Sugar Rush (11 page)
“Oh, you can hardly do anything to this old thing I’m wearing.”
“Still ...” Lani opened the door to the small cupboard she’d had built beside her office door. She pulled out the uppermost of the three drawers that filled the bottom half and fingered through the stack of folded aprons that lay inside, trying to decide which one wouldn’t entirely swamp Alva’s tiny body. Her smile grew as she pulled out the bottom drawer. She’d saved her childhood aprons out of sentimentality and had stored them in the cupboard of her new kitchen for good luck and because seeing them again when she’d unpacked had filled her with the kind of memories she wanted to create for herself. Didn’t mean they couldn’t also be useful. She took the top one off the carefully folded stack and shook it loose. Then laughed.
“What is it, dear?” Alva said.
Lani held the apron up in front of her. “How do you feel about My Little Pony?” As she turned around, she almost dropped the apron entirely when she spied Alva standing on top of an empty, upside down five gallon bucket.
“I couldn’t reach the back of the pans,” Alva explained. “And maybe I will take you up on the apron. When I lean over, my jacket dangles. I don’t fill it out like I used to. Things have shifted over time.”
Lani somehow managed not to laugh. She helped Alva down from the bucket, then looped the apron over Alva’s head and Alva made quick work of tying it in the back.
The older woman smiled and held out her arms, turning to one side, then the other. “What do you think? Is lavender my color?” Alva modeled the purple-maned and spangly white horse that decorated much of the apron front.
“It’s you,” Lani said, and they both laughed. “But I don’t want you on that bucket. I’ll do the back of the pans and get them in the oven. How are you with cutting up fruit?”
Alva’s eyes gleamed, a bit too brightly, Lani thought. “Actually, dear, that might be just the thing for me this evening. What do you need chopped? I’m good with a knife.”
Lani narrowed her gaze thoughtfully. Alva had done an excellent job on the meringue, so Lani shrugged and got the mangos and passion fruits from the cooler drawer. She should have prepped them first, but the whipping required for the meringue had called more loudly to her therapy needs. Better, probably, than knives, anyway, given her mood at the time.
She got out the boards and one of her smaller paring knives. “Nothing fancy,” she told Alva. “Just work around the stone, and dice the fruit into chunks, about three-quarter-inch square, give or take. Try not to handle them more than necessary, so they don’t get pulpy, but make the chunks as uniform in size as possible. And—”
“I’ll be careful, dear.” Alva reassured her with a patient smile. “I may not be a fancy chef like you, but I’ve made enough jams and pies in my eighty-two years. I’m pretty sure I can get through a handful of mangoes without removing any fingers.”
“I’m sure you can,” Lani said with a grin as she watched Alva get started, then began prepping the passion fruit. “So, what has you wanting to chop things into little pieces?” Lani asked mildly as Alva went to town on the first mango. “Would it have anything to do with why you came by?”
“Something like that.” Alva continued chopping, making surprisingly short work out of the awkwardly shaped mango with its random center stone. “Remember when I stopped by before the dinner and auction and told you about Beryl and Dee Dee?”
“Of course. I’m really sorry you didn’t end up getting the cupcakes.” Lani sent a sideways glance at Alva, debating on how to handle things. “But I heard they went to the volunteer fire department and the sheriff’s office, so that’s good.” It had been quite a fierce bidding war, as it turned out. And now she’d have to keep an eye on her dad’s sugar intake.
“Yes, well, they’re deserving young men,” Alva said.
Chop, chop, chop, chop.
Chop, chop, chop, chop.
Lani kept an eye on Alva’s knife work. Dee Dee’s husband was retired from the sheriff’s department and still very active in training new recruits, and Suzette’s son-in-law was the current fire chief, so it had made perfect sense for the women to bid on the cupcakes. Lani knew it likely had absolutely nothing to do with why they spent a small fortune to secure all twelve boxes between the two of them. They’d set a record for any previous Kiwanis Club entry.
“Well, somehow Dee Dee got wind of my little side deal with Beryl, so she and Suzette got in cahoots together to trump me. I’m sure Louise contributed, too. Laura Jo said she overheard Louise saying that I’ve let running the group go to my head, that I’ve gone power mad. Her words!”
