Courtship of the Cake (36 page)

THE HALF ACRE BED-AND-BREAKFAST ROOM JOURNAL #10

It isn't the same around here, without Dani. I miss her. And there's so much I want to tell her.

Nash, of all people, is telling me to give her the gift of time.

She left an entry in room number twelve's journal. I came across it while I was cleaning the room after she left. And after Nash had vacated it. We're in room number ten together. Next to Logan's. No more view of the river, no more view of the trailer. I get to look out at the garden gate where we first kissed, the open-air chapel standing patiently beyond it.

No more canopy bed, either.

She hadn't dated or signed the page—perhaps she had hoped to add more to it at some point. There were just two sentences in her straight, round handwriting:

Quinn,

I wanted to thank your family for opening your home to me. I had a wonderful stay.

Dani

As I sit here now, writing, I realize she is right. This is more than just a house; it is a home. It's filled with sound now, where once upon a time, there was only silence.

I can hear my amazing son practicing his bar chords. And Bear and Mick, trash-talking as well as any best friends and brothers could. Sindy's down there, spouting advice while Walt cracks his bad jokes. And Nash's beautiful voice can be heard over them all. He's singing. I no longer want to shut doors, I want to fling them open, I want join the party. To hear my laughter mingling with theirs. It feels so good.

We were one big happy family after all. And I had warned Dani about that when I first met her, as if it were a bad thing.

She did so much to bring us together. I'd like to thank her properly someday.

And let her know that Nash is doing well in his treatment. And that Logan tested negative: he doesn't have the HLA-B27 gene Nash was worried about. That's not to say that he will never develop his father's condition, but he is certainly less susceptible. But no sense in worrying or blaming—just accepting. Nash and I are learning to cross bridges when we come to them, not burn them.

Gotta run. Nash's key ceremony is today!

KEY NOTE

The borough's second-oldest citizen died on a sunny October day. The mums Nash had planted for him were still heartily blooming in his yard. Woolhouse's last request was to have no funeral, no memorial service, just the key ceremony the following weekend. A celebration, he instructed. With meringues to be served at the reception.

Sindy and I baked them in silence together.

We gathered in the town park.

Nash was the sole recipient to receive a key, but Woolhouse's other request had been for the local guitar hero to read the speech the old man had prepared. Nash stood up there, Quinn and Logan at his side, as his heavily ringed fingers fumbled with the paper.

“Check. Check one, two.” He tapped the mic as the bystanders laughed, then settled in to listen. Bear sat in the front row between me and Angie, and interpreted for Logan.

“I'll keep this short,” Nash began. “Because I'm an old, cranky bastard.” He looked up at the crowd. “His words, not mine.” That broke the ice, releasing relieved laughter all around.

“As town historian, I made it my business to know this town better than anyone. Yes, even you, Sindy Wolkoff.” Next to me, my aunt pushed her handkerchief to her eyes and laughed a little. “When I nominated Stewart Nash—” Nash paused, just as surprised as everyone else at the fact, before recovering and speaking up, over the murmurs. “When I nominated Stewart Nash to receive this award along with me, it was because I knew it was finally time to let the past rest. Now . . . take it away, Drama. Because this is your show.”

Nash stood for a moment in silence. It looked like he was wishing the paper had more instructions on it, more words to use. But as he looked up, I realized he was determined to use his own words. Words he didn't have to borrow. No begging. No stealing.

“It's too late for me to look old Mr. Woolhouse in the eye and thank him, but it's not too late . . .” He broke off, scanning the audience and standing tall. “It's not too late to thank all of you. And to tell you I can't accept this key.”

The collective gasp whirled like fallen autumn leaves, somersaulting across the New Hope–Lambertville Bridge.

“I can't accept this key,” he continued, “because I didn't earn it on my own. But I can share it. With my former bandmate and my best friend, Bartholomew Bradley.” He motioned for a stunned Bear to join him at the podium. “Bear wrote the song you all love to sing. Yeah, even you, Walt. Sindy says you sing it in the shower.” My uncle gave my aunt an embarrassed elbow in the ribs, but he had a grin on his face. “I owe you so much, dude.” Nash dropped something small into Bear's hand and I saw the glint of the diamond from the ring Dani used to wear. “Starting with some retroactive royalties. But all songs aside, I never could've gone as far as I had, or come back around, without the love and support of my son, and my family. All of you.” He met my eye, and then gave a subtle brow raise and nod to the row across from mine.

