Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie (5 page)

She merely nodded.

He'd expected more of a reaction than that. Shoulders slumping, disappointment in those still-spooky, pale green eyes of hers, something.

“So . . . how long until it's done? And how much?”

“Ten days, give or take parts delivery.” He quoted her the price.

He saw her throat work, then her gaze shift toward the back bay door. He thought, for a second, she was contemplating taking off, but realized almost immediately she was looking once again at the bakery shops across the alley, on the corner.

“This was a mistake,” she said more to herself than to him.

Yep. She was trouble. And quite possibly
in
trouble.

He sighed. “Is there someone who can come get you? Were you . . . visiting somebody? Over on the mainland? Traveling?” He glanced at her tags and the packed contents of her car, then back at her.

“No. I mean, no, I'm on my own. I'm—I was . . .” Her chin dropped, just for a moment; then she briefly closed her eyes and seemed to gather herself up. When she lifted her gaze back to his, it was resolute and resigned. “I was planning to stay here. Move here, actually. I'm . . . not so sure now. But I guess I'll be here at least until my car is done, so that'll give me time to figure the rest out.”

“We can work something out with the cost, if—”

“Oh, no, that's not it. I can take care of that.” He must have looked somewhat dubious, because she added, “I know the car isn't much, but I haven't needed much. And it's . . . sentimental. It belonged to my Aunt Bea.”

He'd glanced back at his clipboard, intending to see where he might be able to cut a corner or two, but his gaze snapped back up at that name. “Bea Chantrell?”

Her entire face relaxed, and the smile that naturally followed transformed her features from wary and guarded, to open and . . . well, attractive. Very attractive.

“Yes. Did you know her?”

“Not personally, but it's a small island. She was well liked here. Ran the little tailor—” He broke off . . . and looked across the alley at the buildings on the corner. Where her aunt's shop had once been. And a brand new, about-to-open bakery business now stood. That raw, wistful look he'd seen on her face the day before took on a whole new meaning. He looked back at Honey. “Oh.”

Her smile shifted to one of dry humor, reaching those eyes of hers . . . and changing everything.

That did something to his insides, too.

“Right”—she held his gaze easily for the first time—“oh.”

H
oney started to lift the bike from its resting spot against the wall behind the auto repair shop, then decided there was no point in rolling it across the alley. She'd come back for it once she was done. Besides, she wanted to get a few small things from her belongings to take back to the B&B . . . and, now that she knew how long her car would be here, she should probably see if she could work something out to get the rest of her stuff taken over later on. She didn't want it all sitting inside her closed up car for that long.

At the moment, however, she had more important things to attend to. The first of which was to stop thinking about Dylan Ross. Even on a full night's sleep and after a stern self lecture on keeping her focus on the important things, he still made her jumpy. And twitchy. Mostly, in that can't-keep-her-eyes-off-his-shoulders-and-biceps kind of way. Just because he wore a grease stained white T-shirt that the heat and humidity had long since caused to cling damply to his very nicely defined torso, did not mean she had to stare at it. Or want to touch it. Nor did she need to be paying quite so much attention to the way his jeans hung low on his lean hips or hugged a backside that gave swagger a whole new meaning.

“Why look if you can't touch,” she muttered. She pushed her hair from her face and her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and set off across the alley, wishing the elastic band she'd pulled her hair back with hadn't slid down and blown away on the way to the garage. She'd wanted to look friendly, well put together, and open to discussion when she met with Leilani Dunne. And if, perhaps, she happened to show Dylan Ross that she wasn't some deranged hippie chick, well . . . all the better.

Instead, she felt sweaty, wind blown, and . . . well . . . twitchy. She could still see Dylan's broad, very capable hands gripping the handlebars of her bike. If she hadn't jerked back the way she had, he might have put those broad, capable hands on her.

“And left grease marks on your blouse.” And permanent marks on her overly-active imagination. Logic and common sense clearly weren't enough to deter her body's determination to respond to him like a hothouse flower would to a steam bath.

Honey had called her aunt's estate lawyer first thing that morning, only to be told he was away at a family wedding and wouldn't be back until the following week. The other partner in the small firm had taken her call. He hadn't known her aunt well, nor was he familiar with the particulars of her estate planning, but he'd said he would look through the file as it pertained to the Sugarberry property and get back to her. Honey had finally gotten the call from him an hour ago, and he'd said he found nothing untoward or mishandled from his end. According to the will, the property rightly belonged to Honey. If that ownership was being contested, she'd have to go to the county offices over the causeway, and get a copy of the deed, along with the papers she'd filed, claiming the property.

