Life is Sweet (12 page)

“But there had to be something about him you liked,” Becca had insisted. “Or else why would I even be here?”

Her mother had frowned then, and revealed the only tidbit about this mysterious question mark in Becca's life. “Johnny played sax.”

Becca grasped greedily at these details. A name! Johnny. It wasn't an interesting name, but it was something. “Saxophone?”

“That man played music so sweet it would bring tears to your eyes.” Ronnie shook her head. “He could have been a pro, if he'd held himself together.”

“But what happened?”

Her mother had turned away, as if angry about something. And then she'd left the room.

For a while, Becca had imagined Johnny the saxophonist as a sort of Kenny G who had gone to seed. It wasn't pretty. Maybe sometimes it was best to know nothing at all. After all, when you had a mom who would make any sacrifice for you, what did it matter?

“Becca?” Olivia was squinting up at her. No telling how long she'd been trying to catch her attention. “What do you think I should get?”

Becca's head cleared. Not only had she been zoning out, she'd been making a lot of assumptions about Nicole falling short as a mom. While Becca was fairly certain Nicole wasn't faithful to Matthew, she didn't know the first thing about Olivia's home life. Except that she had a missing dad, and a temporarily absentee mom.

She led Olivia across the store. One item of riding gear was a shoo-in to make a kid feel she'd “arrived” as a horsewoman, even if said kid didn't know one end of a saddle from another.

Five minutes later, Olivia was preening in front of a mirror, a black riding helmet perched on her head. She stood straighter, adjusting the ribbon chin strap, her expression so determined that she might have been Velvet before the Grand National.

Other items might have been more practical. Any decent barn with a teaching program had helmets but couldn't provide, say, riding breeches, or boots. But there was something about owning that helmet that made nuts-for-horses kids feel that they were bound for equestrian glory. She could almost hear the call to hounds sounding off in Olivia's head.

Matthew rejoined them. “Look at you!” he said approvingly. “Does it fit?”

“It feels great,” Olivia said. “But I think I should get one of those instead.” She pointed to a row of the non-velvet helmets that always looked more like crash helmets to Becca. Which probably showed wisdom on Olivia's part, since all helmets were technically crash helmets. “It looks more practical. Maybe once I'm hunting, I can get one of these.” She took the velvet one off and put it reverently aside. “Someday,” she promised herself.

Becca vowed to do her best to help that someday come to pass.

After making their purchases, they stopped at a nearby shopping center with a café that had outdoor seating. Olivia spotted an ice cream place a few doors down and asked if she could get some while Matthew and Becca basked over coffees in the late-afternoon sunlight. Soon it would be too cold to sit outside, but this was a perfect Indian summer evening.

“Thank you again for doing this,” Matthew said after Olivia had scooted off. “You could probably think of better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon.”

“Nope. I love going to the tack store. And having Olivia along made it more fun. She's so enthusiastic about everything.”

“But I got the sense that you had other things on your mind today. You seemed preoccupied with something when we picked you up.”

Remembering her spat with Pam, a little of her good mood leaked away. She didn't like to argue, especially with friends. Conflict always gave her flashbacks to her days when she was dealing with Abby Wooten, before she'd ever heard the term
frenemy
. Discord made her uneasy, and her early experience with Abby had taught her how easily friendships could evaporate.

“Shop drama,” she said. “Pam doesn't like having Walt around.”

He smiled. “I picked up on that.”

She worried Walt had probably picked up on it, too. “She thinks I'm just keeping him on because I'm a bleeding heart.”

“Are you?”

She was so accustomed to her knee-jerk denials to Pam, she hadn't really put the question to herself in a serious way.
Was
she a chump? “I guess I am, a little. We don't really need him.” She clucked in disgust at herself. “Doesn't that sound awful? As if I were a tycoon thinking about laying off another lump of faceless masses. I mean, who is needed and who isn't? For that matter, who
needs
cupcakes?”

“Olivia,” Matthew said.

