Semi-Sweet (11 page)

“And of course, even with Adam helping out, she still has to watch every penny until she finds her feet.” Geraldine gathered
their bowls and brought them to the dishwasher. “That can’t be easy.”

Stephen filled the kettle and took the French press down from its shelf.

“So,” she went on, putting milk and sugar on the table, “I thought she could do with a little something extra this year. You
know, just to give her a lift while she’s struggling.”

Stephen scooped coffee. “What have you done?”

She turned and smiled at him. “I got her a pair of shoes—Alice gave me a great bargain. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

Stephen laughed. “I don’t suppose it would make much difference if I did.” He took cups from the press and brought them to
the table. “Just as long as Hannah supports us when we’re bankrupt.”

As he drew near, Geraldine reached across and kissed his cheek. “Of course she will, dear.”

Every day she was learning more and making fewer mistakes.

Through trial and error she’d whittled down her original fifteen recipes to ten, ditching some, replacing others, substituting
ingredients here and there, experimenting when she had the time.

The cinnamon-apple simply hadn’t worked, the honey-sesame had morphed into ginger-sesame, the poppy seed–key lime had been
a slow starter but now sold steadily—especially, for some peculiar reason, on Mondays.

She didn’t dare open without a good supply of at least two chocolate varieties. She’d learned to bag the leftovers in threes
rather than sixes, and she’d introduced a special-offer variety each day. Thanks to Adam, she’d discovered an American Web
site that sold discounted cupcake paraphernalia—themed paper liners, toppings, decorations—and she’d opened an account with
them.

And she very quickly realized that mopping the floor at ten to five was practically a guarantee that she’d have a flurry of
last-minute customers.

She was constantly tired. She dragged herself out of bed at three o’clock each morning and baked and iced and decorated solidly
till just after half past eight, when she loaded the yellow van and drove to the shop. She fell into bed each evening, somewhere
between eight and nine o’clock, to sleep soundly until the alarm beeped her awake again.

And on Sundays she regularly slept till midday, sometimes even later—a phenomenon that hadn’t occurred since she was fourteen.

She’d lost track of her TV programs. She hadn’t checked her e-mail in ages. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d opened
a book; the only reading she did these days was a flick through the local paper in between customers, or a rummage in her
cookbooks in search of new recipe ideas.

She’d forgotten what a social life was. In the month since Cupcakes on the Corner had opened she’d had the sum total of one
night out, when Adam had finally persuaded her to visit the new wine bar with him a couple of weeks ago.

And while she’d enjoyed the buzz in Vintage—and the feeling that she was actually out for the evening—she relished even more
her precious Saturday nights at home, when she could laze around the house or soak in the bath for as long as she wanted.

She had a few regular customers already. The secretary from the office block up the road who came in every Friday around eleven
with the same order: “One coffee-cream, one vanilla-chocolate, three peanut butter, and four chocolate-coconut.”

The young man in a gray suit who stopped in every other morning for two of whatever was on special offer. One of Hannah’s
old teachers, Mrs. O’Neill, who appeared every Saturday for a bag of leftovers for the three grandchildren who visited her
each Sunday afternoon.

A young woman had come into the shop one day who looked familiar, but Hannah hadn’t placed her until the woman had smiled
and said,
Hey, I know you. You used to baby-sit me and my sister, Claire.
She was Una Connolly, and she worked three afternoons a week in Clongarvin’s library, down the hill from Cupcakes on the
Corner. She’d taken to dropping in with an order from the library at least once a week since then.

She told Hannah that Claire waitressed in the town’s only Chinese restaurant.
She has a little boy,
Una had said.
Jason, he’s four. We’re all mad about him.

And every week Hannah made some money. Not much left over once the bills had been paid, not half enough to justify all her
slaving, but it was
her
money, from
her
efforts. After running her own business for a month she was actually solvent, which seemed like a minor miracle.

And today, the eleventh of February, was her thirty-third birthday, and her feelings about this particular date were mixed,
to say the least.

There was the memory of last year, of course. Boarding the Aer Lingus flight to Paris, still unable to believe what Patrick
had arranged. Sharing a bottle of red wine in a tiny late-night bar, eating thick slices of rustic bread topped with peppery
salami and gloriously pungent cheese. Dipping the crusts into the bowl of buttery, garlicky juice in which Patrick’s
moules
had been served.

Not mentioning that he’d packed the wrong shoes for her burgundy dress and not nearly enough woolens for the subzero temperatures,
not caring that the shower in their hotel’s ensuite bathroom trickled tepidly. They’d huddled together under blankets that
smelled of grass, and they’d listened to the ancient pipes clanking, and to a woman holding a one-sided shrill conversation
somewhere nearby, and the faint horns and sirens and shouts in the street far below their two narrow, shuttered windows.

She blocked out the image of the Parisian bedroom—the flowers on the wallpaper had been blue!—and thought again about Adam
sharing her house. Of all the people she could have picked to be her housemate, Adam would have been her unhesitating first
choice.

The trouble was, she didn’t want a housemate. She wanted to share her home, and her life, with a romantic partner, like most
women her age. Instead she had her best friend and an overweight black Labrador.

Still, it was better than living alone, wasn’t it? Eating a solitary dinner night after night, putting on the TV purely to
drown the sound of your cutlery clinking as you speared a bit of sausage or scooped a mound of beans. Washing up your one
plate, your single knife and fork.

Buying a toothbrush you didn’t need, because one on its own sticking out of the tumbler on the bathroom shelf was far too
pathetic. Switching on the radio just to hear someone else’s voice as you cracked your umpteenth egg into flour, butter, and
sugar—

The shop door opened, and she blinked the thoughts away. “Hi there—I wasn’t expecting you.”

