Sugar Rush (10 page)
Lani smiled at the memories, knowing those were the kind of memories she wanted to make here, even as the thought of it made the ache in her heart bloom as she missed her mom all over again. Her mother would have loved Cakes By The Cup. Lani would have given anything to be able to bake with her right here. Grandma Winnie, too.
Char’s mixer abruptly stopped buzzing, jerking Lani from her thoughts. “So,” Charlotte said, “can’t you see that I might be right? I think he’s had feelings all along. Why not give him a chance to prove to you he means what he says? You’re understandably wary, but as you have that going in, you’ll be careful enough.”
Lani put the copper bowl down and leaned her hip against the stainless steel worktable. “And then what, Charlotte? What am I supposed to do? Have some sort of—fling—with him? I can’t do that.”
“Why on earth not? Last I checked you were both single, available, and now it seems, apparently willing. What’s to stop you?”
“The part of me he’s plucking at that’s not my head. The part that will get hurt.”
There was a pause and Lani braced for the mixer sound. Only it didn’t come.
“Right,” Charlotte said, at length. “You might have a point there.” The sound of a knife, rapidly cutting on a board came through the phone. “So ... it’s still that strong for you, is it?”
Lani didn’t answer. She was feeling foolish enough.
“When you saw him,” Charlotte asked, “right at the first, when you turned and saw him standing in your kitchen, your initial reaction ... what was it? That ball of dread? Or ... ?”
“Or,” Lani answered, then sighed.
“Oh, dear.”
“Why do you think I left New York? I mean, not entirely. I came here for my dad, but Char, we both know I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a big part of it.”
“You didn’t even see him much, once he started his television show.”
“Exactly. And nothing changed for me, nothing abated. It was like I couldn’t have a life because I was too busy being stupid pining girl. Just running his kitchen was being too close. If I wanted any chance at moving forward with my life, my personal life, then I knew I had to get out of there. But I didn’t. Couldn’t.”
“But you didn’t have to give up your professional life, too. Why not another kitchen in the city? You could just about name your place with Gateau on your résumé.”
“Because of the other part. My dad. I know you don’t understand, Charlotte, not entirely, and you know how much I appreciate you supporting me anyway.” Charlotte wasn’t close to her parents, both of whom still lived in India and whom Lani had never met. But she knew from being with Charlotte during times when she’d been dealing with them that their cold, austere, judgmental attitudes made any real closeness all but impossible.
Thinking about her own father, Lani let out a half laugh that wasn’t much of a laugh at all. “Actually, you’re not alone. I found out yesterday morning that my dad doesn’t really understand, either. But it’s not just about me wanting to be here for him, with him. It was discovering that what made me happy and fulfilled was family, but also a sense of community, of putting down roots in a place that matters to me, that I can care about and will care back. About me. New York doesn’t care whether I’m there or not.”
“I care.”
Lani sighed. “I know you do. I miss you and Franco like crazy. Leaving you was the only real sacrifice I made, but that says something all by itself, doesn’t it? I don’t miss the city. I don’t miss the grind. I don’t miss anything but the two of you. Now that I’m here, I can honestly say I know I wasn’t meant for the intensity, the pressure of that lifestyle, that career. I thought it was what I wanted, what I had to reach for, to be the best I could be. I got all the education I could have dreamed of. And more. But this is where I really fit in. I love it here. The pace, the people. I feel like I’ve come home. And yes, running my own place has its own kind of insane pressure, because I don’t know what I’m doing and I don’t want to screw it up, but, Charlotte, I’m absolutely certain this is what I want to do with my life.”
“I know,” she said, unable to keep from sounding somewhat forlorn despite being supportive.
“So, I really and truly felt like I’d finally moved on,” Lani explained. “In all ways. And then ... and then, Baxter just strolls in and announces he wants to give me the one thing I thought I’d wanted above all else? I can’t risk allowing myself even a nibble of that, Char, can you understand? I mean, then what? If it doesn’t work out, then he’s forever left his imprint on this island, my place, my haven. That sucks. Sugarberry was supposed to forever be a Baxter-free zone.”
