Courtship of the Cake (22 page)

DAY TRIPPING

When Bear wasn't practicing or gigging with his tributes, he spent every waking minute at the auto body shop. By Thursday, I was convinced he was either having a torrid affair with Mean Mistress Mustard or he had hacked her up to sell her body parts overseas. I decided to go downtown and investigate.

“Give it to me straight. Will she ever drive again?”

Bear grinned at me as he walked from the garage to the office like a surgeon coming out of an operating room. “Good news first, or bad news?”

“Just lay it on me.”

Bear wiped his hands on an old red rag. “I'll give you the amazing news first. Come with me.”

He led me back to inspect Mean Mistress Mustard's back end, where she housed her engine. “I have never seen such a beautifully restored Wasserboxer engine in my life. The previous owner must've been a purist. Souped her up real good, gave her better horsepower than the original.” Bear pointed out all that he loved about the junk
in her trunk, his finger stained darker around his knuckles where the grease and oil had collected.

“The bad news is, the more you tweak these pancake engines, the less reliable they become. And finding replacement parts is an expensive scavenger hunt.” He gave me a sympathetic frown, which was more than I got from the last two garages. I guess they weren't into the hippie thing.

“Please tell me you can fix it.”

“Even better. I can swap it out for a four-cylinder, two-point-five-liter Subaru engine. They make a perfect conversion, and I can have you putting out one hundred and eighty horsepower in this sweet baby.” He sounded proud. “Come up front and we'll crunch some numbers.”

The place looked like someone had given up decorating—and dusting—it in the 1970s. Everything in the office looked dated, from the metal desk to the clock on the wall, wire-caged so no one could attempt to alter time further. The only modern piece in the room was the Swimsuit Girl calendar, which was surprisingly up to date.

Almost everything above eye level had a layer of grease and was made monochromatic with a furry coating of dust, except for the yellowing pages ripped from a child's picture book and hanging over the desk. Those were brightly colored, and signed in crayon,
TO UNCLE BEAR, LOVE LOGAN.

I smiled up at the drawings, thinking of the scene I had walked into the night before. Mick and Logan sprawled in front of the fireplace, surrounded by colored pencils and a big roll of parchment from the bakery. I'd watched as Mick patiently showed Logan how to use the opaque paper to trace his favorite comic book heroes, while Bacon stalked a wayward pencil down the length of it, making a crazy crunching sound with his paws. After three straight evenings of domestic docility and playing parlor games, Nash had earned a kitchen pass to check out Bear's tribute band du jour. Quinn had a PTA meeting, so it was just the three of us.

“He doesn't have a sign name for you?” I'd asked, after noticing Logan finger spelling
M-I-C-K
and tugging on his drawing instructor's shirt sleeve several times. I knew a passable amount about deaf culture, and how the unique names were presented by members to those in and out of the deaf community.

“Not yet,” Mick had said, a wistful tinge in his voice. “Takes time, I guess. He was pretty young when I left town, and I've barely been back a year.” He smiled, leaning toward his young charge and passing him the coveted red pencil, already worked down to a nub.

It made me realize just how pathetically short a week's time was.

“Hungry?” Bear asked, offering up a box of cookies.

“After Mick's usual morning feast? I couldn't possibly. But thanks.”

“More good news,” he reported between bites, tapping away on the old IBM. White powdered sugar now dusted the grimy keyboard. “Old Man Jenkins has a two-point-five on his property with just fifty thousand miles on it that needs a home. Like an organ donor, waiting to save a life.”

I laughed. “Of course this town would have an Old Man Jenkins. With a perfect motor just lying around.”

“He owns this shop,” Bear explained, turning and pointing to the back of his jumpsuit, which did indeed read,
JENKINS AUTO BODY
.

“The old man retired about five years ago. But he still collects.” Bear had introduced me earlier to the younger Jenkins on the premises, a doughy guy whose eyes practically bugged out at the sight of me in his shop, like one of his calendar girls come to life.

“Now, more bad news. We're talking about forty hours of work. But hey, at least there's no wait time for the engine. Sometimes that takes a good three weeks to a month to hunt down.”

My heart sank. Even if Bear worked on my van like a nine-to-five day job, it still wouldn't be ready for a week. “How much would a used engine cost?”

Bear held up a finger while he finished munching a second cookie.
Swallowing, he announced, “Street value would be around five thousand. I'll see what the old man wants for it.”

I let out a low, long whistle. Jax had landed me a sweet deal on the van to begin with, but adding five thousand to that?

“Come on. Nash won't blink an eye. How much do you think he laid out for that knuckleduster you're wearing?” He grabbed my hand to inspect it once again. “Thirty, forty K?”

Nash
had
offered to take care of it, as part of our original “deal.” I thought back to the day Riggs set the ring in front of me on the catering table, like he was passing me the saltshaker. And how I had thrown it back at Nash's chest. We had come a long way since then. Looking down at our fingers, I realized it had more value than I had given it credit for. Still. I hated to rely on Nash—or anyone, for that matter.

“I really want it back on the road. Let's do it.”

Bear grinned and bumped a fist to mine. “Excellent.”

Maybe because my livelihood also depended on my hands, I was fixated on watching other people's tools of trade. And I found guys who worked with their hands very sexy. Like Mick's hands, Bear's had tiny nicks and cuts from his trade, but his fingertips also bore the smooth, hard calluses like Nash's, from years of pushing guitar strings. Funny how all three friends worked with their hands. And Bear, unlike the other two, was fluent in talking with them, too.

“How long have you been signing, Bear? You're very good at it.”

“Dunno,” Bear said, a smile stealing across his face. “Since before I can remember. My mom was deaf.”

