Sugar and Spice

by Shandi Boyes

  “I know the way.”

  I do not mean to hurt him; I just know distance is best for us right now. Cormack is struggling as much as me. He wants to hold my cheeks so his thumbs can prepare to catch my tears before they fall. He wants to kiss me until our fight is a forgotten memory. But more than anything, he wants me to accept the apologies streaming out of him.

  I want to accept them too, but at the moment, I can’t. I have too many unanswered questions to sort through before I can look at anything else.

  Cormack ignores my reply. Instead, he opts to walk me to the door like a good host. As we weave through the empty hallways, his hand hovers just off my lower back. Having him so close but not technically touching me is torture.

  When we enter the foyer, the looks we get this time are more concerned ones than glowers. The only person who doesn’t look worried is Clara. She seems victorious. Rightfully so. She achieved what she set out for, so she can gloat.

  After opening my car door, Cormack’s eyes lock with mine. I can see a million thoughts streaming through his eyes, but he only expresses one. “Please be careful.”

  He presses a chaste kiss to my cheek before motioning for me to enter James’ car. The sound of my door shutting when I slip inside is startling but expected. If I don’t leave now, he’ll never let me go, and the last thing he’d ever do is make me do something against my wishes.

  With a shaky foot and an empty heart, I exit Mummo Koti for the second time in twenty-four hours. Except this time, I don’t hold back my tears.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Cormack

  A sense of calm I didn’t expect washes over me when I watch Harlow’s car exit Mummo Koti. Although she is leaving, the fact she returned at all tells me everything I need to know. I have not yet lost her. I still have a chance.

  I started my day believing I was losing two women I love. I end it knowing I haven’t lost either. The road to regain Harlow’s trust is going to be bumpy, but I am up to the task. I want this more than anything. Harlow is in my veins. I don’t even breathe without her entering my thoughts. I will make this right. Even if she never forgives me, I will never stop trying to fix the mistakes I made.

  And I know where I must start.

  The energy that makes Mummo Koti an integral part of my life is missing when I reenter the foyer. It weakened the instant my grandmother was carted to an awaiting ambulance, but the drop is even more significant now. For the first time in months, I am walking the marble floors without Harlow by my side. It feels as foreign as what I am about to do.

  I love my sister, but what she did this weekend cannot be forgotten. I warned her I would strip her of everything she had if I lost Harlow for even a second.

  I am a man who keeps his word.

  Clara is about to discover this.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Harlow

  Three Weeks Later. . .

  I stop kneading a massive lump of dough when Renee enters the kitchen of my bakery. Her steps are as over-the-top as the grin on her face. She saunters across the room, floating like she’s on cloud nine. If her focus weren’t directed on me, I’d ask which customer caught her attention today. But since she is as transparent as she is cheeky, I keep my suspicions on the backburner and my hope high.

  The reason behind her elaborate entrance comes to light when she sets a paper rose in front of me. It is one of those flowers handcrafted using pages of books. Its petals have been perfectly folded so portions of the poetry quoted on each page stands out even from a distance. They all have a similar theme: I’m sorry. I love you. Please forgive me.

  Even though my heart is warning me to remain cautious, I pluck the rose from the counter and raise it to my nose. I’m not sniffing it because I’m a moron who thinks paper flowers have a scent. I’m confirming my suspicions. The spicy cologne lingering on the petals verifies my hunch that this rose is from Cormack.

  Ever since he returned from Mummo Koti last week, he has arrived at my bakery every morning without fail. He doesn’t say anything. He just sits at the same table and consumes half a pistachio nut Bundt cupcake as if it is a perfectly normal thing to do. The untouched half of my favorite treat is left with a small trinket each day. Saturday, it was a homemade concoction from the town crazy who thinks she invented a love potion. Sunday it was a mini spatula. And today it is a rose.

