by Beth Ciotta
“I’m not bent. I’m…” She narrowed her eyes. “How did the spotlight turn to me? I hate that.”
He knew that. He loved that. Harper, on the other hand, glommed onto anything that put her in the forefront of a celebration or crisis.
Rae set the kettle on a heating pad and reached for a canister of tea bags. “Seriously, what’s troubling you, Sam?”
He preferred to break it to the club as a whole—a surprise attack. He knew, one-on-one, Rae would do her best to talk him out of quitting the CLs. “Nothing.”
“I know Ben’s been taking some heat from his classmates—”
“Ben’s fine.”
“There’s been talk among some of the single women regarding your recent dates.”
“I know.”
“Luke says—”
“There’s a betting pool. I know.”
“I think it’s awful.”
Sam hadn’t given it a second thought but he was touched that Rae cared. Then again, Rae cared about everyone.
“You can’t force love,” she said.
“I know.” Sam tucked his hands in his jeans instead of touching her arm. He didn’t want her to misconstrue his attentions. Months back, before he’d known about the attraction between Luke and Rae and even after he’d known, Sam had told Rae he was okay with being just friends. He’d lied. And then he’d pushed. He’d been unfair to her and a bastard to Luke. But he’d been desperate to move beyond Paula. The wonder of Paula. The grief of Paula. Why couldn’t he be attracted to Jane Dunlap or Laura Payne? Interesting, hot women with stable, meaningful careers. Desperate to change the subject, Sam gestured to the stocked three-tiered cupcake holder standing on the opposite counter. The featured cupcake of the evening. All part of the weekly meeting tradition. “What’s on the agenda?”
“A new recipe I’ve been dying to share with everyone.” Rae grinned. “I call them Kick-in-the-Pants Kupcakes. Cupcakes spelled with a k.”
Intrigued, Sam folded his arms, angled his head. “What’s the kick?”
“Cinnamon and cayenne pepper in both the dark chocolate cupcake and the cream cheese icing.”
“Feeling adventurous, huh?”
“I admit to some recent odd cravings, but I swear, Sam, these are the shiz.”
“The what?”
“The shiz. The shit. The coolest.”
“Got it.” Sam, who was not the coolest, filed shiz away with all the other jargon he’d been hearing lately from his nine-year-old son. Harper was another one who tossed around the latest slang and acronyms. Sam couldn’t decide if he was an old fart or just old-fashioned. His fortieth was around the corner. Hell, maybe he was both. He gestured to the tea bags. “And the beverage to counter the kick? Chamomile? Green tea?”
“Raspberry Zinger. Although I’ll be adding hazelnut creamer to mine.”
Sam laughed. “How’s Luke holding up with your cravings?”
“He’s particularly fond of anything having to do with ice cream and cookies. Pickles and radishes, not so much. I’ll come back for the cupcakes. Mugs are already out there. Let’s serve tea.”
Sam had hoped to resign and leave before tea, but, with two kids, he was also used to adjusting his plans on the fly. “I’ll take the kettle. You tote the bags. I assume my cousin won’t have a gripe about one lightweight jar,” he teased.
She rolled her eyes. “You’ve met Luke, right?”
Yeah. A man who, although in his past had been a major skirt-chaser, was always, and above all, devoted to family. “He’ll get over it.”
“Just know that you can confide in me or Luke or both of us anytime, Sam. We’re here for you. Just tell us—”
“You’re a good woman, Rae.”
“There are lots of good women, Sam, but, like great cupcakes, not all of them are sugary sweet. Your perfect cupcake could be the one with kick. And if you sink in deep enough, long enough, maybe you’ll taste the sweet among the spice. My advice? Get adventurous.”
Armed with the canister and a stack of napkins, Rae breezed out of the kitchen leaving Sam to ponder her words.
Then it hit. With the force of a fricking sledgehammer.
In that moment, Sam realized the reason none of the women he’d dated over the last weeks had won his interest was because they’d failed to match up to his first wife in the first ten minutes. Just as he’d done with Rae, he’d been looking for a clone of Paula. And then, yeah, if he was being totally honest, Harper, who wasn’t anything like Paula, had him twisted up—sexually, if not emotionally.
