No, they wouldn’t have anywhere near that luxury, because Baxter had had the brilliant idea to take his show, literally, on the road. Out of the big city, and into the heartland of America, showing his viewers how his amazing, upscale urban desserts could be adapted to fit their small town lifestyles and family favorite menus.
He hadn’t the vaguest clue how he was going to pull that off.
The entire rationale behind his brainstorm—which the network bigwigs had all but drooled over, despite the increase in production costs—was simply a means to an end. The end being to spend time with Leilani ... and hopefully convince her to leave Sugarberry at some point and continue on with him. How or doing what, he didn’t care. Whatever role she wanted to take on, he’d support her choice. As long as it got them back side by side.
She had to be suffocating, trapped on a tiny island, creating such a limited menu. She’d declared it her passion, but Baxter had begun to suspect that it was really a form of hiding out. Of retreating from the field of battle. She might think it was what she wanted forever and ever, but he knew her better than that. Or surely, he knew her talent would eventually demand better than that.
She’d taken a stance, and from what he’d seen, would stand by it whether she was truly happy or not. Perhaps she’d reconsider if a better offer came along, one that would allow her to make new choices without insulting anyone or looking like she didn’t know what she wanted. He hoped that he might be that new choice. Or, at least, a large part of it.
Life—his life—he’d quickly discovered, was better with Leilani in it.
And so, here he was, out in the marshy hinterlands. By choice. God help him.
A variety of bugs had already decorated his windshield by the time he bumped over the grids at the end of the causeway and eased his rental car onto the little island. How on earth had Leilani made a home here? He knew her father lived here, and she’d relocated as a way to be closer to him ... but Savannah was little more than an hour west. Though hardly a thriving metropolis on the scale of New York or Chicago, its unique, historic landscape was still a far better match for Lani’s remarkable skills than ... this.
Baxter squinted at the rising sun, wishing he’d thought to buy a pair of sunglasses. He wasn’t used to being outside during daylight hours. By the age of twelve, he’d been in a kitchen every morning before the sun came up, and hadn’t left until well after sundown. These days if it wasn’t an actual kitchen, it was a kitchen set, or a planning room, or his office. And always—always—wherever he was, when he did step outside, it was to the familiar sounds and smells of a city. Whether it be London or New York, there was always a sense of familiarity, of home, just on sight and smell alone.
Driving onto Sugarberry—hell, driving at all, he didn’t even own a car—he might as well have been driving onto the moon. The marshes, dunes, and wilderness landscape were that foreign to him. There was one main paved road that looped around the entire island, which, as far as he could tell, was only a few kilometers wide, and maybe twice that in length. The township, also named Sugarberry, was located on the southern end of the island, built around a small, tidy town square. He’d thought it rather incongruous in an otherwise undeveloped, rather bohemian island setting, especially one that was more marsh than proper land. Perhaps it was the Southern influence. He wasn’t sure. It was a traditional square, with shops on all four sides and a small park area built into the middle. The park featured a rather large fountain at its center, in the midst of which rose quite a large statue, no doubt someone of historic Sugarberry importance.
Farther south, the tip of the island was dotted with several piers where the local fisherman tied up their boats when they weren’t plying their livelihood on the open sea. There were no pleasure boats with big sails, much less yachts of any size, harbored at Sugarberry. It was a working man’s island and the boats reflected that. He’d been made aware that farther down the coast, there were other barrier islands that featured upscale country clubs and resorts, beautifully designed golf courses, with restaurants and yacht clubs to match.
That was definitely not the case for Sugarberry. If the town council was making any attempt to lure the tourist trade, Baxter would be surprised.
Several narrow streets extended out from the town square on the three sides leading away from the fishing piers, some paved, some layered with centuries of crushed shells making it feel as if he were back home in London, driving over old cobblestones. The streets in that part of town were mostly lined with clapboard houses, usually painted white or gray, featuring rustic front porches and small yards largely devoid of any kind of grass. Most were covered in pine needles or otherwise landscaped with shrubs, flowers, and an occasional stubby palmetto.
Some lots were bigger and grander, with larger houses set farther back from the road. These were framed with colorful shutters and doors and often had deeper wraparound front and side porches. Those larger lots ended just before the western stretch of the island loop that led right back to the causeway. The shoreline on the west side had no beach, but devolved into a series of lagoons and marshes leading into the channel formed by the sound between Sugarberry and the uninhabited marshlands that crowded the Georgia shoreline.
To the east of the square, the streets ended at the loop road. Some houses dotted the far side along the loop road, but mostly it was an unending stretch of dense growth, sand dunes, and sea grasses, beyond which was an unbroken narrow stretch of beach, then the Atlantic Ocean. Not that he’d checked that out personally, but it was all part of the information his staff had gathered when he’d offered Sugarberry up as a location. He wasn’t sure if there were other cottages or houses tucked back amongst or past the dunes, but he rather thought that would be the place he’d want to hole up ... if holing up was what one wanted to do. Why else come to such a remote place?