“Alva, you started the group, so I hardly think—”
“So, I told them that rather than share—generously, I might add—as I’d planned, I’d just keep Baxter Dunne to myself. I’ll invite him to my place, cook him a good country meal, maybe some of Harold’s favorites, and get the scoop for my first column.”
“But, you haven’t set up dinner with Baxter, have you?”
“I certainly will before this is over,” Alva exclaimed, then made quick, violent work of the next mango.
Lani wisely held her tongue. “What can I do to help? I don’t think I can convince Baxter to—”
“I don’t need your help with Baxter, dear. What I wanted to talk to you about is coming up with something else for Monday night’s tournament. Just between the two of us. I know I can trust you not to go blabbing, your father being the sheriff and all. And your mother was the sweetest thing this side of heaven. You come from good stock. I know I can trust you.”
“Alva—”
“I need a new secret weapon, Lani May. I know you’re busy, and probably a bit done in after the festival today. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. But it’s not just about getting Beryl her title back anymore.”
Lani stopped breaking down the passion fruits. “What, exactly, did you have in mind?” she asked warily.
“Well, dear”—Alva smiled ever so sweetly at Lani—“that would be up to you.”
“Me?”
Alva nodded. “It has to be something original, that they’ve never tried before. Something decadent, impossible to resist, preferably with a lot of chocolate. A little booze in the mix couldn’t hurt, either.”
“Of course.” Lani shook her head, and went back to her passion fruit, wondering at the wisdom of putting herself right in the middle of the Sugarberry Island Poker Tournament wars.
“Of course, if you could top those little gems you donated to the auction, well, that would just ice the cake, wouldn’t it?” Alva’s eyes twinkled.
No, not power mad at all.
Lani found herself wondering what kind of man Harold Liles must have been. And, come to think of it, exactly how it was the poor man had died ... “How many would you need?”
Lani found herself wondering what kind of man Harold Liles must have been. And, come to think of it, exactly how it was the poor man had died ... “How many would you need?”
“Would thirty-six be asking too much? Of course, I’ll be happy to pay whatever special order price you think is warranted.” Alva finished the last mango with a flurry of chopping. “Oh, the look in their eyes when I unveil my little cakes,” she said, then turned and gave Lani the sweetest smile as she handed her the chopped fruit. “There you go, dear. Are these up to snuff?”
Lani had already decided it didn’t matter what they looked like, she was taking Alva’s knife away, but had to admit, they were almost culinary school perfect. “Those are, well, they’re great.”
Alva patted Lani on the arm. “Sometimes age has it over experience.”
“Sometimes,” Lani agreed. “Let me think on the cupcakes and we’ll go over a few ideas tomorrow?”
“No, dear, I don’t want even the wisp of a suspicion on this.”
“We talk to each other all the time.”
“How about tomorrow morning, then? I’ll come by before going to Sunday services, before you open. I’ll just come around to the back here, like tonight. One knock. No, maybe three knocks.” She was clearly relishing the cloak and dagger element, as much as the trump card plan itself.
Lani was already wishing she’d skipped baking therapy and gone home to bed, like a good little baker. But no ... “Okay. That will be fine.”
Alva took off her apron. “Well, this has been quite lovely.” She looked at her blocks of neatly chopped mango. “Rather calming, too, I must say.” She smiled up at Lani. “Makes me want to go home and bake something.”
Lani didn’t point out it was after eleven o’clock. Maybe the woman didn’t sleep. It wouldn’t surprise her in the least.
“Perhaps I’ll start mentally preparing my dinner menu for Baxter. Won’t that be fun?”
“Absolutely.” If Lani wasn’t still so mixed up about Baxter, she’d call and warn him. Then it occurred to her that she could benefit from the distraction Alva would provide.
Alva handed the apron to Lani. “Good night now, dear. You should be getting some sleep, too, shouldn’t you? Big day tomorrow! See you in the morning.” With that, she bustled out the door and into the night, like a little white-haired apparition.
“You said you wanted to be part of the community,” Lani muttered as she locked up behind her. “Here’s your chance.”
