Sugar Rush (9 page)
And get her to open a new one to their possible future.
Chapter 5
“H
e kissed you.”
e kissed you.”
Lani whisked the egg whites in the copper bowl so hard she was surprised they didn’t turn to instant cement.
“Baxter,” Charlotte stated, just as flat as Lani’s egg whites. “
Our
Baxter.” There was a pause, then, “Wow. That is so much better than a phone call.”
Our
Baxter.” There was a pause, then, “Wow. That is so much better than a phone call.”
Lani scowled at the cell phone she’d propped up on an oven mitt on the worktable. It didn’t have quite the same impact as it would have if Charlotte were actually standing in the kitchen with her.
“So, he just ... kissed you?” Charlotte asked. Again. “Just like that?
Twice?
”
Twice?
”
“Yes. Don’t make me repeat it over and over. I’m having a hard enough time dealing with the whole thing as it is.”
“And this was yesterday, so you waited twenty-four hours to tell me. What kind of friend are you?”
“A friend who has a business to run, which was open all day today during the festival. Throw in last night’s dinner and auction, an early bake start this morning in mad prep, then a crush of out-of-towners who wandered down from the Sea Islands later in the day to check out the festivities and slum with the locals, which wiped out even my refrigerated backstock, and left poor Dre up-front by herself while I baked more cupcakes. There hasn’t been a spare second. I had my best sales day times ten, then went home and face planted for two whole, uninterrupted hours of merciful sleep.”
“Only now you’re not sleeping. You’re baking. And I’m guessing it’s not product for tomorrow.”
“You’d think the sheer madness and constant intensity of it all would have taken my mind off ... things. But I went through the whole day with this sick ball of dread in my stomach, waiting for Baxter to make his big entrance.”
“Did he?” Charlotte asked. “What else haven’t you told me?”
“Nothing. I’ve told you all of it. It’s already bad enough as it is. No, he never showed up.”
“You sound ... disappointed.”
“No. No, that’s not it. Of course I’m not. I’m just ... I’m annoyed that I was stupid enough to let him get to me like that and detract me from a day I was really looking forward to. I honestly thought he’d use the festival to make some big announcement, make his intentions known directly to everyone on the island, about filming his show here. But there wasn’t a single sighting of him. I know he’s not staying on Sugarberry. Everyone would know if that were the case, so he’s probably over the causeway, maybe even staying somewhere in or around Savannah. Or on one of the bigger islands, at one of the resorts. Poor Alva, when he never made an appearance, everyone was starting to think she’d finally lost her marbles, with her claims of having talked to him and setting up a dinner and all.”
“Alva?”
“I’ve mentioned her before. Poker player, renegade octogenarian, resident Betty White?”
“Right,” Charlotte said, clearly not getting the reference. But she’d spent the first twelve years of her life in New Delhi. There were some cultural gaps.
“It doesn’t matter. Except I had to keep vouching for her, which meant everyone is now speculating about me and Baxter. Thank God no one knows about the kiss.”
“Kisses. Plural.”
Lani might have growled a little.
“I’m just stating that it’s only a matter of time before it’s common knowledge, as he’s clearly intent on—”
“Oh, I know what he says his intentions are, and, so far, he’s not shy about exhibiting them. That’s my whole point. I don’t know what his next move is going to be. Where, when. Or what he’s planning to do. And it’s making me neurotic, Char. I know I’m completely wigging about this, but I have to find a way to deal with it. With him. I swear, it’s like ... it’s like ... he looked inside my head and plucked out the worst possible thing he could do to me.”
“I don’t think it’s what’s in your head he plucked at,” Charlotte said, her tone considering now.
“You might be a pro when it comes to mincing chocolate, Char, but with words, not so much.”
“You don’t need me choosing my words carefully or coddling your sensitivities. And I was talking about your heart, not your—”
“Okay, okay.” It didn’t help that that part of Lani’s anatomy had also undergone a reawakening. Every time she thought about him, in fact.
“That’s not what friends are for,” Char went on. “And if you were a friend, you’d use your words, many of them, to tell me exactly what happened. Every last tiny detail.”
“Charlotte—”
“You know, some women, women who’d been mooning over the same man for eons, would think they’d died and gone to heaven when that very man finally noticed them. Not you. You think it’s the worst possible thing. I don’t understand you.”
