The Cupcake Diaries

by Darlene Panzera

  “This is important,” she said, and pivoting around the woman’s reach, she stepped toward the service window.

  The customer first in line must not have seen her, because after he received his vanilla ice cream he turned and bumped straight into her.

  “Oh, no!” Stacey sprang back, but it was too late. His cone took a nosedive straight for the sandy sidewalk. “I’m so sorry. Please let me buy you another one.”

  “Sure, if you say so,” the guy said with a laid-back grin.

  Technically, Stacey didn’t have to make the offer. He ran into her, after all. But she’d been in his way and would feel guilty all day long if she didn’t try to make amends.

  She dug in her purse for some change and placed it in his outstretched hand. He looked like a surfer with his Hawaiian bathing trunks and his long, sun-streaked hair. Very attractive. Too bad they hadn’t met under better circumstances.

  The surfer traded the change for another cone, and Stacey leaned toward the service window. “Excuse me, but I was told I could set up my cupcake stand at this location.”

  “I’ll be right with you,” the owner of the ice cream truck called out. He didn’t look at her but wiped the counter, turned to replenish a container of plastic spoons, and slammed a receipt into the cash register drawer.

  She found his attire . . . interesting. He wore white pants and a white shirt with a black bow tie, along with a white boat-shaped soda jerk paper hat, like someone out of the 1950s who worked at an old-fashioned soda fountain. Except he didn’t sound old.

  A man twice her size stepped up to the counter, blocking her view, and placed an order.

  “Can I speak to you for just a second?” Stacey asked, trying to peek around the large customer to get the vendor’s attention.

  “You’ll have to wait your turn,” he said, scooping ice cream out of a deep bucket. “These other people were before you.”

  “But I—”

  The ice cream vendor stretched out a muscular arm and pointed. “The line starts back there.”

  Muttering uncivil things about him under her breath, she trudged back to the end of the line, which had grown even longer since she’d arrived. From this angle she faced the side of the truck—and could read his sign.

  DAVE’S ICE CREAM. And beneath it in smaller letter: ICE CREAM DONE WRIGHT.

  The gasp she let out drew several glances from the people in front of her. Dave Wright? She’d thought something about his voice sounded familiar. And those arms. She should have known, but his work uniform threw her off.

  He didn’t recognize her. If he had, he would have helped her right away. Should she give him a hint? Would he care? Business before pleasure, she reminded herself, and fifteen minutes later she stepped up to the counter a second time.

  “How can I help you?” he asked.

  Suddenly, her stomach grew queasy, and her throat felt dry. “I—I think you’re in my spot. I was told by the town officials I could set up my cupcake stand on the west end of Second Street by the beach entrance.”

  Dave grinned. “They told me the same thing. This spot is open to all vendors on a first come, first served basis, and I got here first.” He cocked his head, and his gaze locked with hers. “Don’t I know you?”

  She smiled and nodded her head.

  “You’re the backpacker from Idaho with the MREs and the survival knife.”

  He did recognize her. At least this time her clothes were coordinated. No more mismatched patterns for her now that she had a uniform to wear.

  He glanced at the pink apron over her white short-sleeved blouse and shorts and frowned. “Creative Cupcakes? The same cupcake shop that shut down a Zumba dance studio, put a French pastry chef out of business, captured ‘The Cupcake Bandit,’ and unmasked a Grinch?”

  Stacey hesitated, not liking the way his tone had changed, as if their success were bad. “Yes . . . that cupcake shop.”

  His expression hardened. Was he afraid they’d put him out of business, too?

  “We’re not interested in ice cream,” she assured him.

  “Good to know,” he drawled, “because I am not interested in cupcakes.”

  The unfriendly manner in which he spoke made her think he wasn’t interested in her either. Oh, no.

  Dread rose like a wave from inside her, like her own personal tsunami. “Can’t you move your truck over so I can park here, too?”

  “I’m in the middle of selling. Tomorrow maybe.”

  “What will I do today?”

  “Go down a few blocks to the end of Ocean Avenue and set up there.”

