Courtship of the Cake (33 page)

CAKE COURTSHIP

The night of my tasting had arrived.

Closed for Private Party
, read a new sign on the Night Kitchen door in those curvy, eclectic letters, yet the heavy blue-black door yielded under my push. The only lights on were the night stars, twinkling on the sky of the ceiling.

Mick was behind the counter, waiting. Leaning forward on locked arms.

Bracing himself, for me.

I think we both knew we were so far beyond the pretense of a bridal cake consult.

“James, party of one?” His voice echoed richly through the empty, tall-ceilinged space.

“Lead the way.”

Two of the high-topped tables were pushed together, displaying an assortment of small square plates. Petit four–sized bites of unfrosted cake sat on the plates in neat little rows, arranged by color. Judging from their subtle hues, I guessed there had to be at least a dozen flavor
possibilities. Tiny silver forks impaled each sample. Accompanying them were shot glasses filled with frostings, each with their own little demitasse spoon.

It was after eight o'clock. And my sweet tooth was in trouble.

Mick pulled out a chair for me like a waiter at a fancy restaurant. I felt his thumb tangle in one lone curl along the ridge of my collarbone and linger there, as he guided the chair in place.

“Shall we start with the tame and move over to the more exotic?”

“I'll follow your lead.”

“Who am I kidding? There's nothing tame about my cakes.” Smiling that wicked smile, he sat down next to me and slowly rolled up the sleeves of his white button-down shirt.

“Yellow butter cake.” He picked up the first fork and swirled it with rich, velvety frosting. “With chocolate buttercream.”

The fork was cold but his gaze was hot as he watched me devour the fresh, firm tidbit.

“Simple. Classic . . . ,” I praised.

“It's missionary position with the lights out. Tired. Boring. Here, try.”

He slathered the next cube of snow-white cake with a deep blushing cream, and pushed it past my lips. “White chocolate with raspberry,” he announced, as I gasped.

The sweet richness of the white chocolate combined with the tart fruitiness seemed like a perfect choice for celebrating a union that touted “in sickness and in health, for richer for poorer” and all that jazz. Until he held up a deceptively ordinary-looking white-on-white sample.

“Any guesses?”

“Um . . . vanilla on vanilla?”

Mick pretended to be highly offended. “Just for that, I don't think you deserve to try this one.” He lifted the fork to his own mouth, then made a stealth U-turn and toppled it right onto my tongue as I laughed. Creamy coconut and tangy lime shocked my taste buds.

“Did I just hear you moan?” he asked, incredulous . . . and looking incredibly pleased with himself.

“Whatever happened to just plain, underrated vanilla?” I asked helplessly.

He rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers to his lips. One rogue brow arched playfully. “You don't strike me as a classic vanilla.” I felt his knee brush mine. “You don't kiss like you're classic vanilla,” he added.

“Like you'd remember how I kiss,” I challenged. “You've had a lot of . . .
tastings
since then, I'm sure.”

“I'm pretty sure I remember everything about that night.” He manipulated a few strokes across the keyboard of his computer and the gentle jangle of guitars and tambourine began to play. “But refresh my memory.”

I took his outstretched hand, and we began to move to Mazzy Star's “Fade Into You,” under the starry Night Kitchen sky.

“You're chocolate-bourbon cake with praline buttercream,” he murmured, as my forearms came to rest on his broad shoulders for the first time since leaving him in New Orleans. We danced with no masks, no disguises to hide behind.

“You're a tower of whisper-thin French crepes . . .” I shivered with delight as his fingertips ran lightly up the delicate undersides of my arms “. . . three hundred layers, filled with lavender-infused cream. You're naked almond, with just a dusting of powdered sugar.” He breathed me in, nuzzling my neck.

“Mick, you're the only taste I've been craving.”

BUSINESS AND PLEASURE

Her lips were the sweetest flavor, sweeping across mine. There was no way of duplicating that complex and heady mixture I'd first sampled in New Orleans with any recipe I knew of, but time had tested it. Enhanced it. Heightened my appreciation for it.

