How to Eat a Cupcake (24 page)

Chapter 27

Annie

I
can't say exactly why I returned to Treat that night after Julia dropped me off at home. I wish I could hang the impulse on the hook of intuition, but I think it was something more along the lines of run-of-the-mill insomnia that drove me down to the bakery at eleven o'clock at night. Julia had tasked me with developing a new cupcake for her wedding and I'd found myself stumped by the challenge. I wanted to create a cupcake that reflected Julia herself in some way—beautiful and immaculate on the outside, with a flavor profile that was elegant and brave and laced with surprising, but delicate sweetness. I'd been playing with the idea of a classic lemon cake with a hidden heart of wild berry custard, topped with sweet vanilla buttercream, but so far I hadn't been able to get all of the flavors quite right. I could have continued working on the recipe at home, but something—I really can't say what—prompted me to pull on my jacket and walk the long blocks back to Treat.

When I stepped through the cupcakery's door, I sensed immediately that something was wrong. The air, usually warm and sweet, smelled acrid and thin. Distracted, I must have forgotten to turn the deadbolt on the door. I flicked on the light and scanned the shop. Nothing seemed astray: the register gleamed beneath the chandelier and the glass display counter bore a few streaks from the wipe-down Devi had given it earlier that evening.

Then I saw it: a thin, steady plume of dark smoke rising up from the crack below the kitchen door.

Now, I know what I
should
have done at that point. I should have turned right around, walked out onto the sidewalk, and called 911. But the smoke was coming from
my
kitchen. The kitchen that had become my second home. The kitchen that was the very heart of the little shop Julia and I had turned into a successful business. Without giving myself a second to think too deeply about what I was doing, I grabbed a burgundy dish towel from a shelf behind the counter, held it to my mouth, and nudged open the swinging door to the kitchen with my foot.

The smoke in the kitchen was still diaphanous at that point, a dark haze moving through the air in a manner that in any other circumstances I might have described as beautiful. I stepped inside and felt a suffocating blanket of heat drape over me. Across the room, a wide crest of fire lapped at the back wall, eating its way up toward the ceiling faster than I could ever have imagined, coughing out black clouds with each leap upward.

Peering through the thickening smoke, I made out what appeared to be a pile of recipe folders engulfed in flame on top of one of the ranges.
How the hell did they get there?
I reached for the fire extinguisher that usually hung beside the refrigerator and saw that it was gone. My heart began to beat even more furiously in my chest, my mind racing indignantly. I remembered seeing the fire extinguisher there earlier that day—someone must have purposely removed it.
Who would do this?

Enraged, I lowered the dish towel from my face and began to whack it against the flames. I'm not sure how long I stood there, smacking that towel against the wall, determined to stop that fire from devouring my kitchen. Time seemed to slow and then quicken at the same pace as my ever-shifting thoughts. A searing heat pulsed against my face as the fire grew until, exhausted and defeated, I turned back toward the door to the shop and saw that the path had been swallowed up by smoke. My eyes were stinging by then, leaking hot tears that further blinded me. I stumbled toward where I thought the door should be and slammed my foot into the stand mixer. Foot throbbing, I fell to the floor. A strange, itching, tightening sensation clamped down on my throat. Suddenly, I couldn't stop coughing.

And then I felt the hot floor beneath my cheek, and then nothing at all.

I
awoke to find myself lying on a stretcher in an ambulance, a darkly bearded EMT hovering above me.

“You're going to be okay,” the EMT said loudly. He smiled a rueful smile at me—
was he disappointed I wasn't in worse shape?—
revealing a row of small, coffee-stained teeth.

“Okay,” I croaked. My voice was foreign-sounding and muffled by what I discovered was an oxygen mask over my mouth. My head throbbed and my throat and eyes burned, but a quick test of my limbs reassured me that he was right. I was okay.

A dry crescendo of a cough rose from a corner of the car. I lifted my head to peer around the EMT—the movement required a surprising amount of effort—and there, hunched on a seat near the foot of my stretcher, wearing his usual hooded sweatshirt but now an oxygen mask over his face, too, was Our Guy. The Mystery Man. The Stalker. I pressed my head back down against the stretcher, panic and confusion colliding painfully in my already pounding head. My mind raced. I motioned for the EMT to bend down closer to me and pulled the mask from my face.

