Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie (4 page)

She continued to look over the car. “Which is why you need to get out and socialize more. A man your age, still single, looking like you do. You're what, thirty now, thirty-one? It's almost a crime, really, when you think about it.”

Completely at a loss for words, he forced himself to swallow and tried to decide the best way to get her to head on out. He tolerated her occasional attempts to talk him into attending this event or that one, but this hard press was a first, even for her. “I . . . appreciate the thought, but I'm fine. Just fine.”

She turned to him then, the twinkle replaced by a shrewd, direct gleam. “You've done your granddaddy proud, you have, Dylan Ross. I haven't mentioned it, but I knew Tommy quite well. His brother, Dick, too. A bit of a rascal that one, always into this or that.”

Dylan said nothing, as that was about as kindly as she could have put it. And far more than the man deserved. “I appreciate that, too. Thanks again for—”

“And I know your Daddy would have been, too.” She sighed, fluttered a hand near her heart. “God rest his soul.” Her voice had wavered a bit, but her gaze did not, which had his own eyes narrowing slightly; she clearly wasn't done yet. “Now, I know it's not my place to say such things, but just because your mama wasn't there to help your poor daddy with his troubles, and your brother . . . lost his way, does not mean you have to hide—”

Dylan's scowl shut down that particular line of conversation. He couldn't quite believe she'd gone there.

“I've said too much.” But Alva didn't look all that remorseful.

Nor, he noted, did she give him that pitying look so many of the older islanders did. He hated that look.

“I meant it kindly,” she told him, a smile back in her voice. “I've always marveled at how well you've done for yourself. We can't choose the family we're born to, and all you've done is give yours a good name. I know it had to be heartbreaking when the shop your granddaddy started up burned to the ground in that fire, but you seem to be settling in over here. This row of old buildings hasn't seen any use in as long as I can remember. Maybe now that you're in here, others will follow your lead and spruce up the rest of the strip. I heard someone bought the space right next door.” She let the sentence dangle, but he didn't pick up the bait.

He was still trying to process everything else she'd said. Besides, it was no one's business but his own that he'd been the one who had bought up the adjoining building. Insurance had paid out better than anticipated on the old place and he'd had to reinvest it somehow. Way he saw it, if folks suddenly did take an interest in revitalizing the remaining buildings that fronted the channel, he could sell it at a tidy profit to whomever would annoy him the least.

“It's good to be a bit closer to the center of things,” Alva was saying. “Not tucked away down there by the fishing docks, but here in the heart of town. More social, don't you think? I'd think it'd be better for business. Better for you, too.”

He'd come to stand beside her, ostensibly to find some way to escort her out that didn't require bodily removing her, but before he could figure out exactly how to go about that, she reached over and squeezed his arm, then patted his hand. “Oh, don't look so stormy. I'm not asking you out on a date. But you should think about it. Dating, I mean. I'm not the only single woman on Sugarberry.”

He'd stepped into the Twilight Zone. There was no other explanation. She'd gone past flummoxing him, even pissing him off, to just, well . . . flustering him. Rallying his thoughts, he somehow found the wherewithal to force a smile. “And here I thought you were seeing Hank Shearin.”

If he wasn't mistaken, her cheeks warmed right up, even under her carefully applied rouge. “Now, don't you go believing everything you hear. But it's good to know you're keeping up with the goings on around town. Shows you've got some interest. That's a good thing.” She patted again. “Now, cultivate it.”

“I'm an auto mechanic. One step away from a bartender. I hear things whether I want to or not.”

“Well, it's still a place to start.” She patted his hand one last time, then slid her arm free. “You're not so brooding and quiet as you try and make us believe. I mean, look at the two of us, having ourselves a nice little chat. See? It wasn't so hard, now, was it?”

He'd rather eat fire ants. He'd also sorely underestimated his placement on Miss Alva's to-do list. He'd have to put a stop to that before it went any further, but at the moment, he couldn't come up with a solid game plan, other than to send her on her merry way as soon as possible.

“Thanks again for the jelly roll,” he said by way of responding. “I should get back to work.”

She turned her attention back to the Volkswagen. “I don't recognize this one from anyone on the island.”

“Not a local. Just someone passing through, having a bit of bad luck.”

“Not so bad as all that if she found you.” Alva looked through the side windows, then glanced at the license plate. “Oregon. Long way to be passing through. Looks like she's got a goodly part of her worldly possessions with her, too.”

“How do you know it belongs to a woman?” Dylan asked, bemused despite himself.

“Not too many men I know would drive a powder blue Beetle Bug. Although, they say they're a bit odd up there in the northwest, so, who knows.”

Odd,
Dylan thought.
That's one way to put it.

“Only ever knew one person from Oregon. Newcomer. Beavis Chantrell.” Alva smiled fondly. “She was certainly a colorful one, so perhaps there's something to it. You know, she used to do costumes in Hollywood for some of the big movie stars? Then she left there and designed for the show girls in those big, fancy Vegas reviews. Came out here with a fella, some young slick. Card shark if you ask me. Never did trust him. Pretty sure he cheated the time or two we played poker, though I couldn't catch him red-handed at it.

“I was so happy when she stayed after he moved on, opened up her little shop. We were fortunate to keep her, we were.” Alva sighed. “My Harold's suits never fit so well as when Bea took her hand to them. And the things she could do to spruce up an old hat, I tell you. You could always count on her to let you know if there was trouble brewin', too. I miss her.”