  To any ordinary person, Cormack’s gifts seem random. But to me, they mean so much more. Saturday’s gift was fairly obvious. He’ll take a chance on anything to win me back. The second gift was the item I dropped when I spotted him sitting in my bakery for the first time in weeks.

  I did a lot of soul-searching the prior two weeks, but no matter how much I cleansed my soul, the facts never altered. I missed Cormack more than words could ever express, but my stubbornness stopped me from telling him that when he called every morning and afternoon to give me an update on K.

  I asked him for distance, so I had no right to complain when our conversation never veered from his grandmother. But seeing him in the flesh for the first time in weeks didn’t just steal the land from beneath my feet, it snatched the spatula from my hand as well. I fumbled like an awkward idiot, my performance more embarrassing than my stammered response when he asked to kiss me for the first time.

  And that is how we got to today’s gift. This rose, it represents a lifelong commitment. Every Sunday morning at precisely 9 AM, Mr. Crosby arrives at my bakery to buy a sugar-petaled rose cupcake for the love of his life—his wife of sixty-three years. The way he inspects each petal to ensure it is as perfect as she is glosses my eyes with moisture every single time.

  Only six months ago, I couldn’t imagine being loved so fiercely. Cormack’s attention proved me wrong. Our relationship started as a lie, but I’m beginning to wonder if my dad was right. If you are willing to forgive, not all mistakes have to end badly.

  What Cormack did hurt me, but if he hadn’t been so gung-ho on securing my bakery, we may have never met. Even though he lived in Hopeton the past six years, not once did we bump into each other. The way the universe brought us together was totally fucked up, but who I am to judge its madness? I’m not crazy, but I’ve been known to tiptoe over the line occasionally. Cormack brought out a side of me I’ve missed the past three weeks. There is only one thing I have missed more: him.

  I’m drawn from my thoughts when Renee says, “He also left you this.” She hands me my share of the Bundt cake.

  “Who says it’s for me?” Although I’m denying its origin, I carefully remove the cake from her hand before she can dispose of it. I never eat it, but I refuse to throw it away. Instead, I store it in the freezer, right alongside the cupcakes my dad baked for me before he passed.

  “Harlow. . .” Renee sighs, making my struggle to hold in my tears ten times harder.

  “I’m fine,” I lie, shooing away her mothering with a swipe of my hand. I’ve got enough people offering up their advice; I don’t need any more.

  K has kept in regular contact since she was discharged from the hospital two weeks ago. Her English hasn’t improved from the three words she spoke to me in her hospital ward, but our conversations warm my heart in a way that doesn’t require words.

  Even James and Florence have been staying up to date with the adventures of my life. They have become an extension of my family and are planning to travel to Ravenshoe in the near future to visit me. I’m truly blessed by the number of people in my life who care for me, but they can’t compare to the love of a good man.

  Not wanting Renee to see the stupid tears welling in my eyes, I drop them to the dough I’m in the process of preparing. “The order of bread rolls due this afternoon, did they want sesame seeds?”

  Although Renee is well aware I’m using business talk as a distraction, she follows along nicely. “They requested half and half.”

  “Good afternoon,” I greet, my voice as dry as my throat feels.

  Cormack moves forward in the basically non-existent lin
e. It is late in the afternoon, so the lunch crowd has died down. “Good afternoon,” he echoes.

  With his arrival happening hours later than usual the past two weeks, I assumed he wasn’t coming today. Although upset by my inaccurate assumption, it was anticipated. He has arrived at my bakery at precisely 8 AM every morning for the past two weeks, yet I’ve not spoken a word to him. I’m not stubborn. I’m just wary.

  After a quick swallow, I raise my eyes to Cormack’s face. “The usual?”

  “Please.”

  I can’t hide my smile at the excitement in his voice, so I set it free. The stack of half-consumed cakes in my freezer should have answered my question on his behalf, but I’ve never been one to assume anything. That is why I’m not surprised my assumption this morning was wrong. You can’t be good at something if you don’t practice the skill.