The entire northern end of the island was undeveloped wilderness, lagoon, and marsh. In that same preliminary research packet, he’d read there were a few research centers set up by several local universities to study the flora and fauna. Something about some kind of small deer and loggerhead turtles, he seemed to recall. As he’d driven the loop road on his first visit to the island, that entire area had seemed inhospitable at best, and possibly dangerous at worst. Who knew what kind of beasties made their homes in the wet, dank, and dark? If anyone lived back there other than the occasional college student researcher, they were welcome to it.
Baxter kept to the developed end of the island. He drove straight to the town square, then past it a block, before turning down a narrow alleyway running behind the row of shops on the east side of the square. Leilani’s Cakes By The Cup was in the center of that row. He pulled into the gravel and crushed shell lot that formed the rear parking area for the row and pulled up to the delivery door marked CUPCAKERY.
“Cupcakes,” he said, turning off the engine. He could mentally picture, in great detail, some of the grand, intricately detailed pastries and cakes Lani had constructed at Gateau. Her inspired creations had drawn raves. She hadn’t been a Beard nominee during her first year of eligibility for nothing. She’d worked tirelessly to perfect even the tiniest detail, not because the client—or an awards committee—would have noticed, but because it mattered to her that each effort be her best. In fact, it was her work ethic and dedication that had first caught his attention.
She wasn’t a grandstander, like most with her natural ability, behaving in whatever manner it took to stick out and be noticed. She let her work speak for her. And speak it did. It fairly shouted, in fact. Once he’d noticed, he couldn’t help being further captivated by how different her demeanor was from most budding chefs. Bravado, with a healthy dose of self-confidence bordering on arrogance, was a trademark of the profession. Some would say it was a requirement. Leilani’s quiet charm, and what he’d come to describe as her relentless calm and ruthless optimism had made an indelible mark on him. She wasn’t like any baker he’d ever met, much less any top-notch chef.
She cared, she labored—hard—and she lived, breathed, ate, and slept food, as any great chef did. But she was never frantic, never obsessed, never ... overwrought, as most great chefs were. That teetering-off-the-cliff verve was the atmosphere he’d lived in, thrived on, almost his entire life. Leilani had that same core passion in spades, but it resided in a special place inside her. She simply allowed it to flow outward, like a quietly rippling stream, steady and true. As even the gentlest flowing stream could wear away the sturdiest stone, so had Leilani worn down any resistance he’d tried to build up against her steady charm ... and she’d done it without even trying.
The woman he’d encountered in that very kitchen two days before hadn’t been at all like the chef he’d trained and worked with so intimately. He’d thought he knew her every nuance, her every mood—most of them positive and upbeat. The tense, brusquely dismissive woman he’d encountered had thrown him off entirely. In fact, the only familiar thing about her had been her Gateau jacket.
He remembered the apron she’d worn, with the Hatter at tea. Her hair twined up, messy and soft, but her demeanor certain, and somewhat brusque, at least where he was concerned. She’d been different when he’d first walked into the front of her bake shop, when she’d been dealing with her customer, Miss Alva, before she’d noticed his arrival. Only then had he caught a glimpse of the woman who’d so completely turned his head. Changed his world. His entire world. A world he was changing again, for her.
She’d been smiling, calmly composed and content, happily at home in her natural habitat. Then she’d spied him ... and everything had changed.
He climbed out of the car, telling himself it was that abrupt change in demeanor that had driven him to behave so recklessly, so ... demonstratively. He’d thought a lot about that kiss. A whole lot about that kiss.
He wished he felt more sorry about it than he did, as it could likely prove to be his downfall in his mission. But he couldn’t. It had been too ... perfect. Like a soufflé that combined airiness and light, with that rich, dark, kicky finish. Yes, that kiss had lingered on his lips ... and permanently in his memory, ranking up there along with the richest, most decadent desserts he’d ever had the pleasure of sampling.
Just like those decadent desserts, he was equally driven to taste her again. As passionate as he’d ever been to create the most amazing flavor combinations, the richest and most unique desserts, Lani was like that to him. For as long as he could remember, that passion had always been everything.
He opened the screen door and gently turned the doorknob, deciding entry without knocking was the only way to be certain he’d gain entrance at all. It was the one risk he had to take, but the only one he’d take. This time.
He quietly pushed the door open and was immediately assaulted with the sound of unidentifiable music—if you could call it that—crashing and cascading about the small interior of her kitchen.
He slipped inside, thinking with the music so loud, he’d wave, or do something to get her attention, so he didn’t scare her half to death like last time. When he finally spied her, he found himself pausing, the door still only half closed behind him.
She was wearing her Gateau chef coat again. Only that wasn’t why he paused. And was smiling.
She was dancing.
Her hair was up in a twisted, messy knot on the back of her head, a pastry bag in her hand, and more racks of cupcakes lining every table in front of her than anyone should ever have to face. At least all at once. Had he not been so entranced by the vision of her hips shimmying while she shook her shoulders to the beat at the same time, he’d have wasted at least a second or two wondering how on earth she could find even a sliver of creative satisfaction in mass producing such unexciting little bits of cake. But every last ounce of his attention was riveted on her.
