Lip Smacker

by Bailey, Alison G.

  Copyright © 2019 Alison G. Bailey

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Designer - Nicole Blanchard, Indie Sage

  Editing - Staci Frenes, Grammar Boss Editing

  Formatting - Elaine York, Allusion Graphics, LLC

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  THE JINGLE OF THE bell above the door made me pop my head up in excitement at the prospect of a customer. But as soon as the door swung open, my hopes were dashed. The man peeked inside, scanned the shop, and realized he was in the wrong place. I blew a gusty sigh and dropped my gaze to the display case full of cupcakes. I knew starting a business was risky and was well aware I wouldn’t see profits for at least five years. The problem was I didn’t know if I could wait that long.

  Things were tight, but I was living the dream. Right? Opening a cupcake bakery with my grandmother had felt like an unobtainable goal until a year ago. I had used the money from my parent’s inheritance to buy the tiny shop near the historic district in Charleston, South Carolina. Here it was a year later and the business was still trudging along.

  My grandmother, namesake, and partner in crime is Elipheleta Cora Smacker, but I call her Wavy. The story goes that when I was a baby my grandmother would do anything to get me to laugh. She would wave her hands excitedly whenever she saw me. Wave her hands in the air as she danced around the room. Wave her hands while standing at her front door watching my parents and me drive away from her little white house on Hester Street. You get the picture. So instead of granny, nanna, or mama, she became Wavy. It was fun and unique, just like her.

  As a child my favorite times were the weekends I spent with Pop and Wavy. Early Saturday morning Pop would head to Folly Beach to fish while Wavy made me cheese grits for breakfast. She would place the hot bowl of grits on the windowsill to cool down a little as we planned our day.

  Hampton Park was always our first stop. During spring and summer the place was surrounded by bright, fuchsia-colored azaleas as well as roses and camellias. Add in the beautiful Spanish moss draping the century-old oak trees, a stone bridge that crossed the huge duck pond, a white gazebo with a green roof, and the park looked like something out of a fairytale.

  After feeding the ducks, Wavy and I would make our way to the gazebo, climb the steps, and survey the land. We were like a queen and princess residing over their kingdom. On occasion we got to see couples getting engaged or married in that park. I knew when I found my Prince Charming I’d be coming back to this very spot for my own elegant wedding.

  Our next stop would be the Red and White grocery store to get the ingredients we needed for cupcakes. Wavy loved to bake, period, but cupcakes were her favorite. She’d tell me that no matter what difficulties people were going through, a cupcake would always put a smile on their face. Once we got back home and the first batch went in the oven, we would make the buttercream frosting and talk about the bakery we would open someday.

  Our place would be decorated tastefully in our favorite colors of pink and green, with some bright white accents thrown in. The shelves would be lined with Wavy’s collection of vintage ceramic cookie jars in the shape of cupcakes. There would always be a fresh, colorful Gerber daisy in a small vase on each of the white bistro tables. And when the weather was perfect, we would move the tables out to the sidewalk so people could enjoy the beautiful sights and sounds of the Lowcountry. The cupcake flavors would be endless. Not only would we have the well-known favorites, we would invent our own unique varieties like banana pudding, key lime pie, pineapple upside down cake, and peanut butter cup.

  Looking around now at the tan lifeless walls, second hand furniture, and shabby decorations, the reality didn’t exactly match the dream. Wavy had wanted to spend her money fixing up the bakery, but I wouldn’t hear of it. She had been there for me all of my life. After my parents died in a car accident four years ago Wavy and Pop were the only family I had. A year after my parents’ death, Pop unexpectedly passed away sitting in his favorite chair. Cause of death was listed as a heart attack, but Wavy said he died of a broken heart over his son’s death. Now that Pop was gone, I made it my goal in life to make Wavy’s dream, our dream, come true.

  When I saw this shop go up for sale, I jumped at the chance to buy it. Wavy and I had been watching this place for years. Originally, it had been the burger joint where she met and fell in love with Pop when they were fourteen. Over the years the place had changed owners and had been reincarnated from a burger joint to a pizza parlor, then a sushi bar, then a molecular cuisine café—whatever the hell that was. Now it was our bakery.

  I figured once the business got going I would make enough money to really do the place up right. In the meantime, I made do with what I had. The bakery hadn’t taken off the way I thought it would. I was positive it wasn’t my cupcakes. People loved them, raving that they were the best they had ever eaten. But word of mouth traveled slowly and at the moment I didn’t have the extra money to spend on a full-blown marketing campaign, a splashy grand opening, or even the cute little vases with the colorful Gerber daisies.

  To make matters worse, about a month ago a new developer started construction on a huge hotel and convention center complex nearby. They had been very successful in squeezing out the other local businesses on the block and the bakery was the one and only hold-out. Wavy and I were just not ready to give up on our dream. The way I saw it, downtown needed another hotel like I needed a hole in my head. Besides, this location held special memories for Wavy and me.