“Oh!” I started, Nash's words to Quinn our first morning there finally jelling with me.

Nothing's going to bring her back.

Bear rubbed his neck in thought, and as he pushed back his mane of hair, I spotted another tattoo.

Like Nash and Mick, he had a blue-winged bird, but his was on his neck and impaled by a knife.

“I know that bird,” I blurted.

He ducked down to grab another cookie from the box. “It's a swallow. Did you know they mate for life?”

“I didn't know that. Why does it have a dagger through its breast?”

“To honor a loved one, lost at sea.” Bear's smile didn't waver, but I could tell he wasn't interested in talking about it anymore. “I'll see you back at the Half Acre tonight, Dani.”

•   •   •

I hadn't been to the Night Kitchen since that first day in town, but since half the borough seemed to be taking a vested interest in my impending nuptials, I decided to take a gander after leaving Bear and Mistress Mustard. At least I knew its proprietor wasn't on-site today.

“Think you can amuse yourself for the day?” Nash had asked me that morning. “Mick and I are going down to Atlantic City to play some poker.”

“No problem,” I'd replied from behind a bridal magazine. I'd picked one up, just for show, during a trip to the grocery store with Quinn and Logan the other day. After that morning with the Boo-hoo girls, I figured I should bone up on my wedding vocabulary. But page after page of luscious cakes had left me thinking about Mick and his offer. What was the harm in peeking at his cakes? Especially if the cook had left the kitchen for the day. Sindy had agreed to drop anything and meet me anytime.
Especially Thursdays,
she had stressed to me with a wink.
Always a slow day in the shop, and I can lavish my favorite customers with attention
.

“Can I help you?” A tall chick with a tiny nose ring was bouncing from table to table, replenishing the napkins. I could see how some of Mick's towering desserts could rate as a multi-napkin affair.

God, I could see getting into some sweet and sticky sin with him myself.

Danica James, you should be ashamed of yourself.

“I'm here to see Sindy,” I said brightly. “Danica James.”

“Let me go find her. If you want to have a seat.” She gestured to a table off to the side, devoid of napkins but stacked with scrapbooks, no doubt filled to the brim with his handiwork.

“Thanks.”

“Coffee? Tea? Orange-basil-infused water?”

“That's, um . . . specific,” I said. “Sure, I'll try the water.”

Her eyes widened and the tiny diamond in her nostril flared. “It's the bomb, you'll love it!” she declared. “We make a different fruit-soaked water combo every day. But that one's my favorite.” She spun on her heel and happily scampered behind the counter.

I settled into a chair and glanced around. The shop was bustling and I was grateful to channel some of my nervous energy toward people-watching. What was with the facial piercings? A guy with an eyebrow ring waited on an elderly woman and chatted about his trip to Machu Picchu.

Besides the curved refrigerated case for the cakes and pies, there were long counters stained in deep rich wood with tilted glass rising up on a slant in wooden frames, displaying delicate cookies of all shapes and flavors on pedestals and tiered plate towers. A revolving line of customers came and went, coming close to peer through the glass displays like they were admiring fine art in a gallery, although you could see their appetites increasing as they stared, with wide, dancing eyes, at the delectable choices.

Two girls deliberated over crusty macarons stacked in colorful pastel rainbows like they were a hot-button issue: green pistachio or lavender taro? “They're too pretty to eat!” They giggled when Brow Ring Guy surveyed them.

I turned my attention to the daunting books in front of me. All right. I could do this.
Open the damn book, nothing is going to jump out and bite you.
The first one I chose unleashed a flurry of loose pictures into my lap.
Figures.
Many had the small watermark across
the bottom that I had noticed on the photos in the rooms at the Half Acre. Quinn's logo.
Jeez, were they all in cahoots?
I leaned to scoop up the few strays that had sifted onto the floor.

“I could see you going with lace. Very delicate. Ultra-feminine.”

Mick stood in front of me, water glass in his hand and a smirk on his face.

“More and more brides are going with lace designs on their cakes these days.” He set the glass down and knelt with me, taking the photos from my hand. “All that is hand-piped. I can duplicate your dress pattern, or . . . make something up from my imagination.”

Those striking blue eyes roamed over mine, lighting a flame in me. I had no doubt I had left little to the imagination, bending over in the low, scooped tank top, which was another item from the hot-wifey dress-up box.

But the frilly push-up bra beneath it was all mine.

“Of course, if that is too much lace for you, you can just slide a layer in between. I'm a fan of layers,” he said, practically undressing me with his eyes.

I readjusted my top and recovered, taking a sip of the infused water he'd delivered.
Basil for clarity
, I recited to myself, as if choosing the best essential oil for a massage client.
Don't play his mind-in-the-gutter games.
Where the hell was Sindy, anyway? His wasn't the attention I had expected to be lavished with today.

“Sorry, these were supposed to be filed into a new photo album.” He bent close to retrieve the last rogue picture from between the rungs of my chair. “I usually go with a computer slideshow, but Sindy's still pretty old school.”

“Is she here? She told me to drop in today.”

“She wasn't feeling well, so I sent her home early. I guess you're stuck with me.”

“I thought you . . . Nash said—” I clamped my mouth shut.

“What's that?” He gazed up at me expectantly.

“Nothing. I just . . . I didn't expect to see you here.”

He stood to full height. “Oh, it's something. It's always something with Nash. Let me guess.” He narrowed his eyes knowingly. “Did your fiancé use me as his alibi?”

My face must've given away my shock. “Come on,” he said softly, pulling a chair close to mine. “Takes a player to know a player, right?”