He really should let her know he was standing there. It was a train wreck, really—or a cupcake wreck at best—simply waiting to happen, the moment she swiveled around and saw him. But ... who knew she could move like that? So sinuously, and ... and ... hip thrusty. And then, heaven help him, she actually started singing.
Had she been all off key and off pitch, it would have jerked him out of his momentary fascinated state. But no. No. She further slayed him by wholeheartedly belting out, in a gravelly voice worthy of the best girl rocker from any era, the refrain of whatever godforsaken tune was pulsing out of the small portable stereo perched on one of the shelves across the room.
While he thought the music quite atrocious ... her singing was not. In fact ... where on earth did that voice come from? Where did any of it come from? She was his quiet, calm, center-of-the-storm partner in chaos. Or she had been.
“Who are you?”
He hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud until she spun around, halfway through miming a decidedly erotic air guitar riff on her pastry bag. Her accompanying growl shifted to a choked scream of surprise. Simultaneously, and—he hoped—inadvertently, her shock caused her to squeeze her pastry bag rather indelicately, resulting in him being the dead-on target for a steady stream of chocolate buttercream frosting, which hit him square in the chest. A chest not covered by a chef’s jacket, but by a rather expensive tailored linen shirt. White linen, in fact. Or it had been.
“What on earth are you—” She broke off and went over to slap, rather indelicately if you asked him, the button on the top of the stereo, mercifully silencing the small kitchen.
“Oh, thank God,” he murmured, before thinking better of it.
“I beg your pardon? In fact, I beg a lot of things. First of all, why do you keep doing that? Who do you think you are? You don’t just come into my place unannounced, especially through my back door.”
“Perhaps you should keep it locked,” he said, somewhat absently. He was still holding his arms slightly out to the side, looking at the glob of chocolate cream presently oozing down his chest.
“Perhaps you should leave. Looks like you need to go change shirts.”
“It was a good shirt.” He looked up to find her glaring, pastry bag still held at the ready. “Though I suppose I deserved it for startling you”—he smiled, just a little—“again.”
“You suppose?” She arched her eyebrow. His charm was clearly not working on her.
“You’re right, I should have announced myself, and I planned to. Just as soon as I let myself in.” He lifted a hand to stall her retort. “I own up to that, but I wasn’t certain you’d invite me in. I did take that one small liberty, then I was going to say hullo straight off, but there was loud music—if you can call it that—and you were—well, you were dancing.”
“I’m sorry, does that violate a health code I’m unaware of?”
“Of course not, it was just ... unexpected. You never once danced in my kitchen. Not so much as a hip wiggle. Much to my dismay, now that I’ve seen an example of it.”
She didn’t so much as crack the tiniest smile.
He lowered his arms and sighed. “I’ve managed to muck this all up again, haven’t I? I swear, that was not my intent.”
“Well, gosh, I should hope not. What was your intent?”
“To talk to you. Privately. Not in front of your customers this time.”
“About?”
“When did you get so—”
“Didn’t we have this conversation already once?”
“Yes. But I don’t understand it now any better than I did then. I—you were always calm, and kind, and ... well, cheerful. I’m really not trying to provoke you, but I’ve seen you under some exceedingly dire levels of stress, and your usual response was to simply get calmer, and more cheerful, which was always to me the oddest thing, but, for you, it worked. And it worked for me. Now you’re ... impatient. And short, and abrupt. It’s just ... so not at all like you. Is there something going on with the shop? Are you struggling?”
“When you came in, if you recall, I was happy. Upset, stressed out, angry people aren’t usually singing and dancing.”
&nb
sp; “Fair point.” He looked down at his shirt again, swiped a dollop of buttercream onto his finger, and looked back at her. “So, it’s just me then? Who provokes this response from you?”
“Pretty much.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the only thing in my world at the moment that doesn’t make me feel like singing or dancing.”
He’d slid his buttercream covered finger into his mouth, but paused, his expression going slack. Along with his shoulders. Because, if he didn’t know any better, and he did, she was being quite sincere. He licked his finger clean, then quietly said, “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“How else am I supposed to feel, Baxter? You come here, planning to turn my life into a small circus, without warning. I came here for the quiet, for the calm I don’t have to create myself. It just exists around me, naturally, all by itself. All I have to do is enjoy it, embody it, wallow in it. If I’d wanted to live with the circus, I’d have stayed in New York.”
“This is quite amazing, you know,” he said, taking another small lick from his shirt. “What’s in it?”
“Baxter—”
“I’m sorry. No,” he added, when he thought she might plaster him again. “I am. But it’s just ... I wasn’t expecting to taste something with such—”
“Complex flavors? Why? Because I’m just decorating cupcakes? After all, only peasants eat cupcakes and what would they know about a good flavor profile? Wow, that’s insulting on so many levels I don’t know where to begin. So I won’t. Get out.”
“Leilani—”
“Out. Of my shop. Of my life.”
He sighed again, with a little swearing under his breath thrown in for good measure. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“Are you telling me that you looked at that table full of cupcakes and thought, ‘wow, what a delightful, inventive creative use of her talent?’ ”
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