“You understand me better than anyone walking this earth. You know I don’t believe him. I mean ... come on, Char. Me? All this time, he’s been pining after his all-but-invisible number two? Really?”
“Hardly invisible. He kept you pinned to his side from the moment he met you. Handed his beloved baby over to you. I’d say you’re about as high profile in his eyes as you could be.”
“As a baker.” Lani enunciated each word. “As a chef. Not as a woman.”
“Put the bowl down,” Char responded. “I can hear those whites turning to meringue all the way here in New York.”
“They’re supposed to be.” But Lani clattered the bowl onto the worktable, not sure which she was more annoyed at: the eggs for not needing to be beaten longer and thereby giving her an outlet for her frustration ... or this extended pity party she was throwing, starring herself as the featured guest.
“This isn’t like you, Lan,” Charlotte said, more quietly. “You’re usually the grounded, rational, calm one. It’s my job to be the neurotic, cynical, self-involved one. I’m worried about you. I simply think ...”
When she trailed off, then didn’t continue, Lani pushed back. “Think what? How else could I feel? Just finding out that he knew the whole time how I was being treated ...”
“His explanation made sense,” Charlotte offered, not unkindly.
“I know. It did. And ... he’s right. All things considered, he did the right thing, but he should have talked to me about it. Or I should have with him. But right now, after all that time ... it’s still a lot to take in, to process. I know this whole attitude thing isn’t like me, but I feel ... stuck. I’ve thought about it, a lot.” It was why she was in her kitchen after her biggest business day ever, whipping up a pavlova roulade, when she should be happily falling asleep, with the lovely sound of
ka-ching
of her antique register still echoing in her ears.
ka-ching
of her antique register still echoing in her ears.
“And?” Charlotte prodded.
After a short moment, Lani just spilled it all out, hoping Charlotte could help her make sense of her feelings. “I think—no, I know—I was never wholly myself with Baxter. He even commented on being surprised that I had a dry sense of humor today.”
“In a bad way?”
“No, in a good way. But that’s missing the point.”
“So you say.”
“My apron collection, that surprised him, too. He doesn’t really know me, Char, that’s what I’m getting at. I was only the chef part of myself with him. That meant I had to keep the foolish swooning girl with the crush locked away in the privacy of my own head, and, along with that, I kept a lot of the rest of myself locked away as well. I was never fully me. Certainly not with the staff, and not with him, either. When I came here, I think that’s why I was so relieved. Here, I
can
just be me. Totally and utterly, without having to think or worry about ... anything. Here, I am simply cupcake baker, daughter, island denizen, shopkeeper. And you have no idea how lovely, how heavenly, that has been.”
can
just be me. Totally and utterly, without having to think or worry about ... anything. Here, I am simply cupcake baker, daughter, island denizen, shopkeeper. And you have no idea how lovely, how heavenly, that has been.”
Charlotte said nothing.
So Lani continued. “Then I read that stupid article yesterday morning, and my safe little haven wasn’t safe anymore. Certainly everything that has happened since then has only made it worse. Far, far, worse, than even I could have imagined.”
“I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn about this,” Charlotte finally said.
Lani might have choked a little. “Stubborn?”
“About believing he really can feel what he feels for you. I mean, yes, it’s inconvenient in some ways, but it’s also kind of ... exciting.”
“Like watching a train wreck is exciting, maybe. Are you not hearing me?”
“I’m hearing you say you don’t believe he knows you. Maybe not all of you, but enough to know that he wants to learn more. You might have only been a chef with him, but, Lan, a chef isn’t just
what
you are, it’s a big part of
who
you are. Possibly the biggest part. So, I think you need to have a little more faith. In Baxter—who, as far as I know, is not a manipulator or a liar—and in yourself. You two were perfect together.”
what
you are, it’s a big part of
who
you are. Possibly the biggest part. So, I think you need to have a little more faith. In Baxter—who, as far as I know, is not a manipulator or a liar—and in yourself. You two were perfect together.”
Baxter’s words about her all but calling him a liar echoed through her mind. “In the kitchen, as chefs, yes, we were in sync. But did you know I honestly thought he’d have respected me more as a chef if I were a man?”
“
What?
Since when?”
What?
Since when?”