“But you see what I'm saying?” she asked. “Maybe I am a little bit of a bleeding heart, with my one-man job program. What's so bad about that? If I wanted to be a ruthless businesswoman, I could have stayed back in LA and tried harder to fit in there. Instead, I wanted to go somewhere that seemed to work on a more human, caring scale. A place where people weren't considered expendable after a flop or two. Well, Walt has flopped at life. I just want to give him a hand.”

He took a moment to consider her words. That was another thing she liked about Matthew. He really listened before responding. “Maybe it's not a matter of being heartless. Your friend is probably concerned that your store won't remain financially stable if you hire people you don't need.”

“But the shop is doing fine.” A moment's reflection, however, exposed the lie to herself. She had been worried about money—so much so that she'd put off getting things fixed for far too long. “Okay, to tell the truth, it's always a squeeze. The other day I passed a sign advertising a job for a pizza delivery person. I actually gave it serious consideration. It wouldn't conflict with the store's hours, and I'd have a little extra cash to make some repairs.”

Matthew arched a brow at her. “So you were considering taking a part-time job so you can keep Walt employed? Does that make sense?”

“No, but . . .” He was right. It sounded insane. And if the store went under, they'd all be unemployed. Poor Pam. First the real estate market had squeezed her into catch-as-catch-can work. The last thing she needed was for her second job to be put in jeopardy through Becca's wimpy business practices.

“What should I do?” she wondered aloud.

“Do you want me to talk to Walt?”

For a moment, she actually considered taking him up on the offer. It would be like being a kid again, having an adult step in and settle all her messy problems. So tempting. So laughable. “Why would you want to do that?”

“You've helped me out. And Walt's a good guy. Olivia thinks so.”

She wondered how good he'd feel about Walt if he knew the man was a felon. She thought about telling him, but wouldn't that be like putting a scarlet letter on Walt's chest? Telling Pam had seemed advisable, since they worked together, but broadcasting his history to everyone she knew wouldn't be fair. He'd paid his debt to society, and he hadn't done anything wrong since.

As far as she knew.

She frowned into her latte. Where had Walt disappeared to for those couple of days when he hadn't shown up for work? And given the fact that there were so many kids in and out of the store, shouldn't she be a little more concerned? Olivia liked and trusted him. What if Pam was right and Walt turned out to be a psycho? If anything terrible happened, she would feel responsible.

“I'll talk to him myself,” she said. “I've just been a wimp.”

“You don't have to be ruthless,” he said. “Just honest. Tell him that you don't really need help right now. Give him notice.”

She nodded as Olivia fast-walked up and stopped in front of them with three scoops of ice cream perched precariously on a sugar cone. “What are you guys talking about?”

“Nothing,” they said in unison.

Because “firing Walt” was not an answer that would go over well with Olivia. So much for not being a wimp.

Their response probably would have made Olivia suspicious if she hadn't been preoccupied with a glob of Rocky Road that was leaning at a dangerous angle.

During the ride home, Becca decided that she needed to stop personalizing things and act like a grown-up. Put on her big girl cupcake store owner panties and just speak freely to the guy.
“We like you, Walt, but the store doesn't need extra help right now. It's just business.”

Unfortunately, “just business” made her think of Abe Vigoda in
The Godfather,
which caused a pang because whenever she saw that movie, even though she knew that Abe Vigoda's character had been treacherous and couldn't be allowed to get away with betrayal, she always thought, “But,
come on,
it's Abe Vigoda.” Didn't anyone in this cutthroat world get spared?

Walt even had Abe Vigoda eyes.

As the miles ticked away, she purposely tried to scour the sad, resigned old man expression from her brain.

Tough cupcake panties,
she reminded herself as they drove back into town. She intended to speak to Walt straightaway, before her conflict-avoiding inner coward overpowered her good sense.

Unfortunately, when Matthew dropped her off in front of her place, the store was dark and the Closed—Come Again! sign hung in the window. There would be no straight-talking to Walt today.

Matthew and Olivia thanked her for the outing and drove off.