“Girl, you've got some sweet voodoo, you know that?”

“You bring it out in me.” She bit her lip. “What?” she wanted to know, as I just shook my head, in awe.

“Your eyes.”

“Yeah, they're blue.” She gave an embarrassed laugh.

“Nah, I'd say they're a two-to-one ratio of royal with sky.” I was a serial color mixer; I had been for the better part of my life. I used to think there were more hues of color out there in the world than there were moods. But all the ways Dani made me feel . . .

“I forgot how amazing they were at close range,” I whispered. She kept her eyes open as our noses gently bumped and I caught hold of her bottom lip in a soft tug-o'-war between both of my own. I felt her
surrender, body blending to mine, and watched her face change in a hundred ways as she fell into my kiss.

I had wished with my eyes open for once, and it finally had come true.

•   •   •

Headlights swept high across the rear wall of the Night Kitchen, and a car door slammed. Julia Morris's husband hulked past the front windows toward the door, something large in his meaty hand.

“Oh, shit. Dani. Baby, listen to me. Get in the back, behind the counter.”

“Not Mrs. Vega again?” She fiddled with my collar, thinking I was playing.

“I'm serious. Now.”

She blinked as if coming out of a daze, and her eyes darted over mine, searching out the reason. As my hands dropped from her, she backed up. I cursed myself for not locking the door behind us, and considered making a run for the dead bolt now. Jimmy Morris had a short fuse and an assault record, and if he was lit up on Yuengling and Jäger shots, there was no reasoning with him.

“Spencer.” His hulking form filled the doorway. It sounded like he had left his car running, which I couldn't decide was a good or a bad sign. The bag he carried was a brown-handled Night Kitchen bag, heavy from the looks of it.

“Hey, Jimmy. It's a little late for making a return.”

People say your life passes before your eyes at such dire and critical moments, but the only thing I saw was the number of times Julia came on to me, the obvious and wanton lust just there for the taking. But I never once did take her up on it. She fucked me with her eyes over the countertop of Wolkoff's as we discussed serving sizes for her daughter's First Communion cake before I had even left for New Orleans, and had all but propositioned me the night before her wedding to Jimmy, a
second marriage for both of them roughly a year ago. And the offers had stacked up, layer upon layer, during the time since.

“Yeah, I got a return for you, all right. You cocksucker.” Drink had definitely roughed up his voice, and he looked like he had been choosing booze instead of showering the past few days.

“My loving wife told me she can't fuck me without thinking about you. How's that for a first anniversary gift? Huh?” With every word, his voice took on a manic curve, as he sidestepped closer to me. “And now, when I think about our wedding night, the happiest day of my goddamn life, how we took that cake of yours and fed it to each other? All I see is your goddamn jizz all over her face,” he hollered, “and she's loving it!”

“I never touched her, man. I swear on my life.”

I knew Dani had heard every word in the back room, and I hoped to God she had called 911. Jimmy was a frequent flier with the local police, and surely they knew how to talk him down. Defuse the situation. The hell if I knew. I eyed the bag, trying to remember if he had a license to carry a concealed firearm. There was a shooting range just up the road and I had no doubt half the townies in Bucks County rode by my shop in their pickup trucks, locked and loaded.

Jimmy laughed in a way that made my blood run cold. “You think it fucking matters, man?” He had tears trailing down into his grin turned grimace. “I can't be with her, knowing that she is fantasizing about you.” His opposite hand swept into the bag, and it dropped away to the floor.

In that split second, I recognized the top tier of his wedding cake. Unlike his vows, it had survived the elements, nestled next to the Hot Pockets and unidentifiable foil-wrapped leftovers in the family freezer for the last year. And I even remembered the flavor, too.

With a roar, he lobbed the freezer-burnt cake at my head like a fondant rock. I ducked, and felt shards against my back as the entire glass display case to my right exploded.

My only thought was Dani, whom I had sent back there for safety.

