, you can hardly do anything to this old thing I’m wearing.”

  “Still ...” Lani opened the door to the small cupboard she’d had built beside her office door. She pulled out the uppermost of the three drawers that filled the bottom half and fingered through the stack of folded aprons that lay inside, trying to decide which one wouldn’t entirely swamp Alva’s tiny body. Her smile grew as she pulled out the bottom drawer. She’d saved her childhood aprons out of sentimentality and had stored them in the cupboard of her new kitchen for good luck and because seeing them again when she’d unpacked had filled her with the kind of memories she wanted to create for herself. Didn’t mean they couldn’t also be useful. She took the top one off the carefully folded stack and shook it loose. Then laughed.

  “What is it, dear?” Alva said.

  Lani held the apron up in front of her. “How do you feel about My Little Pony?” As she turned around, she almost dropped the apron entirely when she spied Alva standing on top of an empty, upside down five gallon bucket.

  “I couldn’t reach the back of the pans,” Alva explained. “And maybe I will take you up on the apron. When I lean over, my jacket dangles. I don’t fill it out like I used to. Things have shifted over time.”

  Lani somehow managed not to laugh. She helped Alva down from the bucket, then looped the apron over Alva’s head and Alva made quick work of tying it in the back.

  The older woman smiled and held out her arms, turning to one side, then the other. “What do you think? Is lavender my color?” Alva modeled the purple-maned and spangly white horse that decorated much of the apron front.

  “It’s you,” Lani said, and they both laughed. “But I don’t want you on that bucket. I’ll do the back of the pans and get them in the oven. How are you with cutting up fruit?”

  Alva’s eyes gleamed, a bit too brightly, Lani thought. “Actually, dear, that might be just the thing for me this evening. What do you need chopped? I’m good with a knife.”

  Lani narrowed her gaze thoughtfully. Alva had done an excellent job on the meringue, so Lani shrugged and got the mangos and passion fruits from the cooler drawer. She should have prepped them first, but the whipping required for the meringue had called more loudly to her therapy needs. Better, probably, than knives, anyway, given her mood at the time.

  She got out the boards and one of her smaller paring knives. “Nothing fancy,” she told Alva. “J
ust work around the stone, and dice the fruit into chunks, about three-quarter-inch square, give or take. Try not to handle them more than necessary, so they don’t get pulpy, but make the chunks as uniform in size as possible. And—”

  “I’ll be careful, dear.” Alva reassured her with a patient smile. “I may not be a fancy chef like you, but I’ve made enough jams and pies in my eighty-two years. I’m pretty sure I can get through a handful of mangoes without removing any fingers.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Lani said with a grin as she watched Alva get started, then began prepping the passion fruit. “So, what has you wanting to chop things into little pieces?” Lani asked mildly as Alva went to town on the first mango. “Would it have anything to do with why you came by?”

  “Something like that.” Alva continued chopping, making surprisingly short work out of the awkwardly shaped mango with its random center stone. “Remember when I stopped by before the dinner and auction and told you about Beryl and Dee Dee?”

  “Of course. I’m really sorry you didn’t end up getting the cupcakes.” Lani sent a sideways glance at Alva, debating on how to handle things. “But I heard they went to the volunteer fire department and the sheriff’s office, so that’s good.” It had been quite a fierce bidding war, as it turned out. And now she’d have to keep an eye on her dad’s sugar intake.

  “Yes, well, they’re deserving young men,” Alva said. Chop, chop, chop, chop.

  Lani kept an eye on Alva’s knife work. Dee Dee’s husband was retired from the sheriff’s department and still very active in training new recruits, and Suzette’s son-in-law was the current fire chief, so it had made perfect sense for the women to bid on the cupcakes. Lani knew it likely had absolutely nothing to do with why they spent a small fortune to secure all twelve boxes between the two of them. They’d set a record for any previous Kiwanis Club entry.

  “Well, somehow Dee Dee got wind of my little side deal with Beryl, so she and Suzette got in cahoots together to trump me. I’m sure Louise contributed, too. Laura Jo said she overheard Louise saying that I’ve let running the group go to my head, that I’ve gone power mad. Her words!”

  “Alva, you started the group, so I hardly think—”

  “So, I told them that rather than share—generously, I might add—as I’d planned, I’d just keep Baxter Dunne to myself. I’ll invite him to my place, cook him a good country meal, maybe some of Harold’s favorites, and get the scoop for my first column.”

  “But, you haven’t set up dinner with Baxter, have you?”

  “I certainly will before this is over,” Alva exclaimed, then made quick, violent work of the next mango.

  Lani wisely held her tongue. “What can I do to help? I don’t think I can convince Baxter to—”

  “I don’t need your help with Baxter, dear. What I wanted to talk to you about is coming up with something else for Monday night’s tournament. Just between the two of us. I know I can trust you not to go blabbing, your father being the sheriff and all. And your mother was the sweetest thing this side of heaven. You come from good stock. I know I can trust you.”

  “Alva—”

  “I need a new secret weapon, Lani May. I know you’re busy, and probably a bit done in after the festival today. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. But it’s not just about getting Beryl her title back anymore.”

  Lani stopped breaking down the passion fruits. “What, exactly, did you have in mind?” she asked warily.

  “Well, dear”—Alva smiled ever so sweetly at Lani—“that would be up to you.”

  “Me?”