Dylan knew Miss Bea had lived on Sugarberry close to twenty years, before passing away last winter. Of course, anything less than a few generations of island occupancy labeled a person a newcomer. Bea had been a bit of an odd duck, but a beloved one, near as he could tell. He hadn't known her personally, mechanics not being in much need of tailoring shops, and she'd pedaled a bicycle around the island, never owned a car. Of course he'd heard about her being a bit . . . unusual, always knowing things she shouldn't be knowing. Everybody knew about it. Folks would go to her, trying to find out about their futures. Far as he knew, she wasn't any kind of fortune teller, or certainly had never advertised herself as one, but it didn't keep folks from talking or seeking out her advice from time to time.

He supposed he had a soft spot for the misfits of the world, though she seemed to have made her way better than most. Still, he'd been sorry to hear it when she'd suffered a mild stroke a little over a year before. He knew it had left her unable to run her shop. Last he'd heard, she'd moved to a senior care center over on the mainland, where she'd remained until her passing.

The shop had sat empty until the cupcake crew had taken over the space to add on to their existing business. The island had been buzzing about the grand opening of the new place for months. Some were happy about it and the increased interest it might bring to the island, some were grousing that increased traffic and tourists were not something Sugarberry should be courting, that it was doing just fine on its own. Of course, that was the same argument the old-timers had made about almost every new business establishment, probably even back when Tommy and Dick Ross had opened their auto repair business.

Dylan took advantage of Alva's hand on his arm and steered her toward the open bay door at the rear of the shop, where she'd come in. She'd probably headed over straight from the cupcake bakery, jelly roll in hand. An excuse to pry and nudge, he saw now. He really was going to have to nip that in the bud.

“Well, looks like we have another newcomer from Oregon,” Alva was saying. “Hope she's as delightful as the last one.”

“I didn't get the feeling she was here to stay.” But that look on Honey's face, in her eyes, as she'd looked across the alley, jumped to Dylan's mind again.

“Well,” Alva said, clearly dismayed not to get more gossip out of him. “I'm glad you were here to help out. If you change your mind about the poker game, we always have a seat for a handsome, eligible man.” The twinkle had come right back in her eyes.

“Thanks again for the jelly roll” was all he said. “Careful now, crossing the alley.”

“And a gentleman, too,” she said, then waved before making her way across the alley to the rear door of Cakes by the Cup.

He watched until she waved once more before slipping into the back entrance. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until he let it out in one heavy huff as the door slapped shut behind her. What the hell had that been all about? And how was he going to shut it down?

The phone ringing in the office snapped his attention back to business. He stalked over and snatched the cordless from where it was mounted to the wall, and listened as the parts shop in Savannah gave him the bad news. “Thanks,” he said, before hanging up. “For nothing,” he added darkly.

First Miss Alva and her nosey fruit roll, and now he had to deal with the fruitcake. And tell her it was going to be a week, at minimum, before her car was ready. He also had to give her the full repair estimate. He couldn't imagine either of those things would come as good news.

He turned toward the office, intent on grabbing the clipboard with her service order and cell phone number on it, but was once again brought to a complete and utter stop by the woman herself. Honey D'Amourvell was presently pedaling down the alley toward the rear entrance to his shop on an old townie bicycle with a white basket attached between the front handles. But it wasn't the vintage bike, or even the mode of transportation, that had caught his attention. Plenty of island residents favored bicycles over cars. It was the woman. Yesterday it had been combat boots, khakis, and a no nonsense ponytail.

Today she wore flat white sandals, a sunny yellow, short-sleeved shirt, and a flowy, billowy skirt patterned with bright spring flowers. Her hair was down, streaming behind her. It was longer than it had looked up in that ponytail. Thicker, too. But what nailed it for him, was all that flouncy femininity paired with those super serious, dark rimmed glasses. There was absolutely nothing remotely sexy about them . . . and yet, his body stirred.

She rolled in behind the shop, then braked a little harder than was necessary when she saw him just inside the bay door, standing in the shadows. Watching her.

The short stop had her teetering dangerously and her sandals did little to steady her as they slid over the hot pavement. Without thinking, Dylan instinctively stepped into the sunlight, intent on steadying the bike to keep her from falling over, when her quick jerk back reminded him. Batshit crazy. Right.

Still, he wasn't going to let her fall over. He put his hands firmly on the handlebars, taking care not to touch her, keeping the bike upright until she got her feet under her. “Careful, there, darlin'.”

“I'm fine. You just . . . startled me. I didn't see you there.”

He scowled, when just moments before, watching her, all flowery clothes and serious glasses, he'd found himself wanting to smile. “The only thing I plan on touching is your car, okay?”

She met his gaze with her own. “I know. Really, it's . . . not you. Or . . . or that. It's just—” She broke off, and he could see frustration, and something else, warring in her expression. But she was right, he didn't think either was directed at him so much as herself.

Problems,
he thought. She had plenty of them, the least of which, apparently, was her piece of junk car. That was the only one he had any interest in fixing.

He lifted his hands off the handlebars, palms out. “You're safe with me,” he said more dismissively than was perhaps necessary, thinking
first nosey fruit roll, now fruity customer.
Was it too much to ask for a man to just work in peace, without interruption? He turned to head back into the shop. She could follow him or not.

“I'm not safe with anyone,” she muttered, or that's what he thought he heard, but when he looked back, she'd climbed off the bike and was propping it against the back of the building, next to the bench.

He went in and grabbed the clipboard with her service order on it, made a few notes from the phone conversation he'd had with the parts guy while they were still fresh in his mind, then headed back to the service bay, only to find the second woman of the day poking her nose under the hood of the Beetle. “Might want to be careful there.”

Honey straightened and turned to look at him. Despite what had just happened in the alley, she seemed steadier than the day before. He wasn't sure if it was the brightly colored shirt or the bicycle ride over that had lent some color to her face, but she didn't look as . . . well, as haunted as she had. She placed a protective hand on the side panel of the car. “Can she be fixed?”

He nodded. “But it's going to take the better part of a week just to get the parts here. And it's not going to come cheap.”