Except . . . no one had explained the part about her needing to fill out paperwork to claim anything. She'd thought that had been handled by Bea's lawyer. And, perhaps it had. His partner couldn't say one way or the other. So, she'd called the county to see if they could verify any of the information over the phone, only to be told she had to bring ID and show up in person to access any of her aunt's deed information. She'd considered hiring a taxi and heading straight over, but decided perhaps going directly to the source on the Sugarberry end of things might be just as informative. Besides, it would eventually all come out anyway, so they were going to have to talk at some point. If she wanted to know who on Sugarberry thought they had the right to lease Bea's shop to Leilani Dunne, who better to ask than the Cupcake Queen herself?

Honey debated walking around the row of buildings and entering through the front of the shop, as it was still during business hours, but the back door to the alley was open, and the rich scents of butter and baked goods wafted through the screen door. Also wafting out was the pulsing sound of a tune she couldn't quite make out, which meant someone was in the kitchen baking. Hopefully, that someone was the owner, and Honey could at least begin the conversation between them in private.

She crossed the alley and found herself smiling as she recognized the music—it was the soundtrack to the Broadway musical,
Wicked
—and she realized someone was singing along.
Not too shabby, either,
she thought. Certainly a far cry from her own less-than-stage-ready voice. Not that that had stopped her from bopping and singing loudly to the music she'd always had pumping inside the barn as she worked. After all, the garden gnomes and fairy sprites she created weren't likely to be too offended when she went off key.

Her smile turned wry as she recognized the specific tune from the show.
“Popular
.
”
“Oh, the irony,” she murmured as she stepped under the awning and up to the screen door just as the final strains echoed, and the kitchen singer ended with her own flourish.

Honey took a moment to smooth her hair, straighten her blouse, shake the wrinkles from her recently unpacked skirt. The hottest part of the day had passed, but tell that to her sweat glands. Nerves weren't helping the situation, either.

The opening strains of
South Pacific
faded as someone inside turned the music down. Honey let out a long, shaky sigh, then took a steadying breath, pasted on a smile, and knocked on the door. Only no one came. Instead, she heard someone call out, “Alva, I've got to run these next door to Kit. I'll be right back!”

If there was a response, Honey didn't hear it. She was too busy leaping back as the screen door was suddenly shoved open by someone backing out of the bakery with a huge tray of cupcakes in her hands.

Honey caught the low heel of her sandal on the edge of the stone walkway that had been put in between the back doors of the side-by-side shops, sending her wheeling into the small parking lot. “Oh!”

The woman with the cupcakes spun around, sending a few of the cupcakes tottering dangerously close to the edge of the rack she held. “Oh, no! I didn't see—crap!” Two of the cupcakes took the death plunge off the side and landed, icing down, between the stone pavers.

Honey banged up against the front bumper of somebody's red Jeep, and finally managed to stop by bracing her hands on the hood—the sun-burnished, blazing hot hood. She swore and leaped away as the woman in front of her did a quick step to keep any more cupcakes from taking a dive.

“I'm . . . I'm so sorry!” Honey managed as she pressed her throbbing palms to the sides of her skirt. “I knocked on the door, but . . .”

“No, no, it's my fault. I had the music on too loud. Baxter's always telling me I'm going to boogie myself straight into—” The woman broke off, and rearranged her grip on the tray, then grinned at Honey. “Straight into a cupcake Armageddon. I hate it when he's right.”

Honey found herself smiling back. It was impossible not to, really. She looked down at the smashed cupcakes and the creamy pink icing presently oozing in between the walkway bricks. “Let me at least pay for damages.”

The dark-haired woman shook her head, her expression open, naturally friendly. “I make extras, and it's really not your fault. Were you looking for me? I'm Leilani Dunne, the shop owner. Everyone just calls me Lani.”

Honey's gaze went from Lani's warm eyes and cheerful smile to the apron she wore, which had only now caught her attention. It featured poster art from the movie
Chocolat,
with Johnny Depp's handsome face smiling beside the title.

Lani tracked her gaze. “I know, right? Show tunes and wacky aprons are us, what can I say?”

“There's nothing wacky about wanting to wrap yourself in Johnny Depp.” It was only when Lani laughed that Honey realized she'd spoken out loud.

“I like you already. What can I do for you?”

This was so not how Honey had planned the conversation to go, so she was a little bit flummoxed. “Did you—do you want to go ahead and deliver those?” She inclined her head toward the cupcakes. “I can wait. I just needed a few moments of your time.”
To start.

“Um, sure, yes. Probably a good idea.” Lani didn't bother to hide her curiosity, but her smile never wavered. “Go ahead on into the kitchen. I'll be back in a flash.

