Honey Pie (Cupcake Club)

chapter 3


Honey 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.

Enough already. Time to talk cupcakes. And lease agreements.

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.

“I suppose that’s your car over at Mr. Dylan’s garage then,” Alva said. “I noticed the Oregon plates,” she added, when Honey looked surprised. “I know Bea hailed from there, way back.”

Very way back. Honey’s mother had loved Juniper Hollow, but her baby sister, Bea, had escaped it as soon as she was able. “Yes. I’m afraid the old car has a few issues. More than a few. I was lucky to have made it all the way here, I guess.”

“Well, it’s seen a few years.”

Honey smiled sincerely. “It was Bea’s. She left it with my mom before heading off on one of her jaunts, and never quite made it back to pick it up. She handed it down to me when I was old enough to drive and I’ve had it ever since. I know it’s seen better days, but I haven’t had much need for a car, and I don’t want to give it up if I don’t have to.” She glanced through the screen door and across the alley, only she wasn’t seeing the VW in her mind’s eye. She was seeing Dylan Ross. Steamy, jean clad, broad shouldered, brooding Dylan Ross. She blinked that image away and turned back to Alva. “I’m afraid the cross-country drive was its final bow, too.”

“Well, I can’t think of a more fitting way to go, but I wouldn’t count her out just yet. If anyone can get your car up and running again, it’s our Mr. Dylan. Looked to me like you brought a fair bit more than your aunt’s ashes with you. Planning on staying a spell?”

Honey was saved from answering that particular probing question, or asking just how Alva knew what Honey had packed in her car, when Lani returned to the kitchen by the back door.

“Does Kit think the new packaging will work well with that size cupcake?” Alva asked her.

“I don’t know, but we’re going to find out,” Lani said, sounding excited. “I see you two have met.” She smiled as she turned to Honey. “But we haven’t, not formally anyway.”

“I’m Honey D’Amourvell.”

“Bea Chantrell’s niece,” Alva offered, ever-so-helpfully.

Lani’s face brightened. “You’re Honey Pie? Oh, Bea told us so many stories.” She reached out quite naturally to take Honey’s hands, and, acting purely on instinct, Honey jerked them behind her back.

Even as Honey’s face flushed in mortification, Lani was laughing. “I washed the frosting carnage off my hands, honest!”

Honey wished she was fast enough to pretend that was her concern, but her cheeks were too pink, her smile too forced. “No, it’s not—I spend my days elbow deep in clay, so I’m the last one to . . .” She trailed off, wondering how in the world this had gone so far off her planned track. The women of Sugarberry—and the men, for that matter—were nothing like the folks back in Juniper Hollow, who were quite happy to let a person be if that’s how the person wanted it. Here, according to Bea, they lived inside each other’s pockets. Honey hadn’t realized how smoothly and swiftly—and happily—they’d work their way into hers.

Alva stepped forward with a very determined look on her face until Honey was forced by the sheer pull of it to look back. “You’ve got it, too, haven’t you?” Alva tilted her head and squinted a little as her sharp gaze probed Honey’s face. “Bea had a knack for knowin’ things.”

Honey swallowed against a suddenly dry throat, and had absolutely no idea what to say to that. If Bea had been telling them stories about her niece, she apparently hadn’t included that little tidbit.

“Bea Chantrell was a toucher, she was,” Alva went on, still looking straight into Honey’s eyes like she could see all her inner workings.

And, maybe she could. It was unnerving, to say the least. Especially since Alva didn’t seem too disturbed by the idea. More . . . inquisitive, hopeful, even, which was a first for Honey. A shocking first.

“She always had a smile,” Alva added, “a pat on the arm, and a way of lettin’ folks know that perhaps they needed to keep an eye on this going on, or that.”

Honey merely nodded, then forced words past the knot in her throat. “She . . . she was, yes. A toucher.” She left it at that.

“You’re not so comfortable with it, though, are you?”

“No, I wasn’t . . . am not.” Honey shook her head, still in complete disbelief they were even having this conversation . . . and that she was the only one who seemed freaked out by it. She’d come into the bakery to talk only about her inheritance. She hadn’t been prepared to deal with her “knack for knowing things” as Alva had called it. She hadn’t been prepared for anything that had happened to her since she’d crossed the causeway. “And neither was anyone else where I came from.”

To Honey’s continued shock and awe, Alva’s face split into a wide smile, and she laughed, delight in her eyes. “Well, Honey Pie, that’ll change here in Sugarberry, you can bet on it. We all came to depend on Bea, and, I’ve a feeling, once folks know about you, they’ll find their way to talking to you as well.”

Honey didn’t know whether to be terrified by the idea, or just—

No, she was terrified.

Lani had been a silent bystander to the conversation, but spoke up now. “Honey, don’t let her talk get you worried. We know how to respect a person’s privacy, the same as anywhere else.”

Alva simply snorted at that, but at Lani’s warning glance, said nothing else. Her expression, however, remained lively . . . and interested.

“What was it you came to talk to me about?” Lani asked Honey. “Why don’t you come back to my office and we’ll sit, have something cold to drink, and chat.”

I’m well down the rabbit hole now, was all Honey could think.

Somehow, she had landed square in her own little Sugarberry Wonderland. Only it didn’t feel all that wonderful. It felt scary, unknown, and completely out of her control.

“Have a cupcake,” Lani called out as she led the way to what Honey assumed was her office, motioning to the rack of richly frosted chocolate cupcakes on one of the metal topped work tables. “New flavor I’m testing. Ginger chocolate fudge. I’d love to get your opinion. I’ll brew us some coffee.”

Not wanting to be rude, Honey picked one up as she followed the leader, then had to bite down a semi-hysterical urge to laugh when she found herself wondering if one bite would make her taller . . . or possibly make her disappear all together. She wasn’t quite sure which one she wished it would be.