“That man,” I whispered hoarsely. “What is he doing here?”

The EMT glanced over his shoulder and then looked back at me, his dark eyebrows knotted close together. “He pulled you out,” he said slowly, enunciating each word as though clear diction might help me understand. “He got you out of the fire.”

I closed my aching eyes, but, annoyingly, this motion sent hot tears down my cheeks. The man released another torrential cough behind the EMT. I pulled the mask aside to speak again, but the EMT moved it back over my face. His face was blurred now by my involuntary tears.

“Keep the mask on,” he ordered. “Don't try to talk.”

I shook my head, the motion sending another crackling peal of pain through me, and yanked the mask aside. “No,” I choked. “No! You don't understand. That's him! That's the guy who set the fire!”

The EMT looked back at the man and then at me again, concern spreading over his face. “She's confused,” he murmured, and hearing myself spoken about in the third person only served to confuse me more. His eyes did a quick scan of a machine that I realized was connected to me via a cord clipped to the end my finger. Apparently satisfied by whatever he saw on the screen, the EMT turned his attention back to me, lowering his face close to mine. For a moment, it almost seemed like he was planning to whisper something in my ear, but then he stopped inches from my face. His eyes were strange—slightly yellow and catlike—and he looked tired.

“That man saved you,” he said again, settling the oxygen mask back on my face. “That man,” he said, “is your father.”

Chapter 28

Julia

C
urtis's house was dark when I pulled up. It was a small, detached bungalow with some straggly bushes dotting a mostly paved front yard, stucco walls, and a stark white door that seemed to glow in the inky night.
So this is where Curtis lives
, I thought, a little ashamed to realize I'd never wondered what his home looked like in all the years I'd known him. I parked in the street, crossed the yard, and rang the doorbell. When no one answered, I returned to my car and sat in the front seat, my hands on the wheel. I decided to wait there, figuring he'd most likely be home soon. Somewhere nearby a dog barked sharply, and my hand immediately shot out to lock the car doors. I sank down into the seat and took a few deep breaths.

At some point, despite my unease in the unfamiliar neighborhood, I must have fallen asleep. When I opened my eyes, I was blinded by Curtis's car lights swinging across my face as he pulled into the driveway. I sat up, a sharp crick in my neck adding to my flustered, disoriented haze, and glanced at the clock.
Midnight?
Was it really possible that I'd been asleep for more than an hour? The sound of Curtis's car door shutting was jarring in the still night air. He ambled up to his front door, hands pressed deep in his pockets. Oddly, despite the late hour and my reasons for being there, I felt relieved to see him.

“Curtis!” I called, stepping out of my car. I rubbed at my sore neck with one hand and walked toward him.

He turned, his sunken eyes squinting in my direction. His face fell into a frown as I approached.

“Julia,” he said slowly. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to speak with you about something,” I said.

Curtis glanced beyond my shoulder into the street, and then back at me. “Little late for a chat, isn't it?” he asked. He seemed different here, out of the context of my house and the city I knew. His broad face was shadowed, deep wrinkles cutting into his forehead. It occurred to me that he might have been drinking, and the relief I'd felt at seeing him moments earlier evaporated.
What
am
I doing here?
I wondered. Then I straightened my shoulders, determined to chase the worry from my thoughts.
I'm taking charge
, I told myself.
I'm getting my life back.

“Please,” I said. “Can I come in?” Despite the little pep talk I'd given myself, my voice sounded small.

For a moment, I wasn't sure Curtis was going to answer. Finally, he nodded and turned back toward the front door. I followed him inside the house, down a short, dark hallway, and into the living room. Curtis flicked on the light. The room was cold and sparsely furnished with little more than a small brown sofa and a television on a stand in the corner. It felt like the home of someone who lived a very solitary life. How strange it must have been for him to have spent nearly every day in our spacious, professionally decorated Pacific Heights house, only to come back each night to those tight, sterile quarters.
We live in two very different worlds.

“Have a seat,” he said. “I'm getting a beer. Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks,” I stammered. I perched on the edge of the couch, rubbing my hands on my legs to warm them. “I'm fine.” I'd known Curtis my entire life—why did I suddenly feel like I was talking to a stranger? I swallowed, realizing my mouth was dry. “Maybe some water,” I called after him as he crossed through an arched doorway into the kitchen.