  The bells jingled once again and in walked the elderly man who had moved into the apartment building around the corner a couple of months ago.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Abrams. How are you today?”

  With a newspaper tucked under his arm, he shuffled his short round body toward the front counter.

  Looking up at me through thick, black-framed glasses, he said, “Happy and healthy.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “So far, anyway.”

  I smiled. “What can I get you today?”

  He gazed at the chalkboard menu hanging on the wall and scratched his almost completely bald head.

  “Hmmm, let’s see. What am I in the mood for?” He paused for a moment. “I’ll have a cinnamon roll.”

  “Mr. Abrams, you know I don’t sell cinnamon rolls.”

  His gray eyebrows scrunched together. “This is a bakery, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If memory serves, cinnam
on rolls are a baked good. Correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I’d like a cinnamon roll with a hot cup of water. I’ll be over there when it’s ready.”

  Making his way to the table closest to the counter, Mr. Abrams took a seat at his usual spot. Seconds later I brought him a large cup of hot water and a cupcake. As I placed the items on the table, he removed a teabag from his shirt pocket.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Your water and a pineapple upside down cupcake.”

  “No cinnamon rolls?”

  “Mr. Abrams, like I tell you every day, this is a cupcake bakery, which means we only have cupcakes.”

  As if this were the first time hearing the information, his lips puckered up, mashing into his long nose. Shortly after Mr. Abrams had moved to the neighborhood, he began coming in here every afternoon ordering the same thing. And every afternoon I tell him I only sell cupcakes.

  Dunking the teabag into the hot water, he scrutinized the cupcake. “It’s no cinnamon roll, but it looks pretty good.”

  “I hope you like it. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

  As I turned and walked back behind the counter I heard the faint moan of delight as Mr. Abrams bit into his cupcake. I didn’t mind going through this daily charade. He was a dear, albeit grumpy at times, old man who just wanted some company. Plus, I think he was a little sweet on Wavy.

  “Elipheleta!” The sound of my namesake interrupted my train of thought. “Could you grab this for me, sweetheart?”

  I caught Mr. Abrams peeking over his newspaper as Wavy walked through the swinging kitchen doors carrying a tray of chocolate fudge cupcakes. I hurried to her and took the tray. The aroma of chocolate swirled around me.

  “Wavy, this is too heavy for you to carry.” I sat the tray of cupcakes on the counter, opened the display case, and slid them inside. “I think we can hold off on doing any more baking today. It’s almost three o’clock, we’ve only sold ten cupcakes, and we close in a couple of hours.”

  “But this is the time of day when people’s sweet tooth starts gnawing at them. They need something to tide them over until supper. Plus, those College of Charleston students are desperate for something to satisfy the munchies, if you know what I mean?” She winked.

  “I know exactly what you mean and I’ve told you before we’d need to open at 11 p.m. for your theory to work.”

  The loud clearing of a throat filled the bakery. My eyes met Mr. Abrams’ stare.

  “Wavy, did you see Mr. Abrams is here?”

  Lowering his newspaper, he said, “Good afternoon, Elipheleta.”

  Wavy performed a not so subtle eye roll. “Hello, Mel. How are you today?”

  “Much better now.” He smiled.

  After a second of watching an unresponsive Wavy, I nudged her with my elbow, causing a weak but noticeable smile to spread across her face. When this geriatric flirting, for lack of a better term, began, I was bothered by it. I’d only ever seen one man show Wavy any affection. But now I found it quite endearing. Besides, at the rate Mr. Abrams was going it would be ten years before he made a real move.

  The familiar tinkling sound filled the air. A little redheaded girl who looked to be around eight years old dragged a hesitant middle-aged woman by the hand into the shop. I slapped on another hopeful smile. Maybe a big birthday party or school event was in my future.

  As they approached, the little girl’s expression went from determination to awe as she focused on the rows of multicolored frosting atop moist, light cakes. She let go of the lady’s hand and took a step closer to get a better view.

  “Hey, can I help you?” I said cheerfully.

  “Mom! Look at the pink sparkly ones!” The little girl pointed at the tray of strawberry cupcakes piled high with a thick swirl of pink strawberry frosting sprinkled with edible glitter. “Ple-e-e-ase can we get one?”

  Bending down close to the girl’s ear, the lady said in a hushed tone, “Ali I told you we could look and that’s all.”

  My hopes of a sale were dashed. This lady was probably one of those no-sugar mommas.

  “I know, but—”

  “I’m sorry, we just can’t afford to buy any extras this month.”

  “But you said that last month, and the month before that, and—” The girl’s voice teetered on whiny.

  Bite my tongue and slap my face, they weren’t anti-sugar at all.

  The lady stood, a look of embarrassment and humiliation washing over her face. “I’m sorry.” She reached for her daughter’s hand.