Becca went upstairs. It had been a fun day, witnessing Olivia's enthusiasm for something she'd taken for granted for so long. But more, those hours of being part of a family outing seemed precious. She hadn't had a lot of that growing up. And Matthew had helped her sort out her own problems, which was gold. Maybe his advice, on closer scrutiny, was identical to what Pam had been telling her for weeks, but a little distance had helped her see things more objectively. And she knew Matthew wasn't prejudiced against Walt, while Pam had never liked him.

As soon as she sank onto the sofa, the two furry lumps that were Willie and Cash glommed on to her like the heat-seeking beings they were. A glass of wine and their purring lulled her into relaxation. It had been a perfect day—a little work, a drive, fun company. Matthew was good-looking, though she tried not to dwell on that. She also tried not to think too much of the way her mind replayed the things he'd said—not just because he'd given her valuable advice, but because the timbre of his voice struck a chord with her. The same way his gaze meeting hers made her breath catch sometimes.

Her attraction to Matthew might have been a positive sign, if it weren't so wrong in so many ways. After dating various hangers-on and losers in her teens and early twenties, and her impetuous marriage to Cal, she was finally attracted to a solid, responsible guy. Matthew was perfect—except that someone else before her had also decided he was perfect. Of course, the fact that this someone seemed fidelity-challenged complicated matters. Maybe that made Matthew even more appealing, because she wanted to rescue him from the other woman's clutches.

But then there was the other female in his life: Olivia. She adored Matthew. Becca didn't want to bust that up.

There was no way for this to turn out well.

A clang of metal downstairs sent her bolting straight up. Cats tumbled off her and wine splashed the couch cushions as her heart hammered against her rib cage. It was dark now. And downstairs, either pots were falling on their own, or someone had broken into her shop.

Chapter 9

Heart thumping, she grabbed the largest butcher knife from the block in her kitchen and headed toward the door. The steel blade glinted against a flash of lamplight.

Her legs stopped moving. If the intruder happened to wrestle the knife from her, then most likely the damage would be done to herself. Given that she possessed the upper body strength of a boiled turnip, this was not an unlikely scenario. The last thing she wanted was to be stabbed with a big honking knife from her own kitchen.

She backtracked, her mind sifting through all the Clue game possibilities of weaponry available to her. Gun (no), lead pipe (no), wrench (downstairs), rope (how would she defend herself with a rope?) . . . She pivoted and seized the first thing she saw that looked as if it could do bodily damage—Willie and Cash's sisal-covered wood scratching post with the rope handle.

She also grabbed her phone to call 911. But what was she going to tell the dispatcher? “I think I heard a pot fall downstairs” probably wouldn't bring the cavalry to her aid. The trouble was, she wouldn't really know how much of an emergency this was until she came face-to-face with the intruder. Then it would be a race to see if she could manage to dial her cell phone while simultaneously trying to scare off the bad guy with what was essentially her cats' nail file.

She could imagine the headlines.
Gruesome End for Child Actress: Little Tina Bludgeoned by Her Own Cat Furniture.

At least she would go out entertaining the people.

She tiptoed down the stairs, listening carefully for any noises through the stairwell walls as she descended. Silence. She opened her front door and crept out of her doorway over to the bakery's door two steps adjacent. Peering through the window, she was surprised to see lights on. Robbers in this town had crust. She could hear noises inside, but nobody was visible. She frowned. Pam wouldn't be there at this time of day. So who . . . ?

The door was still locked. She had to use her key, and winced as the tumbler turned, making a loud
click
. As she slipped inside, someone who'd been in the back of the shop suddenly stood up.

Becca let out a yelp.

In response, Walt put up his hands as if Becca were the cops. Obviously not an unfamiliar gesture.

“What are you doing?” Even though it was just Walt, she gripped the scratching post so tightly the sisal pricked her skin. “I almost called the police.”

Walt looked even more alarmed. “The cops? What for?”