  Alva nodded. “It has to be something original, that they’ve never tried before. Something decadent, impossible to resist, preferably with a lot of chocolate. A little booze in the mix couldn’t hurt, either.”

  “Of course.” Lani shook her head, and went back to her passion fruit, wondering at the wisdom of putting herself right in the middle of the Sugarberry Island Poker Tournament wars.

  “Of course, if you could top those little gems you donated to the auction, well, that would just ice the cake, wouldn’t it?” Alva’s eyes twinkled.

  No, not power mad at all. Lani found herself wondering what kind of man Harold Liles must have been. And, come to think of it, exactly how it was the poor man had died ... “How many would you need?”

  “Would thirty-six be asking too much? Of course, I’ll be happy to pay whatever special order price you think is warranted.” Alva finished the last mango with a flurry of chopping. “Oh, the look in their eyes when I unveil my little cakes,” she said, then turned and gave Lani the sweetest smile as she handed her the chopped fruit. “There you go, dear. Are these up to snuff?”

  Lani had already decided it didn’t matter what they looked like, she was taking Alva’s knife away, but had to admit, they were almost culinary school perfect. “Those are, well, they’re great.”

  Alva patted Lani on the arm. “Sometimes age has it over experience.”

  “Sometimes,” Lani agreed. “Let me think on the cupcakes and we’ll go over a few ideas tomorrow?”

  “No, dear, I don’t want even the wisp of a suspicion on this.”

  “We talk to each other all the time.”

  “How about tomorrow morning, then? I’ll come by before going to Sunday services, before you open. I’ll just come around to the back here, like tonight. One knock. No, maybe three knocks.” She was clearly relishing the cloak and dagger element, as much as the trump card plan itself.

  Lani was already wishing she’d skipped baking therapy and gone home to bed, like a good little baker. But no ... “Okay. That will be fine.”

  Alva took off her apron. “Well, this has been quite lovely.” She looked at her blocks of neatly chopped mango. “Rather calming, too, I must say.” She smiled up at Lani. “Makes me want to go home and bake something.”

  Lani didn’t point out it was after eleven o’clock. Maybe the woman didn’t sleep. It wouldn’t surprise her in the least.

  “Perhaps I’ll start mentally preparing my dinner menu for Baxter. Won’t that be fun?”

  “Absolutely.” If Lani wasn’t still so mixed up about Baxter, she’d call and warn him. Then it occurred to her that she could benefit from the distraction Alva would provide.

  Alva handed the apron to Lani. “Good night now, dear. You should be getting some sleep, too, shouldn’t you? Big day tomorrow! See you in the morning.” With that, she bustled out the door and into the night, like a little white-haired apparition.

  “You said you wanted to be part of the community,” Lani muttered as she locked up behind her. “Here’s your chance.”

  The oven buzzers went off for the cupcakes she’d put in before Alva’s arrival pulling Lani back to work.

  But instead of thinking about Baxter, or the roulade, or all the cupcakes she had to replenish by tomorrow, she purposely started working up a new recipe. For Alva’s New Secret Weapon Cakes.

  Therapy was therapy, after all.

  Chapter 6

  Baxter drove the causeway over Ossabaw Sound to Sugarberry, reviewing in his mind exactly what he was going to say to Leilani that morning. Considering his production crew would begin arriving in several hours and continue throughout the day, it was rather critical that he get it right this time.

  After a quick overnight back to New York to film his “surprise” guest appearances on two of the national morning talk shows and three of the evening entertainment news programs, he’d actually been happy to check back into his rooms at the hotel in Savannah late last night. Despite the surprising autumn heat and humidity, he found the historic city to be charming, welcoming, and rather more delightful than he’d anticipated. It was nothing at all like England, but there was an old world feel to it that definitely resonated with him.

  He was a city boy to the core, addicted to the hustle, the bustle, the vibrant energy. It matched his drive perfectly and he thrived in the push and shove of it all. He’d anticipated the slow-as-molasses pace of
the Southern way of life would frustrate him beyond reason. Perhaps it was because he was so frustrated with himself and Leilani at the moment that he’d found the unhurried pace surprisingly soothing instead.

  He’d cracked open the windows in his room before climbing into bed and found the strange sounds of the night almost ... lulling in their repetitive cycles. Nary a horn or siren to be heard. Just chirping, croaking, and several other indigenous sounds whose origins were probably better left unknown. He’d awakened refreshed and more energized than he’d anticipated after a whirlwind thirty-six hours of flying and talking. And talking, and talking, endlessly, shamelessly plugging the show. It wasn’t his favorite part of the spectacle that was television, but he was passionate about Hot Cakes, so, at the very least, he was sincere while pitching the third season to the masses.

  It was already filmed and in editing and postproduction, meaning his main duty was done. The newly picked up fourth cycle was currently dominating all of his attention. Normally a few episodes were filmed, edited, and ready to go prior to the season launch, but new material for the current season would still be filming as the first episodes began to air. Due to his brilliant idea for the next series, his team had worked tirelessly to get the entire current season in the can prior to the season debut, giving them time to prep and work through the complicated logistics required for the next run. And complicated it would be, because, this go around, they wouldn’t be working in the well-appointed network studio, on a set already precision lit, engineered for proper sound, with camera angles rigged to get every view possible of the food and the chef. All of which was built around a meticulously designed kitchen set, and teamed with its own behind-the-scenes prep kitchen that was put to full use for every single episode.