She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Brent, in running shoes and shorts, peering in through the window. She unlocked the front door and let him in.
"I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard someone pounding on the window," she said. "You're not supposed to stop for cupcakes when you're running, you know."
"Usually, I stop for a grande latte halfway through."
Brent touched a finger to Suzanne's chin and lifted her head up. He squinted at her face.
"Either you've developed a severe allergy to cupcakes or you've been crying," he observed.
"I'm coming down with something."
"It looks like you're coming down with pinkeye, in which case you really shouldn't be working in a food establishment. I could call the health inspector."
Suzanne turned away to return to the pantry. "If I'd known I was going to have visitors, I'd have worn sunglasses," she muttered under her breath. Yes, her eyes were red and puffy. Yes, she'd spent half the night crying.
Brent followed her into the back. "I knew this was going to happen. You fell for him again, didn't you? And now his mother is gone and he's divorcing you."
Suzanne shrugged her weary shoulders without looking back at her friend. She was in no mood to discuss this with Brent. Or with anyone, for that matter. The Cattertons' family lawyer had contacted her yesterday to let her know that Daryle had initiated divorce proceedings and what the approximate timeline would be.
"I have half a mind to drive up to Napa right now and tear him limb from limb," Brent said.
Suzanne stopped and turned around. "You can't," she said. "He's in Dallas for a wine show." A fact she discovered when she called his office line yesterday and got a voice mail recording informing all callers that Daryle Catterton would be out of town for a week. He started the divorce, then skipped town without even telling her? That was what had set off last night's crying jag. He couldn't extend to her the courtesy of a phone call? Or an email, even? Hell, she'd have settled for a text message. He treated his grape pickers better than that.
She let out one long, sorrowful sigh. "You were right, Brent. You were one hundred percent right, as usual. Is that what you want me to say?"
Brent shook his head. "No, Suzanne, it's not what I wanted you to say. I'd been holding out hope that he had changed. For a while there, it seemed like maybe he had."
"He couldn't even tell me himself that he was initiating divorce proceedings! He had his lawyer call me. Then he left for Dallas without telling me that either."
"I'm sorry, Suzanne. I know people in Dallas."
"Scary dangerous people?"
"Well, no."
That was enough to get a half-hearted laugh out of Suzanne. "The lawyer said Daryle wants to front me the money now instead of waiting for the divorce to be final. God, he really wants to be rid of me, doesn't he?"
"I'd take his wines off my wine list in retaliation ... but we never put them on in the first place."
Suzanne took a deep breath. "I'll be fine, Brent. I will. This is what I signed up for. He used me and I used him. We were both consenting adults."
"The problem is you consented to a few other things along the way."
She smiled ruefully. "I know. I thought I was so over him that I could pull it off. I underestimated his charm, that Catterton charisma."
"Well if it's any consolation, everyone underestimates people like that." Brent looked at his watch. "Gotta run. I'm interviewing new maitre'd candidates this morning. Call if you need anything."
"Good luck," Suzanne said as Brent pushed open the door and stepped back out onto the foggy street. She was about to relock it, when a thought occurred to her. She jogged after Brent.
"Brent," she called out.
He turned around, continuing to jog backward.
"Question. Noe Valley or Rockledge for the third Cupcakery?"
"Both," he called back. "Get that damn divorce and open both. Success is the best revenge, Suzie-Q."
Except she didn't want revenge, she reflected later. She pulled a tray of double fudge cupcakes from the oven. She wanted to be angry, spilling over with blind fury at what Daryle had done ... but she couldn't. It wasn't in her. What she felt, instead, was a deep sadness and a whole lot of confusion.
This was the deal that Daryle had offered. No one had forced her to accept it. She could have walked away. She very nearly did. But ... had everything been a sham? The week in Chicago? That last dinner they'd shared at the winery? Daryle had set up a round café table outside, among the vines, where they'd have complete privacy. There had been wine and candles, and a soft blanket on the ground for after ...