She toed the door shut. “I heard a noise. It scared me half to death. I thought you were a burglar.”

His face screwed up in confusion and his glance darted to the scratching post. “You intended to go up against a burglar with that piece of wood? What is that? Didn't you have a gun or a knife?”

“No, I don't own a gun, and—” She really didn't want to let him know her thought process vis-à-vis knives and what weapons she would prefer to have turned against her.
She
wasn't the person who owed anyone an explanation here. “What are you doing?”

“Come see.” He beckoned her forward.

Cautiously, Becca followed him around the sales counter to the baking area. Walt made a Vanna White gesture toward a towel laid out on the floor, covered with tools.

“I fixed your dishwasher,” he said. “No more hauling dishes and pans up to your apartment at night.”

She couldn't believe it. Walt could fix a dishwasher?

He grinned. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“You did.” She hoped the surprise wasn't that the machine was now screwed up beyond all repair.

“I meant to get it all done this afternoon after Pam closed up, but I had to go to find another part.”

She stepped closer to the dishwasher. Had he really fixed it? The repairman had told her that it would cost almost the replacement value to get it running again. “You think it will work now?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “It should go for a few more years. It's a solid machine. Just needed some TLC.”

If he really knew what he was doing, he'd just saved her five hundred bucks, at least. “I'll need to reimburse you.”

“No, this was my gift to you. To thank you.”

She shifted, remembering that just a half hour ago she'd been plotting the best way to fire him. And all the while he had been playing elf, working afterhours to do something nice for her as a surprise. “You shouldn't have gone to all this trouble.”

“Maybe you shouldn't have gone to the trouble to help me, either. But you did. I'm grateful.”

Something inside her shriveled. Her courage, no doubt. How could she say, “It's just business,” in the face of this?

“Walt . . .” She frowned. Her mind, so desperate to avoid the subject of his long-term employment prospects at the cupcake shop, latched on to an odd yet not-insignificant detail. “How did you get in?”

“Pardon?”

“How did you get into the store? You said Pam had already locked up. Did you break in?”

He shuffled back a step. “Not exactly. I had a key made from the spare you keep taped to the bottom of the butcher-block table.”

He'd found her spare key? “How did you know that?”

“Well . . . I was messing around with the table because you're always complaining it wobbles. I thought it would be an easy thing to do to level it off for you, which I did.”

When had he done that? In amazement, she turned to the table and gave it a gentle shove. Solid as a rock. “It's not tippy anymore. I hadn't noticed!”

“I just glued a shiv onto the short leg,” he said, shrugging modestly. “Simple.”

Simple, but she hadn't bothered to do it herself. Instead, she'd been sticking a folded-up business card under it, but it never stayed in place. “Thank you.”

“But in the middle of doing that,” he confessed, “I saw the key taped down there. And I thought . . . well, it was an answer to a little problem I'd been having.”

Oh boy.
Here it comes.
“What problem?”

“See, I don't have a place to stay right now. And I thought to myself, well, if I copied that key, I could stay in here at night, slip out in the morning, and nobody'd be the wiser. So that's what I've been doing.”

It took effort to keep her voice from looping up in dismay. “You've been
living here?
” In other words, just underneath her. “For how long?”

“A week.”

A week! “What happened to the Marquis?”

“I had to leave, on account of some rent I owed.”

A slow throb started in her temple. “But you've been working. I mean, I thought I was paying you enough to get by.”

“Oh sure. You've been great. The problem is that I've had some expenses. And so I missed my rent. The place I was at was pay-as-you-go. No lease or nothing. And it wasn't much to write home about anyway.”

No, it wasn't. Just the memory of dropping him off that night made her shudder. “But better than living on the floor of the shop, surely.”

“It's okay here. Lots of privacy, too. I found a sleeping bag at the Salvation Army and roll it out in the storage closet. Nobody can see from the front window.”

A Salvation Army sleeping bag. She didn't want to think about that.

Was it even legal for him to stay here? The street-level part of the building was zoned for business. Plus, there was no shower. Where did he bathe?