  “But—”

  “You’re a tough gal, Idaho,” he said, giving her a wry grin. “I’m sure you’re used to roughing it.”

  Stacey frowned. Her name wasn’t “Idaho.” She’d only lived there five months before moving to Oregon. Before that she’d lived in Georgia, Pennsylvania, Colorado, and Nebraska. And while she wished she were tough, the way Dave said it didn’t feel like a compliment.

  Her legs wobbled as she walked back to the Volkswagen bus. She’d misjudged him. He wasn’t very nice at all. She should be glad he didn’t ask her out. She didn’t need him. Dave Wright was definitely not her idea of Mr. Right. If she did marry, her future husband would be a team player, a partner who could compromise. He’d respect her and cherish her and not push her away.

  Stacey looked at her map and drove down to Ocean Avenue. The narrow road didn’t look very commercial. At the end there were residential houses on either side. However, it was another beach entrance, so maybe she’d sell just as well here as on Second Street.

  She set up the umbrella table and stools outside the vehicle, opened the side windows over the customer counter, and placed the chalk menu board on a wooden A-frame stand. Then she looked out at the fabulous view of the ocean before her. To the far left she could see many people walking across the wide expanse of beach to Haystack Rock, the famed 235-foot sea stack rising up out of the shallow surf. A few people even walked past her stand. But no one bought her cupcakes.

  “Most of the tourists use the other beach entrances,” one of the local homeowners informed her.

  Did Dave know that when he sent her here? What would she tell Andi, Rachel, and Kim when they asked how many cupcakes she had sold? What if they fired her? What would she do then?

  Kate Jones would be tempted to kick her whiny, fearful butt and tell her to stand up for herself and get a life. Except knowing what she should do and doing it were two different things. She simply wasn’t Kate.

  She opened one of the cupcake boxes, hoping to draw a few customers in with their sweet, strawberry scent, but a strong gust of wind blew a fine layer of sand across the icing. Where did the wind come from?

  Her stomach tightened, and her nerves tingled with apprehension. Stay calm. You can do this. There are no tornadoes in Oregon.

  She walked over to the public trash can and tossed the ruined box of cupcakes away. Then another gust of wind, stronger than the first, kicked a swirl of sand up into the air, and she ran and crawled under the Volkswagen van for safety.

  A round rock, a perfect fit for her palm, caught her eye, and she picked it up and squeezed it until her fear subsided.

  Then she heard laughter, and heat rushed into her cheeks at the thought that maybe someone had seen her dive under the vehicle and was laughing at her. Just like Dave must be laughing at her while serving hundreds of customers lined up in front of his ice cream truck.

  She crawled out from her hiding place and slipped the rock into the pocket of her apron for future use. Then she circled around to the front of her stand . . . and stopped short.

  An older woman with long white hair stood by the trash can, the box of ruined cupcakes in her hands. They looked at each other and for a moment Stacey couldn’t move. She didn’t know what to say. Then she took a step forward, and the woman dropped the cupcake box back into the can and walked away.

  If she hadn’t caught her red-handed, would the woman
have eaten the food she found in the trash can? The elderly lady wore plain, shabby clothes and looked stick thin, as if she hadn’t eaten in days.

  Stacey picked up a fresh box of cupcakes and raced across the strip of wispy green-and-yellow sea grass separating the sand and the road.

  “Wait,” Stacey called, catching up to her. “Please take these. They’re free. I’m done for the day, and I can’t take all the boxes back home with me.”

  The woman hesitated, then nodded her thanks, took the box, and continued down the beach. Was she homeless? What had happened to her to turn her into a garbage picker? Failure?

  Fearing she might share the same fate if she didn’t sell more cupcakes, Stacey resolved to get up extra early the following morning to beat Dave Wright to the spot on Second Street.

  And maybe, if she had the nerve, she’d show him how tough she really was. Maybe she would be a curb hog and wouldn’t move over for him.

  WHEN STACEY ARRIVED back at the cupcake shop, she found Andi, Rachel, and Kim waiting for her.

  “How did you do?” Andi asked.