  Excluding today, Cormack’s routine hasn’t altered in the slightest. The number of trinkets sitting on my bedroom shelf has grown by one every day the past two weeks. None of the gifts have been particularly valuable, but their sentimental worth is priceless. I’ve been given everything you could imagine: little sketches of my bakery, a link to a song that reminds him of our time together, a highlighted book.

  The passages he highlighted in the book were perfect descriptions of our relationship, but I honestly didn’t know whether to hug him or strangle him when Renee handed it to me. The yellow highlighter he used will remain on the pages of the first edition book for eternity. That is a crime worthy of punishment but also an act of love worthy of recognition. He’s trying so hard to say he is sorry, the least I can do is talk to him.

  “You know I have a whole cabinet of treats for you to sample. You don’t have to keep ordering the same thing. You won’t hurt my feelings if you rotate your sweet and savory palette occasionally.”

  Cormack waits for me to place a perfectly crafted Picasso Nut Bundt cake onto a plate before replying, “You can’t change perfection, so why try?”

  A stranger would misconstrue his statement as meaning the cupcake. I know that isn’t the case. His truthful eyes reveal who his comment was about. He was referring to me.

  “Some say a change is as good as a holiday?”

  Pretending my reply didn’t cause a brutal stabbing sensation to my chest, I accept his five dollar bill before handing him two quarters. I can’t think about him with anyone but me. That is a thought I’ll never stomach. Not now. Not ever.

  Cormack places his change into his pocket before halfheartedly nodding. “In some cases that may be true. But not for me. I like repetition. I like unity.” After a quick lick of his lips, he adds on, “I love you.”

  Three little tears for three little words, that is all I allow.

  The moisture in my eyes adds to the plea in his. “Please talk to me, Harlow. Tell me how to fix this. What to say or do. I’m trying, but I’m swimming in waters way out of my depth, and there isn’t a lifejacket in sight.”

  My lips twitch, but not a sound comes from my mouth.

  After I fail to respond, Cormack spans the distance between us. My lungs’ hunt for air triples for every step he takes. I should demand more time. I should ignore the repeated pledges for forgiveness. I should not seek excuses for his betrayal. But for every step he takes, the knot in my stomach loosens.

  All of last month, my anger had me misconstruing the facts, but as he stands before me now, clarity forms. What he did was wrong, but if I take my feelings out of the equation, it makes sense. If he immediately shut down the rival bakeries, he would have sacrificed his dreams for a stranger. That is the equivalent of asking me not to bake. Cormack would never do that, so why was I so quick to judge him for not giving up his dreams from the moment we met? I have no right to demand he give up anything, much less something so important to him.

  The tension that forever crackles between us hisses and snaps when Cormack stops to stand in front of me. Our relationship developed quickly, but just because it happened fast didn’t make it less worthy. There is no such thing as quality over quantity. Greatness can occur in a nanosecond or a century. Time is merely an illusion. It is how you spend it that is most important. I am only here for one lifetime, and I don’t want to waste another second.

  Clearly, neither does Cormack.

  After bending down on one knee, he raises his glistening eyes to mine. “My name is Cormack Elliot McGregor. I am a business owner who stupidly believed world domination was the only path to success. I was wrong. I made a mistake, and I hurt the woman I love in the process. If she can find it in her heart to forgive me, I will never stop trying to fix the mistakes I made. I will cherish her for an eternity. I will even wake up with the sparrows every morning for the rest of my life to bake with her. I love you, Harlow. I love you more than the moon, the stars, and the sun. I love you more than anything—even Bundt cakes.”

  His last comment makes me smile. It also makes me cry. It isn’t just his words that have me choking back tears, it is him presenting me my gift for today.

  With a stranglehold of emotions clutching my throat, it is hard for me to talk, but I manage to squeak out, “Did you make this?”

  A flash of color creeps across Cormack’s cheeks before he nods. “It is why I am late. My first three batches didn’t pan out very well.”

  I laugh through a sob. “You did good. The icing is a little stiff, but you’ve got potential.”