Geraldine approached the counter. “I wanted to wish my only child a very happy birthday.”

Hannah regarded her with amusement. “You rang this morning, and you and Dad are coming around for tea later.”

“I know, but Adam will be there, and I just wanted to see you on your own and give you this, from both of us.” Geraldine reached
into her basket and produced an envelope. “Happy birthday, love. It’s a check, I’m afraid, but we thought it was probably
what you needed most right now.”

Hannah smiled as she took the envelope. “It certainly is—thanks a million.”

“And here’s a little something extra,” Geraldine added, taking a box from the basket, “because I couldn’t let money be your
only present.”

“Ah, you didn’t.” Hannah opened the box and looked in delight at the pink shoes. “Oh, Mam, they’re gorgeous—you always know
exactly what I like.”

As she slipped off one of her black pumps, her mother spoke again. “So how’s the new arrangement going with Adam?”

Hannah took a shoe from the box and bent to put it on. “Mam, he moved in yesterday.”

“I know, but you’d have some idea.”

 “We’ll get on fine, I’m sure. He’s threatening to cook dinner every evening though.” She stuck out her foot. “Look—a perfect
fit.”

Geraldine didn’t even glance down. “He’s going to have dinner ready for you when you get home? Isn’t that very thoughtful.
Not many men would do that.”

Hannah hid a smile as she slipped on the second shoe. “I know—I’m really lucky. I should snap him up before someone else does.”

Geraldine looked sternly at her daughter. “I can’t imagine why you find the idea so amusing—”

She broke off as the shop door opened again, making the bell ping loudly. They both turned.

“Hello there.”

A man came toward them, his eyes traveling from one woman to the other. Hannah thought he looked familiar but couldn’t for
the life of her think where she’d seen him. He held a sheaf of pages.

“I was just wondering if I could leave these on the counter.”

His accent wasn’t Irish. He held out a page, and Hannah took it and scanned it quickly.

“Carpenter available,”
she read.
“Custom-built kitchen and bedroom furniture. All jobs considered. Free estimates, recession-beating prices. Quality guaranteed.”
And beneath, in smaller lettering,
“John Wyatt”
and a mobile-phone number.

“I’m trying to spread the word,” he said. “Would you mind?”

“Of course not.” She took the bundle from him and placed it on the counter. “Are you just starting out?”

He didn’t seem young enough to be starting out. He was her age, easily, or a few years older. His hair was cut tight into
his head, so short it was hard to determine its color. His chin was dotted with dark stubble. He reminded her of a PE teacher
she’d had in school—Mr. Flaherty, was it, or Flannery? Maybe that was why she thought he looked familiar.

“I’ve not been long in this area, just a couple of months,” he told her, “but I’ve been a woodworker for quite a while, about
fifteen years.” He switched his attention to the cupcake display. “Now, these are interesting—who’s the baker?”

“My daughter here,” Geraldine said immediately, smiling brightly at him. “Hannah. She makes the most wonderful gourmet cupcakes.”

“Well,” he said, studying the display, “in that case I shall take two of the…” He scanned the colored labels. “Vanilla-chocolate,
please.”

“That’s a Scottish accent, is it?” Geraldine asked as Hannah pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and put his order into a box.

He nodded. “But my mother comes from Tipperary, so we spent a lot of time here as kids.”

“And what’s brought you to Clongarvin?” Geraldine didn’t see, or chose to ignore, Hannah’s frown.

He didn’t seem to mind the interrogation. “Change of scene.”

“You like it here?”

“I certainly do. Nice, friendly place.”

Hannah was terrified that her mother was going ask if his wife liked it too. “Three-fifty, please,” she told him quickly.
“I hope you enjoy them—the vanilla-chocolate is one of my bestsellers.”

“Thank you.” He took the box and pocketed his change. “And I notice,” he said, nodding at the empty shoe box, still sitting
on the counter, “that you also sell footwear.”

Geraldine laughed. “Actually, they’re a birthday present. It’s Hannah’s big day today.”

“Happy birthday”—he smiled—“and many more of them.”

“Thanks,” she replied, willing him to leave. She wouldn’t put it past her mother to tell him precisely how old she was, and
how she was available if he fancied taking her out.

“Good luck with the work,” Geraldine said. “We’ll do our best for you here.”

“I do appreciate it.” As he turned away, the rocking chair on the wall caught his eye. “Well, now, that’s what I call an original
design feature.”

“It belonged to Hannah’s grandfather,” Geraldine told him. “He made it possible for her to set up this shop, so she thought
it would be nice to remember him in some way.”

“Good—I like a bit of family history.” He studied the chair, nodding. “Lovely workmanship. And the color is very…eye-catching.”

“Hannah has extremely good taste,” Geraldine said. “She has a way with color—you should see her house.”

“Mam,” Hannah murmured, throwing him an apologetic look.

He was amused; he could see exactly what was going on. “Well, I’d best be off,” he said, heading finally for the door. “Bye
for now.”

They watched him walk out. “What a nice man,” Geraldine said. “And works with his hands—I like that.”

Hannah folded the plastic gloves and laid them aside.

“I love the Scottish accent, don’t you?” Geraldine said. “It’s so soft.”

Hannah replenished the supply of vanilla-chocolate cupcakes.

“I think he liked you. I mean, there was no need for him to hang around admiring that rocking chair.”

Hannah slid the full tray back into place.

“I wonder if he’s married,” Geraldine said. “He wasn’t wearing a ring, but maybe men don’t in Scotland.” She took a leaflet
from the bundle. “Wyatt—does that sound Protestant to you?”

“I just love these shoes,” Hannah said.

At least Adam’s eligibility, for the time being, had been forgotten.