The low moan of faraway sirens turned into a plaintive wail as two cruisers squealed to a stop in the middle of the street. I heard the shouts and the scuffle as Jimmy was subdued and restrained, but I focused every effort on finding Dani in the darkened back room. Shouted her name, blindly stumbling through the place I knew like the back of my hand, lost without her.

“Mick.”

She was crouched low behind two rolling racks. The utility lights above the back exit door accentuated the tears streaking her cheeks as she turned her face up to meet my gaze.

“It's okay, baby. Everything's all right.” She held out a shaking hand, and I helped her up. “Nothing happened with Julia. You have to believe me.”

“I know. Take me back to the Half Acre, please,” she said quietly. “I want to go home.”

HELP ON THE WAY

It didn't matter that Mick was telling the truth. He was still mixing business with pleasure and I just couldn't. After all the chase and all the wanting . . . if I gave myself to him, I opened myself up to the danger that he may find the “having” not so pleasing as the “wanting.” I kept my distance, and didn't visit him down at the bakery anymore.

My wanderlust had started to dig at me once again. Especially since Bear had got Mean Mistress Mustard street-ready. And since Nash was doing so well.

After testing the waters with Open School Night, Nash plunged headfirst into involving himself at Logan's school. While Riggs's list had suggested he donate some new equipment to the school's computer lab, I had convinced him that the kids would remember an in-school music performance for far longer. It wasn't long before Nash was performing at elementary and middle schools around the county, and talking to kids about caring for their communities. He seemed to genuinely enjoy it, and it didn't appear that he had just pulled the short straw in the draw.

With my help, he had also taken Quinn's honey-do list of crap that needed to be done and spun it up to a whole new level. It extended far past running Logan to his various activities. Staying active was helping keep Nash's AS flare-ups at bay, and it turned out, he had taken after his father when it came to home improvements.

“The place is looking good,” Mick said one day, as he joined me for a jog through the orchard. “I didn't know the old girl—or Nash—had it in 'em. I guess you guys want the place to look as nice as possible for the wedding, huh?”

“That's the plan,” I replied. But my mind hadn't been on Nash's and my nuptials for a while.

My phone, tucked into the waistband of my running pants, jangled a text.

WWDD if everyone in the world (and their mothers) was trying to plan her wedding for her?

Poor Laney. She and her mother had come to a tentative truce back in Hawaii, and had been closer than they ever had before. But knowing Vera Hudson, there was no way she was able to keep her nose out or her mouth shut when it came to her daughter's Big Day. Unless someone were to bind and gag her.

I'd do something romantic as hell.
I texted back.

“What's up?” Mick asked.

“I'm channeling my inner Aunt Sindy, and giving wedding advice to my best friend.” I smiled as my fingers flew across the keypad. Lord knows I had learned enough from her about the self-uniting Quaker licenses that were unique to this part of the country.

Got three days and two witnesses?

I hate everyone. Except Noah. And you and Jax. Will you be my witness?

The mention of Jax's name flooded me with guilt, but I pressed on. This was about Laney. This was her day.

Gladly. Just get your butt down here.

“Everything okay?” Mick asked.

“Yeah. If my friends come down here to get married next week, will you save a wedge o' wedding cake for them?”

“What are friends for? If not to help their friends,” Mick made a point of saying. I smiled gratefully.

A VW bug rolled past the driveway, then backed up and tentatively crept up the gravel toward us.

Mick leaned down and addressed the two giggling girls through their lowered car window. “You lost, ladies?”

“Can you tell us how to get to the Half Acre Bed-and-Breakfast?”

“You're looking at it.”

“Oh my God!” The passenger had spotted Nash, shirtless and up on the ladder again. “Is that Nash Drama?”

“Nope.” I smiled. “That's the handyman. You can go see Quinn at the front desk to check in. I am sure Nash will make an appearance later.”

By the beginning of October, the entire inn was occupied. The oracle of Bear had spoken the truth, apparently. Mick even moved out, despite everyone's protests, to the loft apartment above the Night Kitchen. “No excuses to be late for work,” he joked, but I couldn't help wonder if it had something to do with me. He had even hired Angie, who had an interior design background, to help fix up the place. “But I promise to still make breakfast.”

