The Cottage on the Corner (15 page)

“That's what Jethro said. He thinks the first mayor of Apple Valley commissioned a local artist to make it for his wife. She wanted a nativity to display in their yard. When she died, Daniel donated it to the church. It's been here ever since.”

“Incredible,” she breathed.

“I agree,” he responded, but he wasn't looking at the carving, he was looking at her.

That was her cue to go, because she kind of liked the way he was looking at her, and she sort of didn't want him to stop.

She made a production of looking at her watch and checking the time. “I need to get going. I have another delivery to make, and I don't want to be late.”

He took her hand as she walked past, pulling her to a stop, his thumb running across the underside of her wrist. “I think you're forgetting something.”

“What's that?”

“Your car is at the bottom of the hill.”

“I didn't forget.”

“Then you forgot that you were nearly frozen from the walk when Zuzu and I found you.”

“The sun is up. It's warmer now.” And she'd be walking downhill, so she wouldn't be dying from overexertion.

“If it's warmer, I can't feel it.” He glanced at Zuzu who was busy trying to crawl into the manger. “Zu! No! You'll break it.”

“Baby Jesus can't break,” Zuzu said, looking like she had every intention of continuing her efforts.

“Sure it can, and even if it couldn't, that's not the point. The manger the baby is in is delicate.” He lifted her, muttering something under his breath as he did so.

“What?” Charlotte asked.

“I said I should have had a couple more coffees. I need all the caffeine I can get to keep up with this one.” He tickled Zuzu's belly and set her on his shoulders. “Come on. Let's get you back to your car.”

“I don't want you to have to rush because of me. Stay and let Zuzu enjoy the nativity.”

“She enjoyed it for about as long as I can take. Besides, I'm working in a couple of hours, and it's freezing out here. It'll be hard to work if I'm frozen solid.” He used one hand to keep Zuzu balanced. His other hand rested on her waist. If anyone saw them together, they'd think they were a couple, heading to the car with their child.

“I'm surprised.” She gave up the fight to walk back to her car and got into the Corvette.

“About what?” He snapped Zuzu into her seat.

“You're a weather wimp. I thought you said that you were used to Inland Northwest cold.”

“I am. I just use my thin blood as an excuse to get women to do what I want.” He grinned as he got behind the wheel. “Where's your next delivery?”

“Town Hall. There's a poetry reading. You know Alma Wilkins?”

“That weird old lady who lives on the corner of Morris and Lambert?”

“She's not weird. She's just . . .”

“Weird.”

“I was going to say shy.” Charlotte had met Alma at a picnic hosted by one of Ida's many clubs. The woman had been a little different, her cat shirt, cat skirt, and cat earrings a bit over the top for a picnic. Charlotte had figured her to be the resident cat lady. Alma had been nice enough though, talking about her pets as if they were family. Charlotte had taken her for a lonely older woman who had either never been married or whose husband had died when he was very young.

It turned out that Alma had been married five times. Six if you counted the fact that she'd married her second husband twice. Alma did, and she seemed quite proud of the accomplishment when she talked about it. That happened almost every time she saw Charlotte.

“Shy? The last time I saw Alma, she described her ingrown toenail surgery in excruciating detail.” Max shuddered as he pulled out of the parking lot.

“She
is
shy, but once she's comfortable around a person, she
does
like to talk.”

“Wish I'd known that before I'd made her comfortable around me.”

“At least she doesn't talk to you about her pets.”

“Let me guess, she has six dozen cats.”

“Try a dozen rats.” Charlotte hated rats almost as much as she hated attics.

Max shook his head. “I'd like to say I'm surprised, but I'm not.”

“She said her first rat was a birthday gift from her second husband. She got rid of the husband and kept the rat.”

“I want a rat!” Zuzu called from the backseat.

“No,” Max responded firmly.

“For my birthday.”

“Pete would eat him.”