She didn't want to think about that, either.

How could he have gotten to this point? Here she'd been, floating along thinking of herself as Lady Bountiful, rescuing him from the heartless Steves of the world, but despite her imagined largesse, he seemed to be worse off than ever.

“Walt, please don't take this the wrong way. I wouldn't have even considered it my business until you took up residence in my storage closet. . . .” She cleared her throat. “Do you have a drug problem?”

“No.” He shook his head. Vehemently. “That's all over for me. I gave up all that years ago.”

That was reassuring. But usually when junkies got clean, their lives improved, right? Of course, there was more than one vice in the world. “Is it alcohol?” She'd never seen him drunk, but there had to be some problem here.

“No, I got sober, too. I went to AA for years, ever since prison. Not since I been here, of course, but that's because . . .” The sigh that came out of him spoke of a long story, the details of which he obviously wanted to spare her. “The deal with the rent is, I just got behind. You don't have to worry about it.”

“But I do worry. Of course I do. You work here, and now you're fixing my appliances instead of paying to have a roof over your head.”

“I just paid for parts.”

“But even that had to be a hundred dollars, at least. Probably more.”

“A hundred dollars doesn't get you an apartment.”

The throb in her temple was becoming a full-blown headache. This was desperation on a scale she'd never faced. Never wanted to face. Yet here it was.

And she'd been about to fire him.

The awful thing was, a part of her still wanted to. Some cold, knotty recess of her grinchy heart wanted to turn her back on Walt, because he'd become the incarnation of all the bad things that could happen to a person if they weren't careful, weren't born lucky. He was the living embodiment of the depressing segment of the news that made you want to flip the channel and mutter, “It's hopeless.”

But there had to be hope. In any case, turning the channel wasn't an option. Walt wasn't something abstract. He was here, and he needed her help. “Where's your money going?” she asked. “Do you have a gambling addiction?”

“No. I just have debts. It's not your lookout.”

“But—”

“Rebecca, if you'll just let me stay on a few more weeks, I should be able to get back on my feet again. And I'd be so grateful.”

She'd heard that song before, and he seemed to be worse off now than when she'd hired him. But what else could she do? Walt was grateful. He was kind. He was even considerate . . . for someone who disappeared for days at a time and stole keys in order to trespass on her property. There was no question that she would let him stay. Of course she would.

“Where are your things?” she asked.

“What things?”

“You must own
something,
” she said.

“I did, but during the day I was storing my suitcase out in the alley. A couple of days ago, someone stole it.”

“That's horrible!”

“Or maybe the garbage collectors picked it up,” he added hurriedly. “I might've stowed it too close to the Dumpster.”

He spoke as if to reassure her. As if he worried her faith in humanity would be shaken by a suitcase theft in her own alley. But the idea of Walt's worldly possessions being picked up by the city and hauled to a landfill didn't make her feel much better. Especially since he seemed to have kept it out there to hide it from her.

“Are there any stores still open?” Even on Sunday night, there had to be somewhere that hadn't closed yet.

He lifted his shoulders, watching her warily. “Some of them, I imagine. Why?”

“We can get you an air mattress. Or a camp bed. You could set it up in my place.”

“Your apartment?” He looked almost as horrified as Pam would be at the idea of his sleeping upstairs. “If it's all the same to you, I'd rather stay here.”

She was equal parts insulted and relieved.

“Okay . . . but you can bring the bed up to my place during the day. And use my shower.”

He nodded. “I'd appreciate that. It won't be for long, I promise.”

They drove to a big-box store and bought a folding cot, a change of clothes, some toiletries, and a handled plastic tub for him to store his things. He said that seemed more practical than a suitcase. It was certainly more economical. Becca had never realized how expensive even cheap luggage was.

The shopping spree ended up costing her about what the parts for the dishwasher had probably amounted to. And now, instead of letting Walt go and acting like a firm businesswoman as Matthew had advised, she'd taken in a lodger.

So much for cupcake panties.