I turned to see Dani. Even sitting, she was a standout in the crowd. Just like that day I spotted her, dancing the second line on Royal.

The mayor approached and did the honors of bestowing both men with a plaque bearing a shiny key. They raised it together in the air.

“Key to the borough!” Bear crowed triumphantly, throwing the horns. Angie stood up and clapped, beaming at him.

Nash pulled Quinn to his side, and she situated Logan in front of them, so father could plant a kiss square on top of his son's tawny head.

“Thatta boy, Nash!” hollered Walt, from his chair. “It's about damn time.”

“It's a start,” I said. “What about the money he owes you?”

“Mick Spencer!” my aunt scolded me. “Do you think I tell you every blessed thing? Nash has been sending checks to me and your uncle every month since he left. Who do you think built that wheelchair ramp? Well, he would've built it, had he been here. That is a generous boy up there. And a handy one, too. As handy as the day is long.”

“The days are getting shorter, Aunt Sindy.” It was going to take me a while to see Nash in a new light, but it was dawning on me.

“Yes, dear. But they'll get long again. And this time, he's sticking around to see it.”

I glanced over at Dani. She had been watching the exchange, a small smile playing on her lips. She may have known more about Nash than I gave her credit for. Or at least was able to see the shred of good in him when I couldn't. She dropped her eyes when mine met them.

I wished there was a way to get her to stick around.

MASKS OFF

It was wonderful to see Nash receive his award. And for him to share the limelight with Bear. Even better was to see Quinn by his side. But the best part of the ceremony was Logan, making his musical debut. He grinned as he stood at the podium and played a simple, but beautiful melody for all to hear. And even though he himself couldn't, and never would, he could feel the music, as Bear always said. And he could feel the love from all of us, smiling proud.

“I never got to ask, how did your Mötley Crüe tribute go at the nursing home?” I addressed Bear, whose arm was slung over Angie's shoulder. She held on to his hand, eyes shining.

“Oh,” Bear mumbled. “Not so well. Turns out, there was a slight misunderstanding. The director thought they were booking an
Ed Sullivan Show
tribute called Toast of the Town. Needless to say, they were a bit shocked when we broke into ‘Shout at the Devil.'”

I laughed. “You clearly need to label your tributes better.”

“Taking a break from the tributes for a while. Nash and me . . .”
Bear glanced over at the crowd surrounding the man of the hour. “We're gonna jam. See where it takes us.”

“Hey, Dani.” Quinn approached, Logan and Nash in tow. “Welcome back.” She gave me a hug and whispered a thank-you in my ear.

“No thanks necessary. I kind of always knew he wanted to come back and win your heart.” Along with Logan's, and the rest of the town's. “I just came to help him get the key.”

A hand tugged at my sleeve, and Logan was there, offering me a meringue.

“It's like a kiss,” he signed.

“From who?” I asked. “You?”

Logan shook his head and gave me a smile. Then he signed a name sign I had never seen before. Starting with a
U
close to his right temple, for
Uncle
. And ending with a V-shaped slicing movement over his less-dominant hand, using an open-fingered letter
M
.

“He thinks you're . . .” Logan's next motion was the sign for
sweet
but it was also the sign for
cute
.

“Oh, he does, does he?”

No more finger spelling Mick's name. Logan had bestowed a name upon the cute, sweet baker who'd crashed my sister's wedding and the gates of my heart. I searched the crowd for him, but didn't see him anywhere.

I pulled Mean Mistress Mustard up to the curb in front of the Night Kitchen. She gave a gentle sigh as I cut the motor, as if to say,
It's about damn time, girlfriend
.

The handwritten sign hanging on the Night Kitchen's window read
Closed
in curvy, eclectic letters, and sure enough, the heavy blue-black door was locked. The entire town of New Hope was down at the reception.

Save for one.