Head spinning, Sam hurried after Rae, catching up just as she entered the crowded living room.
“Tea’s ready,” she announced in a gleeful voice.
“Perfect timing,” Rocky called over the excited chatter. “Take a seat, everyone. Let’s get down to business.”
Rocky was one of Sam’s many cousins and, lately, one of his closest friends. President of the Cupcake Lovers. Sister to Luke and Dev Monroe. Granddaughter of Daisy Monroe, a senior Cupcake Lover (and a bit of a wack job). Rocky was the glue that held the club together as they encountered more attention and responsibility.
“What’s the beverage of the evening?” she asked as everyone vied for a seat and Sam and Rae served.
“Raspberry Zinger,” Rae said.
“Spiked with vodka?” Daisy asked.
Rocky snorted. “It’s not cocktail hour, Gram.”
“It’s five o’clock somewhere!”
The other senior members, all in their seventies, and still kicking cupcake ass, snickered.
Sam smiled, scanning every face as he set aside the kettle and sat on the vacant leather ottoman. His sweeping gaze stuttered on Joey. She looked out of place. Mostly because this was only her second meeting and Sam wasn’t used to her presence. Partly because she favored what Chloe called “cyberpunk” fashion. She also sported combat boots and a diamond stud in her nose. Not exactly how he envisioned a girl from Nebraska.
Every other woman in the room, aside from Daisy, had a more conventional look. Ethel, Helen, Judy, Monica, Chloe, Rae, Rocky, Casey … Every member involved in the Cupcake Lover recipe/memoir book, except for their past president, Tasha Pain-in-the-Ass Burke, who had since moved to Arizona—thank God.
Sam cracked his neck, gathered his thoughts. He wanted to break the news before they broke out the cupcakes. He hadn’t anticipated feeling this awkward. Former military or not, deserting his colleagues wasn’t his style. Then again neither was being in the spotlight and, thanks to Harper, several interviews and book signings were in the club’s immediate future.
“So much going on,” Rocky said, while sipping tea. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“I’ll start,” Sam said.
“Where’s Harper?” Daisy asked. “We texted earlier and she told me she was definitely coming.”
“She must be running late,” Casey said.
“I vote to delay any important discussions until she shows,” Daisy said. “As our publicist she needs to know what’s what.”
“The Cupcake Lovers have been thriving since the forties,” Ethel, another senior member, said. “We’ve never needed a publicist to monitor meetings.”
“That was then, this is now.” Daisy sniffed and pushed her neon-green bifocals up her nose. “Get with the times, Ethel.”
“Come down to earth, Daisy.”
“Ladies,” Rocky cautioned.
Daisy waved off her granddaughter and pulled her phone from her rainbow-colored purse. “I’ll send Harper a quick text, ask for an estimated time of arrival.”
“Just type EST with a question mark,” Sam said. Daisy, who’d been addicted to texting ever since Chloe had exposed her to the process, insisted on typing out every word, which made for some long-ass texts. They’d all been subjected to them, all except Ethel who didn’t own a smartphone.
“I spoke to Harper on the phone yesterday. Briefly,” Rae said as she passed around plates and napkins. “She doesn’t seem lik
e herself.”
“She’s been back at the farm for almost a week,” Rocky said. “We’ve spoken on the phone, too, texted about décor, but I haven’t seen her once. I meant to stop by, but I’ve been jammed with another job.”
“She hasn’t responded yet,” Daisy said while staring at her phone. “That’s just wonky.”
“Maybe she’s driving,” Joey said.
“So?” Daisy said.
Right, Sam thought. Like that had stopped Harper before. In fact, their first encounter had been via an accident caused by Harper’s reckless texting while driving.
“I’ll be back with the cupcakes,” Rae said as she zipped toward the kitchen. “Carry on!”
“I’ll help,” Joey said. Even though she looked out of place, she was doing her damnedest to fit in. To the club’s credit, no one commented on her radical goth girl vibe when she disappeared into the kitchen behind the sweetly sophisticated heiress.
Sam shifted on his stool, anxious to blurt out his news. Once those Kick-in-the-Pants Kupcakes were served, he’d be forced to stay. He wasn’t about to add rude to quitter.