  My heart does a weird boom-boom, skip a beat, boom-boom thing when he says, “So I get a B for appearance, but what about the taste? If I recall correctly, presentation only makes up half the tally?”

  “I guess there is only one way I can give you a true score.”

  Cormack watches me in silence when I lift the Bundt cake out of the box. I can feel tension radiating out of him when I peel back the paper. His anxiety is at an all-time high. He doesn’t want to disappoint me, but he shouldn’t fret. Just the thought of him spending his morning baking fills my heart with joy.

  The paper comes away without too much effort; it is neither burned or undercooked. Cormack’s chest rises and falls in rhythm with mine when my teeth sink into my favorite treat. The explosion of flavor is too much for me to bear. It is better than any cake I’ve ever eaten, because no amount of spice can match the love a baker puts in every batch.

  Spotting the wetness streaming down my face, Cormack stands to his feet. He lifts his hand to clear my tears but is hesitant to touch me without seeking permission. I save him from asking by nuzzling into his palm. The sharp breath he releases when our skin touches for the first time in over a month fans my face. The current. The fire. The mutual respect. It is all still there; his mistake didn’t change that. Our connection is as strong as it’s ever been.

  “Please forgive me, Harlow. I’m sorry for what I did. I’m sorry that I hurt you. But if you give me the chance to make things right, I’ll never make the same mistake again. That is all I want, just a chance.”

  I peer into his remorseful eyes as I take a moment to ponder. My thoughts always stray in the same direction. Forgiving him won’t make me weak. It merely means I am putting our relationship above everything else, including my ego.

  I also love him. Enough said.

  Except perhaps, “Yes.”

  Epilogue

  Cormack

  Two years later. . .

  “Are you sure this is the song you want me to play?” The DJ glances down at the slip of paper I handed him as his brows furrow. He is so adamant I’ve mistaken the song title, he’s not taking my suggestion seriously.

  “Yes,” I assure with a nod.

  His grimace doubles. “Alright, but it’s your funeral.”

  “It’s my wedding, actually, but whatever floats your boat.”

  When I turn away from the DJ’s booth, my eyes’ trek across the grand space stops halfway. Harlow is standing by the cake table with Izzy. Her white lace wedding dress clings to her generous curves likes a glove, and her auburn hair is pinned away from her face,
exposing inches of her ravishing neck. Although I can’t see her face, I know she is smiling. I can feel it in my bones.

  She is probably laughing at the disastrous job I did on the top tier of our wedding cake. Even with years of baking under my belt, my skills are still rusty. Lucky for me, Harlow issues brownie points just for trying.

  The past two years have been unlike any I’ve ever had. I won’t lie; there were a few bumps occasionally tossed in our path, but the good times have far outweighed the bad.

  Harlow forgave me that day two years ago in her bakery, but that didn’t mean she went easy on me. Our relationship blossomed at a much slower pace the second time around. It wasn’t all bad. It gave me the chance to wine her, dine her, and woo the living shit out of her. I will never forget the pain her eyes held when she discovered what I had done, but as the days move on, the memory doesn’t fill me with as much guilt as it once did.

  Harlow’s bakery is thriving. It is a hub in our community that brings people together in a way I never understood but now encourage. Its success has nothing to do with me. All the glory belongs to the woman who stole the land from beneath my feet within a nanosecond. My wife—the most determined and drop-dead gorgeous woman I’ve ever met.

  I’m drawn from my thoughts when a familiar song booms through the speakers at my side. Several eyes snap to mine, stunned by the crudeness of the opening line. Their shock isn’t surprising. It isn’t every day a groom requests to dance his bridal waltz to a song about a man’s love of hoes.

  The only pair of eyes not glowering at me is Harlow’s. She is staring at me in wonderment, her smile bright enough to compete with the moon. While Kanye West advises our guests about his love of hoes, I make my way across the room, my eyes never leaving Harlow’s.