Smiling, I made my way around to the back door. I, too, was a lover,
not a fighter. I had struggled with my past, and fought my feelings for Mick, since arriving in town. Hiding behind Nash and the ring he had placed on my finger. Running away, when I should have been running to.

No more.

Upstairs, Mick's door yielded under my touch. A sign commanding
MASKS OFF
ushered me past a red velvet curtain. The sexy, soft undertones of a saxophone drifted through the studio apartment, mixing with the beat of the ceiling fans above. Above the bed, tranquil emerald silk and cream tulle billowed in the half-light down from the loft's high industrial ceiling. Angie had done a good job of bringing a cozy and intimate vibe to such a cavernous space.

A small wrought iron table sat beside the bed, and the hot, luscious smell of beignets hit my memory triggers. Suddenly, I realized the canopy overhead resembled the famous awning of the café of our missed connection.

Mick had brought New Orleans to us.

My waiter was shirtless and barefoot as he set down cups of milky-rich, chicory-laced coffee. There were no chairs at the table, so I perched on the bed and he joined me there.

Without a word, he picked up one of the sugar-kissed pastries and offered it up to my lips. I took a bite, relishing the light, crisp taste. It couldn't have been fresher had it come served steaming from the kitchen of Café Du Monde.

“I cheated a bit,” Mick admitted. “Had my staff proof the dough for me. But I cut and fried them myself.” He took a firm bite, leaving a trail of powdered sugar across his stubble. “Kind of a messy first-date food.”

“It's perfect,” I whispered, nibbling the warm sugar from his chin before moving up to his mouth. “But totally not necessary.” I took it from his hand.

“Are you kidding me?” His expression fell. “I've been wanting to make that morning up to you ever since.”

“You've made me breakfast
every
morning,” I said, pushing the last bite of beignet into his mouth. “Waking up in the B and B to find you . . .” I gave a small gasp as his tongue lingered, licking the glaze of sugar from my thumb.

“Not the same,” he insisted, picking another beignet up from the warm stack and feeding it to me. “This is breakfast . . . and then bed.”

“Are you trying to ply the single woman with sweets?” I asked, as he eased me back on the bed. The striped swathes above canopied our romantic playground.

“Who are you calling single?” Mick murmured, his breath hot as he worked his way down my neck to the first button on my dress. My hand was resting there, and he kissed my naked ring finger. “And no, I'm just giving the café au lait time to cool.”

He was right; I was so, so taken . . . ever since Posy's reception, where the air had felt electric. And it crackled when he had walked into the room.

WWDD?

My fingers trembled as I helped him unbutton me out of the silk sheath, wondering how he would react when he saw what I had done.

“Are you mine?” he whispered, against the soft curve of my hip, his mouth on the wide, lace band of my red panties. They were my prettiest pair, with lace woven through the hem, and small rosettes dotting the border.

“For the asking,” I whispered back. Like his red velvet cake in reverse, he pushed away the fancy decoration to reveal my creamy skin and best intentions.

Fingers fell on the tiny, new tattoo gracing my hip.

The small swallow was in flight, its feathers shaded with the blues of his eyes, and mine. A symbol of home . . . and of hope and renewal.

Mick smiled up at me, with that bashful half smirk I was totally addicted to. His forearm came to rest across my navel, our birds meeting for the first time as he laced his fingers with mine and gently
tongued his way down, savoring and tasting my skin. He circled in on my sweetest spot and lingered there, sending me out of my mind with pleasure. My free hand snaked through his hair, as he moved his talented one down my thigh and his fingers joined the party. I gasped and bucked against the solid stroke of his knuckle while the soft probe of his tongue coaxed me into a shattering climax.

“Mick . . . lover,” I sighed. My breathy words were lost to the heavens as he gave a long, pleasured growl. His lips and fingertips were registered weapons, quickly rendering me quivering and useless a second time.

His cheek grazed my blue bird. “Home,” he mouthed against my belly as he slid toward me, rolling us in his strong arms.

My lips communed with the salty sweetness of his skin, memorizing his nicks and scars, tracing the black outline of my bird's mate. My hands ghosted over his as he nimbly worked down his button fly and shucked the denim down. He sucked a sharp breath as my curls brushed over his thighs on my way to claim him.