“But what if it did work out?” Charlotte asked, though in a far more thoughtful tone than before. “Will you be okay if you never find out what might have been? Have you thought about that?”
“That’s just it. It’s almost all I have thought about. Since he walked out of my shop yesterday—for the second time—I haven’t been able to string two thoughts together without him popping up between them. That’s why I dreaded him showing up again. I didn’t—don’t—have an answer for him. Or for myself. Not one that makes it all better, anyway. I mean ... the way he looked at me, and said the things he said, the way he kissed me ...” She trailed off, then pressed a fist against the little tug she felt on her heart. “What if I do go after him, Char, and ... and it works for us ... then what? I’m not going back to New York, to run his kitchen or open my own there. He’s hardly going to relocate his television show to Sugarberry full time, much less open his own place down here, or even try to run Gateau from here. So, what kind of future would we have? Some kind of long distance deal?”
Charlotte said nothing. Because, Lani well knew, there was nothing to say.
“So, it’s just ... it feels cruel to me,” Lani said. “You know? Him coming here, dangling this dream I’d let go of in front of me. Why couldn’t he just stay in New York, and let me move on?”
There was a knock on the back door, which had Lani whirling around, clattering the empty sugar bowl to the floor. “Jesus, what is up with people scaring the crap out of me lately?”
“Lani?” Charlotte called. “What happened?”
“Someone’s at the delivery door. It’s after ten-thirty at night.”
“Don’t open it! Grab a rolling pin! Get your taser!”
Lani smiled as she put the bowl in the sink, wiped her hands, and walked to the back door. “I’m not in New York any more, Char. I hardly think it’s someone come to kill me.”
Just to break my heart
, she thought, girding herself for whatever was about to happen. Or, more to the point, whoever. At least he hadn’t just strolled in. Of course, the door was locked.
Just to break my heart
, she thought, girding herself for whatever was about to happen. Or, more to the point, whoever. At least he hadn’t just strolled in. Of course, the door was locked.
But when she peeked through the curtains ... it was Alva Liles standing on the other side of the door. Not Baxter. Lani quickly flipped the dead bolt, undid the lock, and opened the door, leaving the screen door between them. It was early October, but the night air was still quite warm as Indian summer lingered. And lingered. “Is everything okay?” Lani asked, not able to fathom what would bring the older woman to her back door at such an hour.
“I saw your light on in the back. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion this late at night. Would it be okay if I came in? It will only take a moment.”
“Uh, sure, of course.” Alva stepped back so Lani could open the screen door, then moved around and stepped inside.
Lani had to bite down on a smile when she saw what Alva was wearing. It was a teal velour track suit with white piping on the jacket and down the sides of the legs, matching the bright white of the track shoes on her feet. Her hair and makeup were still first-thing-in-the-morning perfect. Only Alva. Lani had learned early on from Grandma Winnie that southern women never left the house without eyebrows properly penciled, lipstick applied, and cheeks rouged to rosy perfection. Since Lani had never even seen Alva in pants, she wouldn’t have thought the senior owned such a casual outfit. Much less that she would be seen in it in public.
“Lan?” Charlotte called out. “Is everything okay?”
“Oh.” Lani dashed back to the phone. “I’m sorry, Char, it’s ... a neighbor.”
“Not—”
“It’s Alva, it’s fine.” Lani cut her off, shooting Alva a quick smile. She scooped up the phone and flipped it off speaker. “I just—I need to let you go.”
“Okay,” Charlotte said. “We’ll talk tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is the town picnic and softball game.”
“I thought the festival was today?”
“It was. The picnic and softball game is a thing they do every Sunday afternoon, at least until we turn the clocks forward next month. Then it’s touch football and a bonfire.”
“How ... quaint.”
Lani laughed. “You’re such a snob.”
“I know. My parents would be so proud.”
Only because the topic of Charlotte’s parents and her rigid upbringing had long since been beaten to death in previous baking therapy sessions was it okay for Lani to laugh—which she did. “If they could only see you now.”