“I mean, I do know he respected me, obviously, but you and I have bitched many, many times about the gender bias we face in this industry, even as pastry chefs. Not that he ever said such a thing, but there was always this kind of vibe—under the surface—that he respected me despite my gender.”
“You two were like a well-oiled machine from Day One. You were Yin to his Yang. And, if you ask me, vice versa. You made each other better. It wasn’t just you who benefited from the Master-Grasshopper relationship. Why do you think your co-workers were so insanely jealous?”
“It was there, Charlotte. And how is it you can make an arcane character reference from
Kung Fu
, but have no idea who Betty White is?”
Kung Fu
, but have no idea who Betty White is?”
“I haven’t the vaguest clue. Except I used to have a thing for David Carradine. He was hot, in this inscrutable, mysterious, sensitive but entirely alpha kind of way. I used to watch reruns of the show in New Delhi and want him for my very own. But, even if we go with your gender bias theory”—her tone made it clear what kind of stock she was putting in Lani’s supposition—“did you ever stop to think maybe the thread of ... whatever it was, the hint of disquiet you detected, was because of the very reason he stated?”
The sudden loud buzz of Charlotte’s Kitchen Aid mixer blasted through the phone, making Lani flinch. It also, conveniently, kept her from being able to respond.
When it abruptly shut off again, Charlotte continued without giving her a chance to speak. “Your being a woman did disquiet him ... but, if you ask me, it had nothing to do with gender bias.”
Charlotte’s mixer went back on, and stayed on, forcing Lani to think about what her closest friend had just said. Grumbling, Lani bumped the sound down on the phone and picked up the copper bowl and whisked in the sugar, one scoop at a time, until it thickened. She set it down and went to get the bowl of coffee and corn flour she’d whisked together earlier. The scent of the ground coffee made her crave a cup. She glanced at the clock. Ten-thirty. Definitely past a good little baker’s bedtime. And it was going to be another very early morning.
Even after baking that afternoon while Dre covered the counter, she’d been left with very few cupcakes to refrigerate overnight, as she routinely did, selling them as day olds the next day, for a reduced price. She still had fresh frozen extra batches of unfrosted cupcakes, her base vanilla bean cake and semi-sweet chocolate, which she’d thaw, then pipe fresh frosting on in the morning. Even with those she’d still be behind with her freshly baked trademark flavors, no matter how early a start she got. She’d whipped up some of those frostings this evening, but everything else would have to be made fresh from scratch in the morning.
She should be in bed, sleeping. Not standing in the shop kitchen, experimenting with a pavlova roulade she didn’t need and couldn’t sell. But therapy was therapy, and she needed that, too.
Of course, she could be baking in her own little galley kitchen, where she’d at least have a bed close by. But her place hadn’t become home yet. It didn’t feel ... therapeutic, or haven-like. Yet. She spent all her time in the shop, happiest in the absolute haven of her first, very own professional kitchen ... so she hadn’t quite gotten around to doing much more than shoving in the stuff she’d shipped down from her tiny apartment in New York. It had hardly made a dent in her far more spacious, though still small, island cottage. At some point she needed to work on that, but beyond wondering how she could make the sandy soil into a vegetable garden the next spring, she hadn’t really given much thought to what she wanted to do. Most of her thoughts and all of her energy were spent on baking and developing her business.
Besides, this feels like home
, she thought. Kitchens always had for her. Her earliest memories involved helping her mom make dinner in the little kitchen in their row house in D.C., and baking with her Grandma Winnie in her big country kitchen in Savannah. Growing up, kitchens were always warm, lively, happy environments, filled with the most heavenly scents, some of which she’d helped create with her very own hands. She’d loved everything about cooking, about baking, especially for others. The fulfillment, the innate joy of making something that brought such pleasure to those she loved had only deepened as time went on.
, she thought. Kitchens always had for her. Her earliest memories involved helping her mom make dinner in the little kitchen in their row house in D.C., and baking with her Grandma Winnie in her big country kitchen in Savannah. Growing up, kitchens were always warm, lively, happy environments, filled with the most heavenly scents, some of which she’d helped create with her very own hands. She’d loved everything about cooking, about baking, especially for others. The fulfillment, the innate joy of making something that brought such pleasure to those she loved had only deepened as time went on.
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