Sugar Rush

by Donna Kauffman

  “No, you shouldn’t have. But, you know what, the town already knows you’re here. And, much as I wish you could, now that I think about it, I don’t think you can undo this, Baxter, even if you wanted to.”

  “I’m telling you, I’ll do whatever—”

  “No. I don’t think we have a choice, either of us. You have to do the show.”

  “But—”

  “You have people counting on you, too. Mostly I’m changing my mind because I just realized that the island will rise up as one and lynch me if you don’t. If they even suspect I’m the reason you bailed out, my life here is done. Certainly my business will be.” She turned her back to him, bracing her hands on the table for a moment, then picked up her pastry bag. “You have to do it now. You really can’t change things back.”

  She’d been dancing and singing. Before. Looking at the tense set to her shoulders, it seemed like a lifetime ago.

  “And since you’re going to do this, you’ll do the show here,” she said, matter-of-fact now. “Because that’s what everyone is expecting. They’re excited about it, and, frankly, where else would you set up? The closest grocery store with a professional kitchen is across the causeway, our only church doesn’t have a kitchen, and one of the things the fall festival was raising money for was to add a small banquet facility to our senior center.”

  “Didn’t you say you had some kind of big dinner here? Before the festival? Where did they prep for that?”

  “Potluck. Or ‘covered dish’ as they call it here.”

  “Where is that?”

  “You mean what is that. We set up tents and put up tables and everyone brings a dish. Potluck means you get whatever people bring. No, we’ll do it here. And don’t worry, I’ll smile for the camera and we’ll do what we have to do to please the people of this island, because they’re the ones I care about. I’ll do whatever you need to get your damn show done, because, as far as the rest of the world knows, that’s what you came here for. And that’s what you owe the people who count on you.” She walked over to the counter where the stereo sat. “But that’s all I’m going to do. I’ll figure out what comes after, and how to handle it, but I’ll do that on my own. I don’t want your help with that, so don’t even think about butting in.

  “Now, if you don’t mind, I have to complete some of the most kick-ass cupcakes you’ll never have the pleasure of tasting and I’d like to get back to it. Please, lock the door behind you.” She cranked on the music. And went back to work. Without ever once looking at him.

  Chapter 7

  “Chef? There’s someone here to see you. He’s, um ... not a customer. I don’t think.”

  Lani glanced up at the kitchen clock. Five minutes to closing. “Well, at least he used the front door this time,” she muttered under her breath. More loudly, she said, “Thanks, Dre. I’ll be out in a minute.” Or ten.

  Neither Baxter nor any of his crew had made an appearance, to her knowledge, anywhere on Sugarberry since she’d kicked him out of her kitchen the morning before. She’d known it was merely a matter of time, and that the time would be short. Though she was thankful for the day and a half to regroup and catch up after the festival, she still wasn’t ready for Round Four. No matter what kind of pep talk she’d given herself, she’d let him get to her every time their paths had crossed. And he’d gotten to her quite directly each time. As in hands-on directly. Maybe she could see if Dre would stay after work. They closed early on Mondays, at six, but there was still plenty to do, and she could use the extra pair of hands.

  Lani immediately rejected that idea. Had she really grown so pathetic that she was going to coerce her college student employee to run interference for her personal life? Not that Dre wasn’t fully capable of handling the job. At the tender age of twenty, Lani’s very capable new kitchen assistant and counter help had the kind of frank aplomb of someone twice her age. Okay, so perhaps aplomb wasn’t exactly the right word to use, but Dre was nothing if not frank. Sometimes too much so, but her rough edges were more than made up for by her dedicated work ethic and burning desire to learn.

  “Wait! You can’t go back th—” Dre burst into the kitchen, right behind a short, stout guy, with a somewhat scraggly red beard and black rimmed glasses. “Sorry, Chef, he just—”

  “That’s okay, Dre. Go start closing up. I’ll handle this.”

  Dre glared at the man before going back to the front of the shop. With her plum-colored flat top, overly kohled eyes, and twin eyebrow piercings, that glare would normally be enough to at least give a person pause. Especially when you combined it with the Tim Burton version of the Willy Wonka apron she was wearing.

  Nerdy-glasses-guy didn’t even blink. Well, he did blink—a lot in fact—but he didn’t seem to be really aware of the ruckus he was causing, or of Dre and her glare.

  He stuck out his hand in Lani’s general direction, but his attention was focused on sizing up her kitchen. “Hello, I’m Bernard.”

  Of course you are, Lani thought. She took his hand, which was warm and a little damp, and gave it a quick shake before he wandered off and forgot he’d stuck it out there.

  The contact seemed to startle him into looking at her. He smiled, though it was more of a squint really, that just happened to be accompanied by a brief flash of teeth; then he went back to sizing up the joint. “I’m here to do advance prep for the show setup tonight. Production sent me.”

  “Right.” Lani should have realized that her guest wasn’t Baxter even before the abrupt kitchen invasion. If Baxter himself had walked into the front of the shop, Dre wouldn’t have called back as she did. Her young assistant might want the world to think she was far too cool to be starstruck. But Lani knew the one thing Dre considered worthy of her respect was a great chef. Dre knew the life story of every chef who had ever made a mark on the history of cooking, and a good many others who were known mostly only to industry insiders. She was on scholarship at a small art institute across the causeway, but in addition to her incredible skills as an artist, she was a dedicated foodie and chef groupie.