The oven buzzers went off for the cupcakes she’d put in before Alva’s arrival pulling Lani back to work.
But instead of thinking about Baxter, or the roulade, or all the cupcakes she had to replenish by tomorrow, she purposely started working up a new recipe. For Alva’s New Secret Weapon Cakes.
Therapy was therapy, after all.
Chapter 6
B
axter drove the causeway over Ossabaw Sound to Sugarberry, reviewing in his mind exactly what he was going to say to Leilani that morning. Considering his production crew would begin arriving in several hours and continue throughout the day, it was rather critical that he get it right this time.
axter drove the causeway over Ossabaw Sound to Sugarberry, reviewing in his mind exactly what he was going to say to Leilani that morning. Considering his production crew would begin arriving in several hours and continue throughout the day, it was rather critical that he get it right this time.
After a quick overnight back to New York to film his “surprise” guest appearances on two of the national morning talk shows and three of the evening entertainment news programs, he’d actually been happy to check back into his rooms at the hotel in Savannah late last night. Despite the surprising autumn heat and humidity, he found the historic city to be charming, welcoming, and rather more delightful than he’d anticipated. It was nothing at all like England, but there was an old world feel to it that definitely resonated with him.
He was a city boy to the core, addicted to the hustle, the bustle, the vibrant energy. It matched his drive perfectly and he thrived in the push and shove of it all. He’d anticipated the slow-as-molasses pace of the Southern way of life would frustrate him beyond reason. Perhaps it was because he was so frustrated with himself and Leilani at the moment that he’d found the unhurried pace surprisingly soothing instead.
He’d cracked open the windows in his room before climbing into bed and found the strange sounds of the night almost ... lulling in their repetitive cycles. Nary a horn or siren to be heard. Just chirping, croaking, and several other indigenous sounds whose origins were probably better left unknown. He’d awakened refreshed and more energized than he’d anticipated after a whirlwind thirty-six hours of flying and talking. And talking, and talking, endlessly, shamelessly plugging the show. It wasn’t his favorite part of the spectacle that was television, but he was passionate about
Hot Cakes
, so, at the very least, he was sincere while pitching the third season to the masses.
Hot Cakes
, so, at the very least, he was sincere while pitching the third season to the masses.
It was already filmed and in editing and postproduction, meaning his main duty was done. The newly picked up fourth cycle was currently dominating all of his attention. Normally a few episodes were filmed, edited, and ready to go prior to the season launch, but new material for the current season would still be filming as the first episodes began to air. Due to his brilliant idea for the next series, his team had worked tirelessly to get the entire current season in the can prior to the season debut, giving them time to prep and work through the complicated logistics required for the next run. And complicated it would be, because, this go around, they wouldn’t be working in the well-appointed network studio, on a set already precision lit, engineered for proper sound, with camera angles rigged to get every view possible of the food and the chef. All of which was built around a meticulously designed kitchen set, and teamed with its own behind-the-scenes prep kitchen that was put to full use for every single episode.
No, they wouldn’t have anywhere near that luxury, because Baxter had had the brilliant idea to take his show, literally, on the road. Out of the big city, and into the heartland of America, showing his viewers how his amazing, upscale urban desserts could be adapted to fit their small town lifestyles and family favorite menus.
He hadn’t the vaguest clue how he was going to pull that off.
The entire rationale behind his brainstorm—which the network bigwigs had all but drooled over, despite the increase in production costs—was simply a means to an end. The end being to spend time with Leilani ... and hopefully convince her to leave Sugarberry at some point and continue on with him. How or doing what, he didn’t care. Whatever role she wanted to take on, he’d support her choice. As long as it got them back side by side.
She had to be suffocating, trapped on a tiny island, creating such a limited menu. She’d declared it her passion, but Baxter had begun to suspect that it was really a form of hiding out. Of retreating from the field of battle. She might think it was what she wanted forever and ever, but he knew her better than that. Or surely, he knew her talent would eventually demand better than that.
She’d taken a stance, and from what he’d seen, would stand by it whether she was truly happy or not. Perhaps she’d reconsider if a better offer came along, one that would allow her to make new choices without insulting anyone or looking like she didn’t know what she wanted. He hoped that he might be that new choice. Or, at least, a large part of it.