“Harper usually drops by Moose-a-lotta for cupcakes and bean juice,” Chloe said, “but so far she’s a no-show.”
“I’m sure Harper’s fine,” Sam said. “Listen—”
“Not that I’m prone to gossip,” Ethel said, “but I heard Harper’s had everything from laundry to food delivered to her house daily. Who does that?”
“People who are used to being catered to,” Sam said. “Probably a West Coast thing. Listen—”
“I don’t think so,” Chloe said. “I think something’s wrong.”
“I agree,” Rae said, back in the room and already doling out cupcakes alongside Joey.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Sam said. Even so, he texted Harper. A racy text. A text she wouldn’t be able to resist. He waited a beat. Two beats.
“Maybe she’s finally falling prey to the Rothwell curse,” Helen said.
“A curse?” Joey grinned. “Cool.”
“Not an actual curse,” Monica said for the record. “More like an urban legend connected to a home once owned by one of the first Cupcake Lovers, Mary Rothwell.”
“Mary’s husband went missing in World War II,” Daisy said, “but she was certain he’d return.”
“She became a recluse,” Ethel said, “determined to be at home when he walked through the door.”
“Only he never did,” Daisy said. “Mary died of a broken heart.”
“According to residents over the years,” Monica said, “the longer you live in that house, the deeper your anxiety and depression.”
“Maybe Harper’s too depressed to leave,” Ethel said, “and that’s why she’s ordering everything in.”
“Have you met Harper?” Sam asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from his tone. “She’s a control freak. Focused and determined.”
“That doesn’t make her impervious to depression,” Chloe said.
In Sam’s mind it did. If depression welled, Harper would pound it into the ground. She didn’t have time for anything that would take away from her bulldog mentality and needy clients.
“Speaking of anxious,” Casey broke in, “I can’t believe you’re here, Chloe. You’re due to give birth any day.”
“I know. But the baby hasn’t dropped and … never mind.” She glanced at Sam who’d made it clear in the past, simply by holding silent, that he wasn’t comfortable discussing the intimate details of pregnancy. A subject that had become more prevalent over the last several meetings. Natural since Chloe, Monica, and Rae were expecting, but awkward for Sam. In the coming months, techniques for breast-feeding and issues with postnatal care would crop up. He’d been through it all with Paula, twice. He had his own brand of wisdom in these matters. But she’d been his wife. These were his friends. Time to swap cupcakes for bowling.
“I have an announcement,” Sam blurted just as his cell phone pinged. He glanced at the incoming text. A response from Harper.
NEED U. NOW.
Typical Harper—bossy—and a tantalizing response to his racy proposition.
But then she followed with: PLEASE
“I have to go.” Sam pushed to his feet and rushed to the door. Chloe was right. Something was wrong.
FOUR
The Rothwell Farm was located in a woodsy area northwest of Sugar Creek. Highway 105 to 236, then a ten-minute streak down Swamp Road. A right onto Fox Lane and three minutes later the renovated Victorian with its federal-blue exterior and snow-white trim would come into view.
Sam had been hooked on the late nineteenth-century house ever since he’d been a boy. Owners came and went, claiming—as noted by the Cupcake Lovers—the longer they resided there, the more they experienced periods of irrational depression. Hence, the supposedly haunted house was frequently deserted. As a kid, Sam and his cousins had snuck in dozens of times hoping to catch a glimpse of the ghost of Mary Rothwell.
They never did.
Harper had been living in that house on and off for several months. She didn’t believe in ghosts, or so she’d said, but she was obsessed with the legend of Mary Rothwell. So much so, she’d instructed Rocky to decorate the master bedroom/office in the colors and style reminiscent of the 1940s—the decade in which Mary had lived here. Rocky thought it was creepy. Sam thought it was odd. Although, once he’d joined the renovation project, the changes that had felt most right to both Sam and Harper had been those that turned back the clock. Returning the home to its World War II-era glory was just about the only subject Sam and Harper agreed on.
NEED U. NOW.