“Pete won't eat my rat. He won't!” Zuzu's voice wobbled and Max raked his hand over his hair. “This is what happens when a kid's mother calls at five-thirty in the morning.”

“How did it go?” Charlotte asked quietly, because she really wanted to know.

“About like I expected it would. She called to ask me for money,” he bit out, anger seeping through every word.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry for me. I was over her before she sent me packing.” He glanced in the rearview mirror, and she knew he was looking at Zuzu. She was the one who was missing out. Poor little thing. She loved her mother, but it didn't seem like her mother was quite as attached to her.

“Did she talk to Zuzu?”

“For about thirty seconds.”

“Nice.”

“She isn't. She never was.”

“And yet you were dating her,” she felt obligated to point out.

“I was young and stupid. I wanted a relationship without the commitment that goes with it. Morgan wanted the same.” He shrugged. “You could probably say that we deserved each other.”

“What happened?”

“Now who's the curious one?” He glanced her way, his lips curved in an easy smile. He had nice lips, the bottom just a little fuller than the top. Soft lips, too.

She shouldn't have known that, and she wished she didn't.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, looking away.

“No need to apologize. I don't mind talking about it. Morgan and I were good for each other for a while. Then we weren't. I moved out. She moved on. I thought that was the end of things.”

“But she didn't?”

“I think she did until her husband died. Now she needs someone. I was as good an option as any.”

Poor Zuzu. She'd become a pawn that her mother could use to get what she wanted. It seemed what Morgan wanted was Max. At least, she wanted what Max represented—security, help, support. He pulled up next to her car, and she knew it was time to get out and go on with her day. There was nothing more to say. At least nothing that was going to do Max and Zuzu any good, but she felt bad for both of them, tossed into a situation neither had any responsibility for.

“You're doing a good job, Max,” she said as she got out of the car.

“Being chauffeur?” he responded with a smile.

“Being Zuzu's father.”

His smile fell away. “How about we not talk about that right now?”

She'd touched a nerve.

She hadn't meant to.

Whether or not Zuzu was his, he was doing a good job of caring for her. She should have just said that.

“Sure. No problem. Thanks for your help this morning.”

He nodded, his eyes shadowed, his expression hard. “No problem.”

She wanted to say something else. Maybe tell him that she was sorry for bringing up Zuzu's paternity. Maybe explain that whether or not he was Zuzu's father didn't matter to her.

She kept her mouth shut and closed the door.

Max waited until she was in the station wagon before he drove off. When he was finally gone, she pulled away from the curb and headed back to Main Street. She still had cupcakes to frost for the poetry reading. That should only take fifteen minutes. She'd pack them up, bring them to Town Hall, and head back for the next delivery.

What she would not do was spend another minute thinking about Max and Zuzu. She
would
make that cake though. A giant pink cake for Zuzu's birthday. Every little girl deserved at least one special cake.

She dragged keys from her purse and unlocked the front door, memories of the last time she'd returned to the house making her hesitate on the front porch. If she walked in and the house was freezing, she was walking right back out and calling the police again.

The house was warm. Thank God. She waited near the door anyway, listening to the quiet house. No door slammed. No feet tapped on the attic floor. No one came rushing out of the closet or jumped out from behind the couch. The house felt empty. Just the way it should be.

That never used to bother her, but lately, coming home to no one had become a chore, walking into the silent house a reminder of all the dreams she'd had when she was a kid. She'd planned to do so much better than her mother had. She'd thought for sure she knew just the kind of guy to look for. She'd written it all out in her diary when she was twelve. She still had the thing in a box somewhere, all the attributes of the perfect guy scrawled in pink ink on the inside of the front cover.

Once she got her storefront, she needed to get a puppy to fill the emptiness, because she sure as heck wasn't going to get a man.

Yes, a pet would be nice. Some furry little creature to greet her when she got home from deliveries would make the house seem so much more like a home. Just as long as she didn't decide to add a dozen rats to her life, she'd be just fine.