Life—his life—he’d quickly discovered, was better with Leilani in it.
And so, here he was, out in the marshy hinterlands. By choice. God help him.
A variety of bugs had already decorated his windshield by the time he bumped over the grids at the end of the causeway and eased his rental car onto the little island.
How on earth had Leilani made a home here
? He knew her father lived here, and she’d relocated as a way to be closer to him ... but Savannah was little more than an hour west. Though hardly a thriving metropolis on the scale of New York or Chicago, its unique, historic landscape was still a far better match for Lani’s remarkable skills than ... this.
How on earth had Leilani made a home here
? He knew her father lived here, and she’d relocated as a way to be closer to him ... but Savannah was little more than an hour west. Though hardly a thriving metropolis on the scale of New York or Chicago, its unique, historic landscape was still a far better match for Lani’s remarkable skills than ... this.
Baxter squinted at the rising sun, wishing he’d thought to buy a pair of sunglasses. He wasn’t used to being outside during daylight hours. By the age of twelve, he’d been in a kitchen every morning before the sun came up, and hadn’t left until well after sundown. These days if it wasn’t an actual kitchen, it was a kitchen set, or a planning room, or his office. And always—always—wherever he was, when he did step outside, it was to the familiar sounds and smells of a city. Whether it be London or New York, there was always a sense of familiarity, of home, just on sight and smell alone.
Driving onto Sugarberry—hell, driving at all, he didn’t even own a car—he might as well have been driving onto the moon. The marshes, dunes, and wilderness landscape were that foreign to him. There was one main paved road that looped around the entire island, which, as far as he could tell, was only a few kilometers wide, and maybe twice that in length. The township, also named Sugarberry, was located on the southern end of the island, built around a small, tidy town square. He’d thought it rather incongruous in an otherwise undeveloped, rather bohemian island setting, especially one that was more marsh than proper land. Perhaps it was the Southern influence. He wasn’t sure. It was a traditional square, with shops on all four sides and a small park area built into the middle. The park featured a rather large fountain at its center, in the midst of which rose quite a large statue, no doubt someone of historic Sugarberry importance.
Farther south, the tip of the island was dotted with several piers where the local fisherman tied up their boats when they weren’t plying their livelihood on the open sea. There were no pleasure boats with big sails, much less yachts of any size, harbored at Sugarberry. It was a working man’s island and the boats reflected that. He’d been made aware that farther down the coast, there were other barrier islands that featured upscale country clubs and resorts, beautifully designed golf courses, with restaurants and yacht clubs to match.
That was definitely not the case for Sugarberry. If the town council was making any attempt to lure the tourist trade, Baxter would be surprised.
Several narrow streets extended out from the town square on the three sides leading away from the fishing piers, some paved, some layered with centuries of crushed shells making it feel as if he were back home in London, driving over old cobblestones. The streets in that part of town were mostly lined with clapboard houses, usually painted white or gray, featuring rustic front porches and small yards largely devoid of any kind of grass. Most were covered in pine needles or otherwise landscaped with shrubs, flowers, and an occasional stubby palmetto.
Some lots were bigger and grander, with larger houses set farther back from the road. These were framed with colorful shutters and doors and often had deeper wraparound front and side porches. Those larger lots ended just before the western stretch of the island loop that led right back to the causeway. The shoreline on the west side had no beach, but devolved into a series of lagoons and marshes leading into the channel formed by the sound between Sugarberry and the uninhabited marshlands that crowded the Georgia shoreline.
To the east of the square, the streets ended at the loop road. Some houses dotted the far side along the loop road, but mostly it was an unending stretch of dense growth, sand dunes, and sea grasses, beyond which was an unbroken narrow stretch of beach, then the Atlantic Ocean. Not that he’d checked that out personally, but it was all part of the information his staff had gathered when he’d offered Sugarberry up as a location. He wasn’t sure if there were other cottages or houses tucked back amongst or past the dunes, but he rather thought that would be the place he’d want to hole up ... if holing up was what one wanted to do. Why else come to such a remote place?