PLEASE
Harper’s troubling text was burned on Sam’s retinas. He called, but she didn’t answer. He texted. No response. What the hell? Had she fallen down the stairway? Been attacked by a burglar?
Sam pictured Harper broken and bleeding, and punched the gas.
Up ahead, the sun dipped below the horizon. Come nightfall, this rural area would turn pitch-black. Sam could find the Rothwell Farm blindfolded. He’d grown up in Sugar Creek. He knew every highway and back road, every mountain trail and logging road. He’d made this particular trek a hundred times over the last few months. Mostly to work on Harper’s house. Sometimes for a text-prompted quickie. With Harper it was always a quickie. They had an agreement. Sex, just sex. And she had rules. No sleeping over. No talking after. Not that Sam was a windbag, but, considering they were well past a one-nighter, banging and running without a shade of intimacy was this side of smarmy. Not that it had prompted him to end their affair. That had been Harper.
A right onto Fox Lane. Two minutes later—because he was fricking flying—Sam wheeled his truck into Harper’s long drive and skidded to a stop. He jogged to the porch, snagged the spare key tucked behind the backplate of the wall sconce, and pushed through the door without knocking. “Harper!”
She didn’t answer, but he heard the TV … and a whimper. And wheezing.
Chest tight, he ducked around the corner, into the living room. The monster plasma screen was alive with the sights and sounds of war. A newscast on CNN. Harper was hunkered on the large vintage sofa Rocky had had delivered last month. She was doubled over, head between her knees, gasping for air.
Asthma attack?
Relief torpedoed his dread. He’d imagined far worse.
Tempering his galloping pulse, he nabbed the remote from the table, muted the volume then crouched in front of Harper. Laying a calming hand to her convulsing back, he asked, “What’s happening, hon?”
“Can’t. Breathe.”
“Asthma? Allergy?”
“Anxiety.”
“What?” Sam reached through the thickness of her long, dark hair, cupped her face and bade her meet his gaze.
The first time he’d laid eyes on Harper he’d pegged her as Sports Illustrated model gorgeous. He thought no less now. Even though her face was flushed and sweaty. Even though her sky-blue eyes were dazed.
She was gasping for
air, massaging her chest. “Can’t feel my fingers. Can’t. Breathe. Heart racing. Too fast. Too. Much.”
So, what? A heart attack? How was that possible? She was a healthy young woman, for crissake. “Harper. Listen. Focus. Do you have a condition I don’t know about? Is there medicine I should get?”
She shook her head, rocked, and gasped.
Her distress was unsettling. “I’ll call 911.”
“No.” She grabbed his hands as he went for his phone. “Talk to me.”
Sam gawked. Talk? On top of everything else, she was delirious.
“Talk … talk me down.”
Then he got it. Anxiety. As in panic attack. What the hell?
“Feels … feels like I’m … dying.”
He squeezed her hands. “You’re not dying. You’re hyperventilating. Adrenaline’s spiking.” He’d seen this before in the field. Trained soldiers freezing in the midst of an assault or when faced with an atrocity their mind couldn’t process. Sam had always muscled through similar crises himself. He considered himself lucky and he hadn’t thought twice when a fellow soldier had panicked. He’d simply offered aid—part of the buddy system, solider helping soldier.
“Focus on my voice, Harper. Breathe deep. Slow. Count with me.”
“What?”
“One. Two. Three. Come on.”
“Four. Five.”
Sam nodded for her to continue, watched as she fought to slow her breathing. She had a death grip on his hands. He stroked her white knuckles then gave her something to focus on aside from her distress. “Mina asked about you the other day. More accurately, she babbled about you for fifteen minutes. Something about purple being the new pink. I’m guessing that’s why she insists on wearing her purple snow boots every day even though it’s almost June.”
In between ten and eleven and a deep breath, Harper smiled. The barest crook of those lush lips, but at least it wasn’t a grimace.
“The other night,” Sam went on while holding her troubled gaze, “Ben brought home a note from his teacher regarding a missing homework assignment. Know what he said to me? ‘Don’t worry, Dad. I know how to spin it.’” Sam raised one brow. “My son spent random afternoons on this property, a few hours around you while I stained cabinets and grouted tile.”