She shoved her hands into her coat pockets and frowned, pulling out the white feather. It was in remarkably good shape for having been crammed into her pocket for several days. Funny that Gertrude was so superstitious about the thing. An angel's feather that would bring love and good luck?

Charlotte snorted. She didn't believe in luck or love. She believed in hard work.

She found a vase and put the feather in it, then set it on the fireplace mantel. Hopefully that would be enough of a reminder that she needed to return it. If not, Gertrude or Tessa would visit eventually. They'd see it and take it home if they wanted to.

Four and a half dozen cupcakes sat on the kitchen counter. She'd counted carefully. Twice. Because Alma had been specific about the flavors of cupcakes and the number. It had to be exactly fifty-four. Alma's age. Plus one for happiness.

Six of the cupcakes had to be apple spice with no frosting. Charlotte had the strange feeling those six were going to be rat food. It didn't matter to her. As long as she got paid.

She pulled java buttercream frosting from the fridge and let it warm up while she beat together room temperature butter and powdered sugar, added melted semi-sweet chocolate, and beat it all to a light creamy texture.

It looked good. It
smelled
even better.

She filled a pastry bag and got to work, piping chocolate frosting onto half the remaining cupcakes and java onto the other half. She loved the easy rhythm of the work, the quick results. One minute, a dozen cupcakes were bare. The next, they were covered with beautiful swirls of frosting.

If only life were as easy as cooking!

She set the newly frosted cupcakes into a box, careful not to wreck the frosting top. They looked beautiful and delicious. Exactly the way Charlotte wanted them. The spiced pumpkin cupcakes were already frosted, their rich aroma making her stomach growl. She should have made a couple of extra, but she'd been in a hurry to finish baking cupcakes and get on to the next order. She'd made an appointment to do a walk-through with the owner of the storefront she wanted to rent.

Just thinking about it made her happy.

Maybe Nick Simon would be desperate enough to re-rent the building to give her a discount. A hundred dollars less a month, and she'd snatch the storefront up in a heartbeat.

She reached for the last two cupcakes, set them in the box, and blinked. Ten cupcakes. There should have been twelve. She looked at the banana peanut butter Elvis cupcakes, their frosting sprinkled with bacon. No pumpkin mixed in with those. She quickly filled a box with Elvis cupcakes. Or should have filled it. There were only eleven.

“What in the world?!” She checked the fridge, checked the floor, checked everywhere she could think of for the missing cupcakes.

Nothing. Not even a crumb.

“This is so
not
good.”

She was being paid to deliver fifty-four cupcakes. She couldn't walk in with fifty-two. Okay. She'd just have to mix things up a little. She had a variety of cupcakes in the freezer, kept there for last-minute orders and walk-ins. Two or three times a week, someone came looking for a sweet snack, and Charlotte was always happy to make a sale.

She'd have to restock later.

She took a plastic container from the very back of the side-by-side freezer and pulled out three vanilla bean. She didn't pull out the lone double chocolate delight cupcake that she'd mixed in with the rest. She saved those for special friends. Married friends or single friends who had absolutely no ulterior motive for eating or serving someone a double chocolate delight. She set the container on the counter. She'd bake more cupcakes later and refill it before returning it to the freezer.

She frosted the cupcakes quickly, piping on chocolate frosting and setting them in the empty spots in the boxes. If Alma complained, she'd apologize, but she was banking on the woman not paying any attention to anything but the poetry she was reading.

She checked each box, made sure it was filled and that the cupcakes were in good shape, their domed tops and swirled frosting perfect. Everything looked good. Crisis averted, and she could move on, but she couldn't quite shake her unease. She'd been selling cupcakes for nearly two years, and she'd never miscounted an order before.

So how had she come up short on the cupcakes?

She checked the back door. Just to make sure it was locked.

It was.

The front door had been locked, too. Obviously no one had walked into the house and snagged a few cupcakes.