“Right,” Charlotte said. “Baking late night red velvet therapy cakes in my no-bedroom studio walk up over Mr. Lu’s carryout.”
“And to think, they wanted you to be a heart surgeon.”
“The mind boggles. I can’t imagine why I’d rather spend my nights elbow deep in red gel paste and shaved chocolate, instead of in red blood inside a cracked open, shaved chest.”
Lani made a gagging noise. “Yuck.”
“My sentiments exactly. I’m in charge of a small evening cocktail and dessert event tomorrow, so I’ll be in by ten for prep. Call me.” Charlotte paused. “I want to know how things are going. Don’t torture me.”
“I won’t. I’ll call. Promise.”
“Love.”
“Me, too.” Lani hung up and turned back to Alva with a true smile. “So ... what’s up?”
“I’m so sorry. I’ve clearly interrupted.” She looked past Lani to the worktable. “You’re working on something else special for us, aren’t you? I shouldn’t have intruded on your work time—”
“No, no, this is just”—Lani realized she couldn’t explain baking therapy, so she smiled—“experimenting. It’s how I come up with new ideas.” It wasn’t entirely untrue, just not exactly the case that evening.
“Oh. Well, then!” The worry left Alva’s face, and a bit of that gleam returned to her eyes. She stepped to the table to take a closer look. “How exciting.” She sounded entirely sincere. “It must be fun to work with new ideas.” She turned and beamed up at Lani. “When my Harold was alive, I used to try out new recipes on him all the time. Bless his heart, he never said an unkind word. And there were some duds in there, let me tell you.”
Lani’s smile deepened. “Cooking for people you love is always the best.”
Alva nodded in agreement and went back to examining the table. “Don’t let me keep you from your work. I can talk while you do whatever it is you’re doing.”
From behind Alva, Lani sighed a little, but kept her smile.
“What is it, exactly, you’re making, dear?” Alva asked.
Lani stepped back over to the worktable. “It’s a mango passion fruit with coffee meringue roulade. Sort of like a pavlova, in a roll.”
“Well, my goodness, that sounds exotic. Like something you’d have on a cruise ship. Harold and I took a cruise once. To Bermuda. Made the poor man sick as a dog. I don’t think I’ve ever seen skin turn that particular shade of green.” She stopped and glanced up at Lani again. “Perhaps not the best story to discuss while baking.”
Lani’s smile warmed. Alva was just so ... Alva. “Why don’t you tell me why you stopped by?” Lani picked up the copper bowl and looked at the meringue mixture of whipped egg whites and sugar and saw that it had begun to break down, so she gave it a quick whip, then went ahead and folded in the corn flour and coffee she’d whisked together earlier.
“Well, dear, I need a word with you, and I don’t want the whole town to know about it. I stopped by your place, but it was dark as a crypt, so I came by here and saw the light. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind. It’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”
“No, that’s fine.” Lani began spreading the meringue in a thin, continuous layer on the baking parchment she’d layered into the prepared Swiss roll pans. It would set up okay. Besides, it wasn’t like she was serving it to anyone.
“Here,” Alva said, stepping around to the same side of the table. “I can do that for you. Then you can get to the next step.”
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
“Dear, I’ve been making fruit rolls since your mama was a little girl. I can spread a meringue.”
Lani handed her the spatula. “It should make four. When they’re spread, layer these evenly over the tops.” She handed Alva a bowl of pistachios sliced lengthways.
“Oh, that’s going to be almost indecently delicious.”
Alva went to work as Lani nodded. What she was going to do with four fruit rolls, as Alva called them, she had no idea, but it wasn’t in her to just make one of something. Bakers baked. And, tonight, she’d needed the distraction.
She glanced at Alva, intently spreading away, tongue tucked in the corner of her cheek, and smiled at herself. Okay, maybe not this much of a distraction. It definitely wasn’t like having Charlotte in the kitchen for a late night bitch-and-bake session, but ... it wasn’t so bad. Not so bad at all, really. And maybe Alva would take one of the roulades with her. Or two. “Let me get you an apron.”
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