How could a person fake that? How can you kiss someone the way he had kissed her, touched her, held her—and have it just be business? She sure couldn't. But maybe a man like Daryle Catterton could. Maybe he could do business and enjoy himself a little at the same time. He'd certainly enjoyed himself with her. Yet again.
She whipped together butter, sugar and vanilla in the mixer until it was fluffy and creamy. She counted out drops of raspberry liqueur and gently mixed those in, then carried the large stainless steel mixing bowl over to the table of cupcakes.
I need to go back to focusing on my business. She had control over the business. If sales slipped, she could advertise more, run special promotions, make more catering calls. That was all within her power. Daryle Catterton was not, nor ever would be. He had been an interesting diversion, but that was all Daryle wanted to be to women. He wanted a pretty thing on his arm and in his bed. Well, there were plenty of other women who would be happy to play that role. Suzanne was done with it.
She stepped back to admire the first cupcake she frosted. She was good at baking and running a cupcake shop. She never tired of unlocking the door to her own place in the morning, of firing up the ovens, of watching the smiles on customers' faces as they tasted her creations. She believed that everyone had their place in the world, the thing they were meant to do. And this was hers.
She leaned in to frost the next cupcake. She squeezed the pastry bag slowly and steadily, laying down thick coils of pale pink frosting around and around the domed top of each cupcake. She was almost to the top of the cupcake when her hand wobbled. She frowned at the squiggle of icing that now hung off the side of the cupcake and dripped onto the table. She set that cupcake aside and started on a fresh one. But her shaking hand ruined that one too.
Sleep deprivation is not good for me. She took a deep breath and started on another one. Wait—it's not my hand shaking. It's the cupcakes. There was a loud noise outside and the building shook, as if something large had just slammed into an exterior wall. Suzanne stumbled to catch her balance, dropping the pastry bag full of icing in the process.
What was that?
Then the shop started to rock violently from side to side. The tray of cupcakes slid off the table and crashed onto the floor. It's an earthquake. We're having an earthquake.
Suzanne's mind went blank for a moment. What was she supposed to do? She couldn't remember. Get out of the building! No. Get in a doorway. She ran to the doorway between the seating area and the kitchen. The ovens! She had to turn off the ovens. It's not the earthquake, it's the fires, right? She stumbled into the kitchen, lunging at the oven controls and turning them off. She was trying to make it back to the doorway when something heavy hit her on the head. She tried to grab the corner of a table as she fell. Everything went black.
What is that infernal ringing? Suzanne opened her eyes. And what am I doing on the floor? A large pink mixing bowl lay in pieces next to her. She tried to sit up, but was stopped by a throbbing pain on the back of her head. She gingerly threaded her fingers through her hair, feeling for blood. No blood, she determined, but an impressive goose egg from the feel of it.
And that ringing! She heard it for thirty seconds, then it stopped. Then it started up again. Then it stopped. It kept doing that over and over. It took her several minutes to recognize the sound as that of her cell phone.
Now if only she knew where she'd left her phone. She crawled up onto her hands and knees and then slowly stood up. What she saw nearly knocked her right back down. The shop was a mess. It looked like someone had picked it up and given it a good, hard shake. She closed her eyes. Maybe she was dreaming. That was it. She had to be dreaming. She was simply asleep. That's why everything was so quiet. Normally, the shop was noisy—with mixers mixing, customers chatting, the punch and click of the cash register, the hissing and bubbling of the coffee maker.
The phone began ringing again. She answered it.
"Suzanne! Where are you?" She winced at the sound of Daryle shouting through the phone. The pain in her head pounded some more. "I've been trying to get through to you for hours, but the lines are all jammed."
"Hours?" she said, looking toward the front of the shop and the street outside. Nothing around her looked right. She was confused. The sun was bright, as in afternoon bright. How long had she been out?
"Where are you?" Daryle repeated.
"Daryle, please don't yell. My head is killing me. I'm in the shop."
"Which one? Are you in Napa?"
"No. The Marina—"
"The Marina's on landfill! Are you okay? What's wrong with your head?"