  Stacey hated to disappoint them. “All eight dozen cupcakes were paid for.”

  This much was true. She’d taken $312 of her own money and placed it in the sales envelope. Then she’d dropped off the remaining six boxes of assorted cupcakes at a food pantry for the homeless.

  “Great!” Andi gave her a congratulatory pat on the back. “Tomorrow we’ll send you to the beach with a couple dozen more.”

  Stacey attempted a smile. “That would be . . . great.”

  Or a big mistake. Tomorrow she’d really have to sell cupcakes. She couldn’t afford to pay for them two days in a row.

  “We sent in our entry form for the state cupcake competition,” Rachel informed her. “With our added orders of flour to bake cupcakes for the beach stand, the coordinator should put us in the top division.”

  Stacey’s entire body stiffened. “The divisions are based on flour orders?”

  “Yes,” Kim replied. “That’s why we need you to sell lots of cupcakes.”

  Andi nodded. “Did you write the amount you sold in the Cupcake Diary?”

  Stacey hesitated. “Not yet—but I will.”

  Rachel handed her a spoon and held out a cup of tangerine-colored frosting. “Try this and see what you think. We blended five different fruit juices into the mix and are hoping to use the recipe for the competition.”

  Stacey took a taste, and the tangy citrus flavor puckered her lips.

  “See?” Rachel sent an “I told you so” look to both Andi and Kim. “There’s too much orange extract.”

  Andi sighed and opened her own Cupcake Diary to make a few notes. “We could always use some of our other recipes, but I still think I can make this one work.”

  “Will you have time?” Kim asked. “You’ve got the baby coming, and I have so much to do before my wedding I can’t think straight. Did you know that Dad is bringing a date?”

  Andi stared at her younger sister. “Our father?”

  Kim laughed. “Yeah. I couldn’t believe it either.”

  “Who is it?” Andi demanded. “Anyone we know?”

  “He won’t tell me,” Kim admitted. “He’s been very secretive lately. But this is a big step for him.”

  “Our father hasn’t dated since our mother died thirteen years ago,” Andi explained, glancing in Stacey’s direction.

  “My mother invited Guy Armstrong to be her date,” Rachel announced. “And Grandpa Lewy will be bringing Bernice.”

  “I think Eric’s going to ask Heather,” Andi said, nodding her head toward the two college employees working in the back of the kitchen.

  Stacey watched Heather breeze right past Eric with a tray of cupcakes, ignoring his attempt to talk to her. Poor Eric. She could definitely relate to how he must feel.

  “He likes her so much,” Rachel whispered. “See how he looks at her?”

  “Yeah, but Heather’s too mature for him,” Kim said, shrugging. “I doubt if he asked her that she’d say yes. Trish and Oliver are another couple at odds. I hope they don’t argue at the wedding.”

  Andi cringed. “You didn’t have to invite them.”

  “She’s your sister-in-law,” Kim told her, “and your family is my family. Besides, Trish has come a long way since she held a picket sign outside the shop protesting cupcakes.”

  Andi nodded. “She said she might be interested in baking after I have the baby and I’m not able to come in every day.”

  “Another reason I should invite her,” Kim pointed out.

  “Speaking of family,” Rachel said, her mouth curving into a smile. “Stacey, are you bringing a date?”

  Stacey thought of Dave, the man she’d met at the yard sale, not the one who ran the ice cream truck. Too bad they were the same guy. “I might have to come single.”

  “There are several nice-looking men at the Liberty Theater who are in the upcoming play with me. Would you like me to set you up with one of them?” Rachel asked.

  “No, please don’t.” Stacey shook her head. The last thing she needed was to be stuck with a date she didn’t even choose. She’d have more fun if she went alone.

  “You still have several weeks to find one,” Kim reminded her. “If a gruff old man like my father can do it, so can you. Maybe you’ll meet a handsome guy while working at the beach.”

  “Did someone mention ‘a handsome Guy’?” Guy Armstrong teased, coming through the door. “What are we talking about?”

  “Family and dates for Kim’s wedding,” Andi said, catching him up on the gossip. “Stacey needs a date.”