Bear continued to give tours of both the orchard, and all the childhood haunts of their favorite singer, although Quinn threatened him with bodily harm if he so much as walked them by the darkroom trailer.

Nash, surprisingly enough, was not opposed to making conversation . . . as long as it didn't take away from his quality time with Logan. The two got up early and shared a silent breakfast together, often forgoing Mick's elaborate fare in favor of just PB&Js, before heading up to Logan's room to work on scales. And that was on the weekdays, before the school bus even came.

One morning, I noticed something was different the moment I got downstairs, and it wasn't the fact that the entire dining room was buzzing with people. Logan was polishing off his customary PB&J for breakfast, but he was shirtless, and he had gel spiking up his normally tamed blond hair. Mick and Bear were bumping into each other and swearing in the kitchen.

“What the fuck is that?” Bear asked. He towered over the kitchen island, wearing platform heels that added four inches to his already six-plus lanky frame. His hair appeared to have been ironed flat and looked two shades darker. He had more make-up on than a hooker, and he was frowning over a brown-bag lunch.

“Logan loves chocolate pot de crème.” Mick tried peering into the bag, but Bear was hogging it.

“Dude. I'm not sending my nephew to school with a foo-foo dessert in a fuckin' ramekin. He's gonna get beat up.”

“You're gonna get beat up if he misses the bus because his lunch isn't ready.” Mick gave Bear a dark glare as he slam-dunked a baggie full of celery and carrot sticks into the paper sack.

“Guys, what's going on here?” I asked. “Where's Quinn?”

“Oh, you want a piece of me?” Bear stood to full height, hands on hips. He wore his usual leather pants, but his top looked like some sort of leather bondage contraption. “Just because I'm wearing lipstick don't mean I can't kick your ass.”

“Guys!” I hissed. “Stop. Now. And tell me what the hell is going on.”

They both looked up at me. “It's Quinn,” Mick finally said. “She won't get out of bed.”

“What?” Quinn normally rivaled me for earliest early bird. “Is she sick?”

Bear pulled a Sharpie from his back pocket and wrote Logan's name on the bag, complete with a skull and crossbones to represent the
O
.

“It's okay. I've got this covered. I can get Logan off to school.” Bear's last word was drowned out by the roaring of the school bus as it blew past the house. “Motherfucker!”

“She's . . . depressed,” Mick said, voice low and through closed lips, with a concerned glance at Logan, who was draining a glass of milk and seemingly unaware.

I signed good morning to him, before turning back to the two Mr. Mom rejects at the kitchen island. “Why is he shirtless? And who put all that product in his hair?”

“Apparently it's school spirit day, and the only orange shirt he owned was in the wash. I'm trying to dry it now. Nikki Sixx over here went a little crazy with the hair gel.” Mick wagged an accusatory thumb toward his friend.

“I'm the guitarist, dude. Mick Mars. Same first name as you. Get a clue!” Bear glanced down at me. “Mötley Crüe tribute. We're called Toast of the Town.”

“At eight in the morning?” I sputtered, pulling Logan's damp shirt from the dryer housed in the old scullery room.

“We got hired by Shaded Glen nursing home for a lunchtime performance,” Bear explained. “Ladies of all ages love the Crüe.”

I inspected Logan's lunch, wondering what was more disturbing: Bear's last comment or his lunch bag artwork. At least the skull had a cheerful smile.

“Okay,” I said, taking charge. “Mick, swap out the pot de crème for something a little more portable. Like a Pop-Tart. Bear, throw a jacket over your bondage gear, a different shirt on Logan, and drive him to school. Just hold the orange tee out the window; it will be dry before you get there and he can swap it out.” I poured hot water into a mug and slapped a tea bag in. “I'm going to check on Quinn.”

Mick threw me a grateful smile before grabbing a coffeepot to provide refills for the guests.

“Send up reinforcements if I'm not back in an hour,” I murmured as he passed.