Suzanne was having trouble following him. "What are you talking about? One question at a time, please."
She heard him take a deep breath on the other end. "Are you okay?"
"I think so. I hit my head. Or something hit me, maybe." She looked at all the shattered bowls and glassware on the floor, on the tables and countertops. "Was there an earthquake? Is that what happened?"
"According to CNN, yes. There was an earthquake in San Francisco. Suzanne, are you by yourself?"
"I think so. But let me check." She picked her way across the debris that used to be her shop, looking for anyone else. She tried to think who was scheduled to come in that day. Karen had the day off, she remembered that. The pain in her head was making it hard to think. She peered under tables and peeked into the restrooms. "I seem to be by myself. I guess no one else came in after the earthquake."
"What time did you get in?"
"It was seven-ish, the last time I looked at the clock." Brent! Brent stopped in during his run. "What time is it now?"
"One o'clock your time. Wait—what have you been doing all this time?"
"I guess I was knocked out."
"You need to get to a hospital.
"I think I'm fine. I'm not bleeding. How—how bad was it?"
"Pretty bad, from what I'm seeing on television. 7.4, they're saying. How's the shop?"
She looked around. The glass in the pastry cases were shattered. All that was left of the front windows were a few pieces of glass dangling from the window frame. Tables and chairs were strewn everywhere. The big refrigerator in the kitchen had toppled over. Nothing was left on any shelf. And there was a huge crack along one wall, stretching from floor to ceiling.
Tears welled up in her eyes and then spilled down over her cheeks. "I think it's totaled," she whispered.
"We'll rebuild."
"You don't have to do that."
"Of course I do. I'm your husband."
Her phone made a pinging noise. A text was coming through. It was from Brent. SQ? Cleaning up HbNb. Have pwr H2O. Come here. Lv Marina.
"Brent just texted me. His restaurant has power. He wants me to go there."
"I think that's a good idea. If there are aftershocks, the Marina is not the place to be. Brent's restaurant is on solid ground."
Suzanne heard the honking of car horns in the background from his phone.
"I'm catching a cab to the airport right now, to try and get on standby for the next flight to San Francisco," Daryle said. "Go to Brent's. He'll take care of you."
Chapter 14
The HobNob was a popular spot for movers and shakers in the city. Lots of deals—and lots of money—got made in Brent's restaurant. The place was carefully designed to evoke success and discretion. What was said inside those walls would stay inside those walls. Suzanne walked slowly through the dining room, taking in the damage, fighting back tears. Brent had poured everything he had into this restaurant. It might still have power and water—the bare necessities—but things weren't going to be business as usual any time soon.
The elegant wood walls were scarred with jagged cracks. The iron curtain rods that had held up the heavy burgundy drapes had been shaken off the walls. Two bartenders were sweeping up broken liquor bottles that had tumbled to the floor. People with dazed looks on their faces sat at the tables. No one was wearing a suit or carrying a power briefcase or thumbing away at a Blackberry.
But in the kitchen, the HobNob was closer to its normal self. Cooks manned the stoves and prep stations. Waiters jogged past carrying trays of food. The HobNob's kitchen was as busy as The Cupcakery was quiet and deserted.
Brent was on his cell phone, talking to someone in his usual forceful manner. "Yes, we're open! We're feeding people. Yes, for free!" He hung up and rolled his eyes when he spotted Suzanne. "I'm trying to let the media know that we've got food and water for people who can make it down here. We're making whatever we can with whatever we have, until we run out."
"What can I help with?"
"Are you sure you're up to this? You look like hell, pardon my French."
"I'm feeling better. The walk helped clear my head. Besides I don't have anywhere else to go. The Cupcakery is a mess. And I went by my apartment on the way here."
Brent grimaced. "I almost hate to ask. What did you find?"
Suzanne angled her hand to simulate a leaning building. "It will have to be torn down. And there's a huge chunk of a building sitting in what used to be my car. So I'm officially homeless."
"You're the most chipper homeless person I've ever met."
"Nothing I can really do about it at the moment, right? I'm here, so put me to work."