  Lani had met Dre when she had popped up at the shop, ostensibly to offer her graphic art skills, gratis, as part of a class project to generate a shop logo that could be used as store signage, but also on T-shirts, coffee mugs, and any other marketing items Lani might have in mind. Intrigued by the offer and by the person, but uncertain if Dre’s rather dark personal stylings would translate to something as whimsical as a cupcakery logo, Lani had asked to see samples of Dre’s work.

  That Dre was a supremely talented young artist was clear at a glance, but it was the focus of her art that had captivated Lani. Not surprising, Dre’s work was entrenched in the fantasy realm. But rather than the postapocalyptic–Mad Maxian type work Lani might have expected, she was transported to richly colored Utopian gardens filled with brightly winged fantasy creatures, and intricately detailed fairy worlds so richly imagined, Lani felt that she could step right into them. All she needed was a yellow brick road.

  She had agreed to work with Dre that same day. What had begun as a school project collaboration had developed into something completely different when Dre had sampled one of Lani’s new cupcake creations, and proceeded to comment, specifically and one hundred percent correctly, on every single ingredient Lani had used. She also offered her own opinions on why the various flavors and elements worked so well together.

  Lani had then discovered Dre hadn’t found the cupcakery by accident. She had specifically chosen it because she had followed Baxter’s amazing career arc, and, in tandem with that, had followed Lani’s career as executive chef at Gateau. Lani had been amazed by the revelation ... and more than a little flattered.

  Of course, as a full-time student, Dre hadn’t been looking for a paying job, nor was she targeting a career in the culinary world. Her foodie passion was a hobby, not a future goal. And Lani hadn’t figured she needed to hire help until closer to the holidays.

  While they were discussing the logo in the sh
op kitchen, where Lani was working steadily away, Dre had just sort of jumped in and helped while they brainstormed, and when the front of the shop suddenly got busy, Dre stepped up to the counter to let customers know Lani would be right out. She ended up answering questions and ringing up sales ... and generally being the bright, amazing, and indispensible person she was. By the end of that day, Cakes By The Cup had its first official employee.

  An employee who insisted on following the industry standard and using the respectful title of Chef whenever she addressed her new boss, despite Lani’s request for her to be more informal. It was a cupcake shop, after all, not ... well, Gateau. Although, if Lani were to be completely honest, she kind of liked hearing the respectful form of address again. It had been disconcerting to discover there were bits and pieces of her old life she still missed.

  Smiling, she shook her head, and then the rest of what Bernard had said began to sink in. “Tonight?”

  He’d been pacing the perimeter of the kitchen, but turned back. “You’re closing now, correct? Baxter told us we could get in, but not until you close. You might want to rethink having us drag all our gear in through the front. You really don’t want us tracking up your shop. We’ll have to do a lighting install out there, but Baxter said to set up in here. Filming starts in the morning, so we’re already behind schedule.” He glanced at her, looking as if he wanted to shake his head in disgust.

  For what? Keeping him and his crew out of her place of business during business hours? How dare he. “Morning? As in, tomorrow morning? But I have—” She broke off when Bernard starting frowning. Clearly he was not the person she should be having this particular conversation with. “I need to make a quick call. Before you do ... anything.”

  He lifted a clipboard and some other technological device that looked like a Geiger counter. Or something. “Just making notes,” he explained. “Gotta take measurements, look at your electrical panel. See what kind of generators we’re going to need so we don’t blow all your circuits.”

  Oh, you’re already blowing my circuits, she wanted to tell him.

  Especially when he added, “Trucks will roll about an hour from now.”

  “Of course they will. An hour.” Serious anxiety began to set in just as Dre came through the swinging door from the front of the shop.

  “Locked up, register done.” She lifted the corner of the heavy blue bank bag she was cradling on top of the nightly checklist clipboard. “Should I ... ?” She glanced at Bernard, who was currently captivated by the fuse box, then nodded quickly toward the office and mouthed the word safe.

  Lani nodded.

  “Do you need me to stay?”

  “No, I’m fine, I—” She was already fishing for her phone when she realized she didn’t have Baxter’s number. Nor did she know where in Savannah he was staying. “Dammit.”

  “Are you sure?” Dre asked again.

  Lani opened her mouth to reassure her assistant she didn’t need watching over, then glanced up and realized Dre wasn’t so much worried about Lani being stuck in the shop after hours with Bernard. She was angling to be involved in the production setup ... and, Lani imagined, maybe get a gander at Chef Hot Cakes himself. Unlike every other female on Sugarberry, Dre hadn’t peppered her with a million questions about Baxter and what it had been like to work with the reigning McDreamy of the kitchen. But Lani was sure that was only because Dre already knew more about Baxter than anybody.

  “I—well, Alva is going to be dropping by to get her cupcakes shortly.”