•   •   •

“Go away.” A small voice responded to my gentle knock and inquiry, but the doorknob gave way under my hand.

“Not until I make sure you're okay,” I said softly, setting the tea on her bedside table and taking in Quinn's quarters.

The twin canopy bed was a little unnerving, and the rest of the room looked like a shrine to her teenage years. Photos of prepubescent friends were jabbed into the corners of the vanity mirror, and school achievement ribbons were pinned to the wall next to it. A faded, dried rose corsage rested on the dresser next to a framed picture of Quinn in her prom gown, held by a stone-faced teenage boy posing formally behind her. A dusty set of candles flanked another gilt frame, this one containing a picture of her parents on their wedding day. The glass was broken, cracks spiderwebbing out from one corner.

The frilly curtains, with their balloon valance matching the eyelet on the canopy and bedspread, were drawn shut tight against walls covered with rosebud floral wallpaper. Certainly no testosterone party was happening in here. The room smelled like the half-used bottle of Clinique Happy on the shelf, combined with despair.

“Can we talk, sweetie?” I sat down at the edge of her bed, like Posy used to do for me when I was having a bad day.

Quinn rolled over and displayed a tear-stained face. “Nash always wins, he always lands on his feet, while I'm left to fall on my face! He comes back to town, captures the full attention, and the heart, of my child, and brings a full house of business to my inn. He basically accomplished what I've been struggling to do for ten years in one freakin' month.”

“Logan loves you so much, Quinn. There's enough to go around.” I pushed a hank of her hair back behind her ear. “And Nash hasn't
done it alone. Well, the fans coming are totally his fault. But I helped him fix the wall, and it was Bear who sanded the rust off the gate. And Lord knows, Nash can't even butter his own toast. Where would we be without Mick's amazing breakfasts?”

This seemed to upset her even more. “See? I'm not even needed. No one would even miss me.”

“Bullshit.” Her pity act didn't fly with me. “I knew something was wrong the minute my foot hit the first floor. You're the glue in this family, and yes . . . it's a weird, patched-together little family, but you're its glue, babe. Without you, this place would come unhinged.”

She gave a small snort through her tears, and rolled back over.

“Sometimes I wish this whole place burned to the ground,” she whispered. “So I could've walked away.”

“Oh, Quinn.”

She fingered her high school graduation tassel that hung from her bedside lamp. Above it was a black and orange Princeton Tigers team poster. “You know I got pregnant my last year at Princeton, right? Never finished.” She sat up in bed, drawing her knees to her chest and hugging them with her arms. “The little girls in those pictures?” She nodded toward her vanity mirror. “They don't even recognize me when I pass them in town. Or maybe they do but they don't remember ever being friends, or playing with me. All those ribbons, all the awards . . . they were all to please my dad. I studied so much, I didn't even miss having a social life. Until the prom. I had to go with my own brother, since no one else had bothered to ask.”

“That's Bear?” I asked, incredulous. I hadn't even recognized the clean-cut, straight-faced kid in the picture.

“My dad was a fan of the crew cut. And of kids being seen but not heard.”

No wonder Quinn was depressed. She was living in limbo between a missed childhood and her reality now. What she really probably could've used was a break from this place. Starting with leaving this
room. I glanced around. A vacation might not be in the cards, but a mini-escape might do the trick.

“Throw on your robe and meet me in my room in ten minutes,” I said, grabbing the candles from the dresser. “And I want you to drink at least half your tea.”

She stared at me, but didn't protest. I took that as a good sign.

Down in my room, I positioned the massage table far from the bed and the door, angling it near the corner of windows. After years of practice in whipping up a serene space out of chaos and on the fly, I knew I could do this. I pulled a fresh sheet from the closet and draped the table, then slid Nash's heating pad in between. I set the ceiling fan on low, drew the curtains, and lit the candles. Then I ran the tub till steaming, and let several hand towels soak. Nash had nothing but noise on his iPod, except for the Shonnie Phillips album I had downloaded to annoy him when we first met. Perfect. I set it in the dock on a low volume.