Careful not to step in the cupcake carnage!” she warned, then bopped on over to the back door with a sign that said BABYCAKES, balancing her oversized tray as if it were nothing more weighty than a dinner plate.

Honey stood there for another second before heading to the screen door to the Cakes by the Cup kitchen and letting herself inside.

“Miss Lani Mae, I've locked up out front for you, but wasn't sure if you wanted me to count the till—oh! Sorry. I heard the door and thought Lani had come back. Can I help you?”

Honey stood just inside the door, hands folded in front of her, careful not to touch anything lest she inadvertently create another disaster, and smiled at the tiny, white-haired woman who'd just come from the front of the shop. “I'm waiting for Lani. She knows I'm here.” Honey's gaze strayed to the apron the diminutive senior wore. This one featured Channing Tatum on the movie poster for
Dear John
. A very fine looking Channing Tatum. What was it with the cupcake ladies and the hot guy aprons? The older woman looked down at her apron, then beamed a twinkly-eyed smile back at Honey. “I liked him better in that stripper movie, but Miss Lani thought he might be too distracting to the customers without his shirt on.”

Honey tried to stifle the laugh that bubbled up in her throat. Maybe it was all the sugar, or maybe they were just crazy, but all Honey could think was,
My God, Bea, you were right. I'd fit right in here.
Not because Honey was crazy, but because she was already half convinced between the sugar buzz, the hot guys, and the show tunes, the cupcake ladies might not even notice her occasional “unexplainable insights.”

If only she didn't have to ruin everything with the real reason she was here.

“I, uh . . .”—Honey had to clear the laughter from her throat—“think he's distracting at all times, but in a really good way.”

“I'm Alva Liles,” the other woman said with an approving smile.

“Hello, I'm Honey. Honey D'Amourvell.”

And just like that, the twinkle dimmed.

News traveled fast in small towns. She wondered exactly what Mr. Ross had said about her. Had to be him. The only other person she'd met was Barbara Hughes, and a nicer woman Honey had never known. She'd even loaned Honey her bike until Honey's car was fixed. Besides, they'd only spoken a handful of words to each other, all pleasant. No odd or awkward moments. Honey had already had all of those with Mr. Ross.

Well, it wasn't like the happy cupcake vibe would have lasted much longer, anyway. As soon as she told them she was the owner of the building they'd illegally turned into a cupcake mail-order business, all the happy happy joy joy would have come to an abrupt end.

And to think she'd been worried about being ostracized because she was clairvoyant.

“Why, my goodness gracious,” Alva was saying. “If it isn't little Miss Honey Pie. The sweet, sweet child my dear friend, Miss Bea Chantrell spoke so fondly of, every chance she had.”

Honey's mouth dropped open. She hadn't thought—hadn't figured that folks might know her by name. But of course Aunt Bea would have talked about her family.

Before Honey could respond, Alva finished with, “That same sweet child who never managed to make it out here to visit her only kin before she passed.” She was still smiling, but there was no mistaking the flinty edge to her words.

Oh yeah. Fun time was officially over.

Not that it was any of this woman's business, but Honey made a stab at explaining. “Yes, I'm Bea's niece. We were very close. I miss her terribly. I would have spent every minute with her if I could have.”

The grudging look didn't entirely leave Alva's eyes, but her tone was a bit less frosty when she spoke. “We all miss her terribly, too. She was a wonderful addition to our little island. You have a bit of the look of her. Same eyes.”

Bea had been short and built like a fireplug, but, it was true, they did have the same clear green eyes. They ran in the Chantrell family. As did the curse. “Thank you.”

“What brings you to Sugarberry? Here to pay your respects? She wasn't buried here, you know, her—”

“Her ashes were sent to me,” Honey finished evenly. “I've just driven across the country, spreading them everywhere she asked me to.” Honey also had a container from her own catalog—one Bea had chosen herself, in fact—to put the remainder in, for Honey's keeping. She smiled, thinking of the whimsical female garden gnome Bea had chosen. Short and stout, much like her aunt, with a basket of fabric scraps over one arm, and a fairy wand in the other.

Alva's expression softened then, as did her tone. “Well then, you've paid your respects quite handsomely it would seem. I'm glad to hear you were able to do that for her and for yourself. My condolences on your loss.”

“Thank you. And condolences to you as well. She told me many wonderful stories about Sugarberry and all of her friends here. You all meant more to her than you'll ever know.” It was comforting to learn that her aunt's passing had been noted, and that she was missed. Honey'd had the stray thought that, other than her customers, there really wasn't anyone left who would miss her when she was gone. And that was a rather chilling idea, when she thought about it like that.