  “Marathon poker championship night. Right. I took a bet with a guy in my illustrations class on whether or not the police would be involved. Then we realized that was pretty much a given. So we narrowed it down to before midnight, or after.” Dre took on a considering look. “What time did you say she was picking these up?”

  “Very funny. You should just call Alva and ask her what the over-under is. I’m sure she’s already taking bets.”

  “Good point.”

  Lani gave Dre a quick list of instructions on how to remove the liners and glaze the bottoms of the cupcakes, then package them upside down in the specially lined boxes she’d already prepared. “Glaze them all, then the best three dozen are for Alva. She’ll be by before seven.”

  Dre was already washing her hands. “Are we going to add this one to the menu? Looks intense.”

  Lani and Alva had decided on molten upside-down cakes. If there were laws on the amount of chocolate one cupcake could have, molten cakes would break every one of them. The cake was her take on devil’s food, the filling was a melted, gooey blend of dark and Dutched chocolates with a spicy kick thrown in, and the glaze was a thick, glossy chocolate ganache. Alva had declared them heavenly.

  She’d shown up bright and early the previous morning for their consultation, decked out in her church finery best. Yet somehow that hadn’t stopped her from donning her My Little Pony apron, which she’d hung on a peg next to one of Dre’s—as if she worked there—then had lent a helping hand with Lani’s morning preopening prep as they’d discussed which secret weapon cakes to make for the poker tournament. Lani had initially groaned inwardly, thinking she’d created something of a problem by letting Alva help her with her therapy roulade the other night, but before she could deliver her politely worded explanation about boundaries, Alva was halfway through piping frosting—perfectly—on the first rack of cupcakes. So Lani had kept her mouth shut and let the woman work. By the time they’d discussed all of Lani’s various weapon cake ideas, Alva had proven herself to be quite the helpful little assistant. So much so that Lani had offered a discount on the molten cakes as a way to thank her.

  Always the cagey one, Alva had pretended to consider the offer, but in the end, had refused, explaining that she’d enjoyed both of their impromptu baking sessions and didn’t want Lani to think she was angling for preferential treatment if she ever happened to drop by and help out again. Lani reduced her charge for the order anyway, because it was the right thing to do, and told Alva they’d work out the details of any future orders as they came along. She’d been in such a good mood after Alva took off, she’d cranked up the stereo and bopped her way into the extensive morning catch-up prep.

  Which was when Baxter had shown up. She hadn’t felt much like bopping since.

  “They weigh like half a pound apiece,” Dre said, carefully removing the paper liners. “Maybe I should change my bet to whether or not the oldsters will be able to do justice to these bad boys.”

  Lani glanced at Bernard, then back to Dre. “You haven’t met our oldsters.” “I don’t know if I’m putting them on the menu here. A lot of prep, and they won’t save well for day olds. We’ll see how they go over tonight. Excuse me for a moment.”

  “Yes, Chef.”

  Lani smiled to herself, then crossed over to where Bernard was busy checking out the fuse box.

  “We’ll need to bring in our own grid anyway, so not to worry,” he told her.

  “Worry about what?”

  He squint-smiled at her. “About production shooting your electric bill into the stratosphere.”

  “Ah.” Seriously? Now her electric bill was going up? She hadn’t really thought through any of that part. She’d been too hung up on how she was going to handle working side by side with Baxter again. In front of television cameras, no less. She should have been thinking about her business and what else this might cost her, besides her sanity. After all, that’s what she’d told him she was focused on, right? Maybe it was time to get her head in gear and her mind strictly on business. And away from how he made her feel every time he got within three feet of her. She was really going to have to do something about that. Her hormones took a happy leap, just thinking about being near him again. Dammit.

  She pulled out her phone and was about to ask Bernard for contact information, when the back door to the kitchen opened and her dad walked in.

  “Evening, Dre.” He nodded at Lani’s assistant, then looked at Lani with a q
uestioning lift of the eyebrows as he glanced beyond her to Bernard.

  “Evening, Chief,” Dre said, never breaking focus on the task at hand.

  Lani saw her father get the same little smile she got when Dre addressed her, and noticed he didn’t correct her on the title. He was the sheriff, not the police chief. Dre was originally from Boston, so the sheriff concept was something she apparently didn’t directly connect with. Or maybe she just looked at Lani’s dad and saw D.C. cop. Compared to the rest of the guys in the Sugarberry sheriff’s department, he clearly still was.

  She also noticed her dad give Dre a second glance—a quick onceover that took in the Wonka apron, purple hair, pale skin, and fairy neck tat, all in under two seconds—then give his head the smallest of shakes as he continued on into the room.

  Lani smiled to herself as she rounded the worktable and walked over to meet him. “What brings you over after hours? I hope you’re not angling for a handout. These are all for Alva’s ladies. You’ll have to crash the poker tournament later, confiscate them or something.”

  “They almost look worth the hassle, but that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m here in an official capacity, to meet with your Mr. Dunne.”

  “He’s not my anything.”

  “We got a request for a series of permits from his production crew. I need to go over some information before we can get them issued. Where is he?”

  “Not here.” Yet, apparently.

  “Chef Dunne is coming? Tonight?” Dre stopped her precision glazing to look over at the two of them. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was just—”