Suzanne spent an hour making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for kids, then batch after batch of buttermilk biscuits. When Brent said he was improvising, he wasn't kidding. He had people frying chicken, grilling burgers, chopping salads, making pitcher after pitcher of tea. It wasn't the Hob Nob's usual fare—that tended toward thick bloody steaks and heavily sauced pastas—but the people streaming in the front door didn't seem to care.
Suzanne was chopping onions for soup when she felt a hand, firm and possessive, settle on her lower back. She looked back over her shoulder to see who it was. Her eyes widened when she saw Daryle standing there.
"How—" she turned around to face him. "How did you get back so soon?"
"I ended up calling in a favor from a big customer. Someone who happens to own a private jet." He grinned, then leaned in to embrace her
She held out her arms and backed away. 'I'm a mess," she said. "I've been chopping onions for over an hour."
"I don't care—" Just as Daryle reached out for her again, Brent clapped him on the shoulder.
"Thanks for the financial support, Mr. Catterton," he said. "But if you're here, you gotta work." He handed Daryle an apron and pushed him in the direction of the dishwashers.
"Did he—"Suzanne said.
"Yup. He called me from the airport to say he'd pay for all this today. Which was very generous of him and I'll accept the help, but I don't want him near you." He reached out and brushed an errant strand of hair out of her face. "Just because you were knocked out and don't remember how you felt this morning doesn't mean I've forgotten it."
Suzanne continued chopping onions, then carrots and celery, occasionally sneaking a glance toward the back of the kitchen. Brent caught her doing it once and wagged his finger at her. She hadn't seen Daryle in weeks, since right after the funeral. She had missed him. There. She admitted it. Even though he was divorcing her and paying a large sum of money to get her out of his life, she missed him.
I'm hopeless. Of all the men I've dated, Daryle has treated me the worst. And the best, a tiny voice in the back of her head pip
ed up. With Daryle, the highs were the highest and the lows were the lowest. I need a relationship that's more even-keeled. No highs, no lows. Just someone steady. That would never be Daryle.
When she ran out of vegetables to chop, she wandered over to where Brent's pastry chef was working and helped her get more layer cakes in the oven. Then she made pitcher after pitcher of iced tea and circulated among the dining room tables, pouring refills and clearing tables.
At seven o'clock, she poured herself a glass of cold water and slipped out into the alley behind the restaurant to get some fresh air. She drank the water like she'd just spent a week in the desert, then poured some over her neck. She gasped as an ice cube fell from the glass and slid down between her breasts, a lone trickle of moisture making it all the way to her navel. She'd forgotten just how damn hot a restaurant kitchen gets. Even at its busiest, The Cupcakery's kitchen never got as hot as the HobNob's.
The evening sky was grey and damp with fog. It would be dark soon. She leaned back against the cool stone of the building. What a day, she thought. A 7.4 earthquake. Her shop and apartment destroyed. She was back cooking in Brent's kitchen, like old times. And Daryle was washing dishes. Something she'd bet her last dollar on that he had never done before.
She heard voices coming from around the back corner of the building. No, just one voice. She listened closer. It was Daryle. She moved toward the corner, then stopped as she heard the strident tone in his voice. She peered cautiously around the edge of the building. Daryle was standing with his back to her, his phone pressed tight to his ear.
"I want it done right away, Liam! It's a divorce. How long can it take?" she heard him say, in that impatient I'm-a-rich-important-person voice. "I will inform Suzanne myself."
Suzanne slunk back to her side of the building, her heart dropping further into her feet with each cowed step. Even in the aftermath of an earthquake, with much of the city shut down, all he was really worried about was getting the divorce done as fast as possible. When she had turned to see him standing behind her, with an expression of concern on his face that had certainly looked sincere, she thought maybe ...? Maybe she'd been wrong earlier? Maybe he did have feelings for her? After all, he'd just flown all the way back from Texas and come straight here. If Brent hadn't interrupted, she would have thrown her arms around him. Against all her better judgment, she would have done it anyway. She was that glad to see him.
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