Alone in the room, I looked around. It was only then that I noticed several cardboard boxes beside the couch, including an open one filled nearly to the brim with miscellaneous household things. Was Curtis one of those people that lived out of boxes, never bothering to unpack? He didn't strike me as the type. In our house, he always dressed neatly, if humbly, in tan slacks and neutral-colored sweaters. He filled every request the household threw at him quickly and with an air of silent efficiency. Did you need someone to pick up a visiting friend from the airport in two weeks? You only had to ask Curtis once. Did you request a ride to the gala and then realize you forgot the address? Curtis seemed to always know exactly where you were going and when you wanted to be there, turning through the city streets with quiet confidence, never relying on GPS.

And yet, looking around, it did appear that most of his possessions were crammed into boxes. Glancing behind the sofa, I saw another open container packed full of things wrapped in newspaper. A small black box near the top of the heap drew my eye. My stomach flipped. Before I could stop myself, I was turning and kneeling on the couch. I grabbed the small box, opened it, and found myself staring at my father's Cartier watch.

The sound of Curtis setting a glass of water down on the coffee table made me jump. Spinning around, I looked up at him, my heart racing, the watch still in my hand. Curtis was very close. I'd never realized how big he was, never before thought of him in a remotely menacing light. The air reeked of an acrid smell I could not place.

“This is my father's watch,” I said quietly.

To my relief, he turned and walked back across the room. Folding his large frame into a metal chair by the entry to the kitchen, he took a long swig of his beer, then said, “Yes.” He voice was flat and I had trouble reading it. Was he apologetic? Did he feel ashamed? Embarrassed? Defiant? I couldn't tell. “He gave it to me.”

I looked at him.
What would Annie do in this situation?
I wondered.
What would Lucia have done?
“No, Curtis,” I said, drawing myself taller. “He thought he lost it.”

He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it does!”

Curtis took another long slug of his beer.

“It's been you this whole time, hasn't it?” I asked. “You've been taking my father's things.”

He shrugged again. “Did he miss them? Did not having those fancy things change his life in any way?” I realized I'd been holding out hope that he'd deny everything, or that he'd at least have some plausible explanation for his actions, and my heart now dropped. “Who cares, really?” His lips curled around these words, his face setting into a sneer I'd never seen from him before. I felt as though I'd been slapped.

“I care, Curtis! We all care. We all trusted you. My father has known you for nearly half his life! He considers you one of his best friends.”

“No!” Curtis slammed the side of his fist into his muscular thigh. My cheeks burned and I found myself wishing the unaffected Curtis of a moment earlier would return. “Was he my friend when he told me he wouldn't loan me money fifteen years ago? When I'd gotten myself into a tiny bit of trouble and was about to lose my house? No!” A burst of spittle flew from his mouth. “You know what he gave me? More
hours
. He wanted me to
earn
that money. And he's the boss, isn't he?”

I thought about this, my mind working quickly. My father, for all his conservative fiscal practices, was at heart a very generous person. If he hadn't loaned Curtis money, there must have been good reason.

“I'm sure my dad had your best interests in mind,” I said evenly. It was important not to provoke him, and realizing this only served to make me more anxious. What had I expected to happen when I confronted Curtis? A tearful confession? A promise to be a better person? A renewed allegiance to our family? I was embarrassed by how juvenile my little fantasy seemed now as I sat across from a man who was beginning to show a side I'd never seen in all the years I'd known him.

He snorted. “My best interests? Julia, he's
your
father, not mine. I didn't need his
best interests
, I needed his money. He refused. So I got creative.” In one long gulp, Curtis drained his beer and set it down hard on the floor.

Something about the sight of his large, now empty hands made a lump form in my throat. “Well,” I said. “Everyone will understand.” I stood slowly from the couch, itching to be out of that house and back in my car, speeding home. “We'll figure this out. We all care so much about you.”

“Sit down,” Curtis said quietly.

I froze. “What?”

He didn't repeat himself, just glared at me until I sank back down to the couch. I stared at my lap blindly and worked to think straight. Beside me, my purse held my cell phone. Even as I realized this, Curtis was crossing the room toward me. He grabbed my bag, then turned and settled back in his chair.

“Curtis,” I whispered. “What are you doing?”

He set my bag at his feet and didn't answer.