  “I don’t need a date,” Stacey corrected, feeling more self-conscious by the minute.

  “What about your older brother?” Rachel asked. “When’s the last time you saw him? Why don’t you ask Tim to be your escort?”

  “I—I haven’t . . . seen Tim or my parents for . . . some time.” She swallowed hard. “We’ve all been busy, traveling in different directions. We don’t always get much of a chance to talk to each other.”

  “Same here,” Guy said and smirked. “My sister moved and never gave me her new address. I guess she doesn’t like me much.”

  Stacey’s tension with her family wasn’t because they didn’t like each other, but because they lived apart. After the tornado her older brother, eighteen at the time, had opted to stay in Nebraska. But she and her parents decided they didn’t like the state anymore and had moved around together until Stacey grew tired of traveling and moved in with Pam.

  She’d hoped to stay in Coeur d’Alene, but here she was in Astoria, where an escort to Kim’s wedding was the least of her worries. While having a date would be nice, a sense of security would be even better.

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  If a June night could talk, it would probably boast it invented romance.

  —Bern Williams

  STACEY HAD NO idea how early she’d have to get up to claim the spot on Second Street before Dave. To be safe, she sprung out of bed when the alarm went off at 4:00 a.m., opened Creative Cupcakes with Andi a half hour later, then helped bake, loaded the Volkswagen bus, and arrived at her destination at seven.

  She thought about parking diagonally across the available space and making Dave leave to set up elsewhere, but in the end, she just didn’t have the heart or the guts to do it. Placing the smooth, round stone she’d found the day before on a stack of napkins to keep them from blowing away, she muttered, “I need to be rock-hard like you. I’m too much of a pushover.”

  Just like she’d pushed the cupcake stand over to make room for Dave’s ice cream truck.

  “What do you think, Rocky?” she mused, drawing a small smiley face on the stone’s surface to greet customers. “Will Dave want to fight?”

  She caught herself breathing too fast and made a conscious effort to slow it down. Deep breaths. Breathe in, breathe out.

  What time would he arrive? Did he park here every day? Would he
speak to her? Give her the evil eye? Run straight into the back of her stand with his truck? Andi, Rachel, and Kim would not be happy with her if she brought back the vehicle with dents.

  A couple of early risers and dog walkers bought some of her fresh, blueberry-filled cupcakes for breakfast, yet her tension mounted with every passing minute. She’d barely slept the night before. She’d been too busy tossing and turning and trying to imagine what expression would cross Dave’s face when he saw her.

  The faint jingling of melodic chimes caught her attention and grew louder as a large white truck approached.

  He was here.

  Stacey ran her sweaty palms down her apron and cleared her throat.

  Dave sat behind the wheel for a moment, five whole minutes to be exact, then opened the door and climbed out.

  What should she say to him? Should she say anything?

  He’d parked right behind her, leaving only a five-foot gap between their two vehicles. As he opened the window flaps along the side of his truck, he looked right at her. His expression wasn’t one of rage, but from the scowl that tightened his lips, it was clear he wasn’t happy.

  “N-nice day,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice the tremor in her voice.

  He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe she dared to talk to him and went about his business in silence.

  “Fine,” she muttered under her breath. “If that’s the way it’s gonna be, then fine.” At least he didn’t throw any verbal grenades. “Looks like I won this round.” She glanced at Rocky. “Don’t you think?”

  Her confidence grew as more and more people came to buy her cupcakes. The dark chocolate−bacon cupcakes were the most popular, with pink lemonade cupcakes coming in a close second. Several customers were anxious to try the specialty cupcakes—Tropical Luau, Amaretto Dream, and the lemon-mint cupcakes with blueberry compote filling, blueberry Italian butter cream frosting, and blueberry drizzle.

  Stacey decided that serving cupcakes and meeting new people was a great way to spend the day, especially when handsome, good-looking guys walked up to her stand. The luscious, melt-in-your-mouth, sweet-tasting cupcakes put a smile on everyone’s face, and the men looked even better when they smiled.