The entire northern end of the island was undeveloped wilderness, lagoon, and marsh. In that same preliminary research packet, he’d read there were a few research centers set up by several local universities to study the flora and fauna. Something about some kind of small deer and loggerhead turtles, he seemed to recall. As he’d driven the loop road on his first visit to the island, that entire area had seemed inhospitable at best, and possibly dangerous at worst. Who knew what kind of beasties made their homes in the wet, dank, and dark? If anyone lived back there other than the occasional college student researcher, they were welcome to it.
Baxter kept to the developed end of the island. He drove straight to the town square, then past it a block, before turning down a narrow alleyway running behind the row of shops on the east side of the square. Leilani’s Cakes By The Cup was in the center of that row. He pulled into the gravel and crushed shell lot that formed the rear parking area for the row and pulled up to the delivery door marked CUPCAKERY.
“Cupcakes,” he said, turning off the engine. He could mentally picture, in great detail, some of the grand, intricately detailed pastries and cakes Lani had constructed at Gateau. Her inspired creations had drawn raves. She hadn’t been a Beard nominee during her first year of eligibility for nothing. She’d worked tirelessly to perfect even the tiniest detail, not because the client—or an awards committee—would have noticed, but because it mattered to her that each effort be her best. In fact, it was her work ethic and dedication that had first caught his attention.
She wasn’t a grandstander, like most with her natural ability, behaving in whatever manner it took to stick out and be noticed. She let her work speak for her. And speak it did. It fairly shouted, in fact. Once he’d noticed, he couldn’t help being further captivated by how different her demeanor was from most budding chefs. Bravado, with a healthy dose of self-confidence bordering on arrogance, was a trademark of the profession. Some would say it was a requirement. Leilani’s quiet charm, and what he’d come to describe as her relentless calm and ruthless optimism had made an indelible mark on him. She wasn’t like any baker he’d ever met, much less any top-notch chef.
She cared, she labored—hard—and she lived, breathed, ate, and slept food, as any great chef did. But she was never frantic, never obsessed, never ... overwrought, as most great chefs were. That teetering-off-the-cliff verve was the atmosphere he’d lived in, thrived on, almost his entire life. Leilani had that same core passion in spades, but it resided in a special place inside her. She simply allowed it to flow outward, like a quietly rippling stream, steady and true. As even the gentlest flowing stream could wear away the sturdiest stone, so had Leilani worn down any resistance he’d tried to build up against her steady charm ... and she’d done it without even trying.
The woman he’d encountered in that very kitchen two days before hadn’t been at all like the chef he’d trained and worked with so intimately. He’d thought he knew her every nuance, her every mood—most of them positive and upbeat. The tense, brusquely dismissive woman he’d encountered had thrown him off entirely. In fact, the only familiar thing about her had been her Gateau jacket.
He remembered the apron she’d worn, with the Hatter at tea. Her hair twined up, messy and soft, but her demeanor certain, and somewhat brusque, at least where he was concerned. She’d been different when he’d first walked into the front of her bake shop, when she’d been dealing with her customer, Miss Alva, before she’d noticed his arrival. Only then had he caught a glimpse of the woman who’d so completely turned his head. Changed his world. His entire world. A world he was changing again, for her.
She’d been smiling, calmly composed and content, happily at home in her natural habitat. Then she’d spied him ... and everything had changed.
He climbed out of the car, telling himself it was that abrupt change in demeanor that had driven him to behave so recklessly, so ... demonstratively. He’d thought a lot about that kiss. A whole lot about that kiss.
He wished he felt more sorry about it than he did, as it could likely prove to be his downfall in his mission. But he couldn’t. It had been too ... perfect. Like a soufflé that combined airiness and light, with that rich, dark, kicky finish. Yes, that kiss had lingered on his lips ... and permanently in his memory, ranking up there along with the richest, most decadent desserts he’d ever had the pleasure of sampling.
Just like those decadent desserts, he was equally driven to taste her again. As passionate as he’d ever been to create the most amazing flavor combinations, the richest and most unique desserts, Lani was like that to him. For as long as he could remember, that passion had always been everything.
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