  “You know what? I sure am glad you came in here when you did,” I said.

  Ali looked up at me with her face squished in confusion. “You are? Why?”

  “It seems that I made too many strawberry cupcakes today and I need someone to take them off my hands.” I looked at her mom, making sure I had her okay to continue.

  Ali’s confused expression morphed into disappointment. “My mom says we can’t afford extras.”

  “No charge,” I blurted out.

  Her green eyes lit up. “Really?”

  “Really. Actually, you’d be doing me a huge favor.”

  Ali looked expectantly at her mom. “Mom, please? You always say we should help other people as much as possible.”

  The smile on her mom’s face started out weak, but quickly brightened after seeing the pleading on both our faces.

  She caved. “Okay. I suppose we can help the very nice and generous lady out this time.”

  Ali turned to me, her entire body bursting with excitement. “I’ll be happy to take any and all extra cupcakes you have. Are any of the extras the pink ones?”

  “Ali, don’t be rude,” her mom scolded.

  “As a matter of fact, all the extras are pink.”

  “This is the best day of my life.”

  I grabbed a pink bakery box at the same the jingle of the bells sounded.

  Not looking up, I said, “I’ll be right with you.”

  I placed the dozen cupcakes inside one by one with Ali’s happy gaze following my every movement. I closed the box, tied a white ribbon around it, and slid it across the counter toward the smiling little girl.

  “Do you have any siblings or friends you’re going to share those with?” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am. I have an older sister, Melissa, and my best friend Heather will lo-o-ove these.” Ali gently picked up the box by the ribbon.

  With her hands on her daughter’s shoulders, Ali’s mom said, “What do you say to…?”

  “Lip. Lip Smacker.”

  I love my grandmother more than anything, but let’s face it, Elipheleta doesn’t exactly roll trippingly off the tongue. It’s a strong southern name for strong southern women, which Wavy and I are. I loved being named after her until I entered first grade. I was in a sea of Olivias, Emmas, Chloes, and Lillys. I didn’t stand a chance with my strong southern name. The teachers and the staff were bad enough, but the kids were the worst. My parents taught me the way to handle a bully was to first ignore them. If that didn’t work talk to them in a calm manner, letting them know how hurtful their words make you feel.

  One day at recess, my class was out on the playground when Billy Smith became the straw that broke the camel’s back. He was a taller, wider, second grader who teased me relentlessly about my name. While playing kickball with my friends, Billy did what he always did. He ran up behind me and said what he always said.

  “Epilepsy Smacker! What a stupid name! It goes with your stupid face! Epilepsy! Epilepsy! Epilepsy!”

  I stopped playing, took a deep breath, and walked with purpose up to Billy. He peered down at me with snarled lips.

  “You know that’s not my name. It hurts my feelings. I’m not sure what epilepsy is, but I know it’s not good when a person has it. So you better stop calling me that right now.”

  “Sure, I’ll stop.”

  I froze in shock that Billy Smith had a heart and that my parents were right. All t
his time I was afraid to talk to Billy, but he was a reasonable guy who obviously didn’t know making fun of people was not cool.

  With pride flowing through my body, I turned and took two steps then heard:

  “Epilepsy is a little baby with hurt feelings! I bet you go home crying to your momma, Epilepsy!”

  He wasn’t reasonable at all. Billy Smith was a little prick.

  In one fluid movement I spun around, marched up to him, balled my hand into a tiny fist, and threw it directly at Billy Smith’s lip. My grandfather taught me how to do a right uppercut punch. Needless to say, Billy never teased me again after the playground incident. Years later I found out Billy had a big crush on me.

  Back in the present, the woman let out a slight chuckle at my name. “What do you say to Miss Lip?”

  Ali beamed. “Thank you! Hey, your name is the same one that’s on the sign outside.”

  “Really? Huh. How about that,” I said, feigning surprise.

  As Ali and her mom left, Wavy came up beside me. “You have a big heart, my dear.”

  I turned to her. “Every little girl deserves a sparkly pink cupcake.”

  A loud harrumph rattled Mr. Abrams’ newspaper. I narrowed my eyes in his direction and was just about to give him my two cents when my next customer spoke.

  “That may be true, but it’s no way to run a business,” said a deep voice that came out of nowhere.

  Wavy and I simultaneously turned our heads toward the front entrance to find, standing just inside the door, a tall, dark-haired man wearing an impeccably tailored suit.

  “Excuse me?” Wavy said, nudging me to the side in full grand-momma bear mode.

  I could see and feel his confidence as he walked toward us. “It’s a nice gesture, but giving away your products does not make for a successful business.”

  I stared at his chiseled features and intense blue eyes. There was something familiar about him. He reached inside his jacket, produced a business card, and placed it on the counter in front of me. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I read the name on the card. Logan Heath, the boy I had been dreaming about since high school.