Gabe merely lifted a hand in an easy wave and headed toward the front of the building.
Morgan paused at the door to the rehab area, not wanting to intrude just yet. Lilly was singing so softly he couldn’t make out the words, but it sounded soothing and comforting, rather than sad, which, he discovered as he listened, soothed something inside him as well.
The song ended, and he stepped into the room so she could see him. “Hey, sweet pea,” he called out, just loudly enough that she could hear him. “Pizza time.”
She slid off the stool he’d parked her on and said good-bye to Paddlefoot, then said her good-byes to each and every other turtle.
Morgan had long since lost track of the number of tears he’d shed in the past nine months, but at least the moisture gathering in his eyes this time was from happiness. Heal and be healed. He’d seen enough of life, knew enough about himself, to know that would happen for him, eventually. Already, he’d learned Lilly would be a big part of the healing process. Maybe it was going to happen for her, too.
He scooped her up and swung her lightly around. “What do you think about pepperoni?”
“I don’t know,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“What say we go find out?”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Okay.”
Her body was relaxed and more than a little heavy, but he relished every ounce of the weight. They’d had a very big day, and she was understandably tired. For once, it was from a day well spent, doing new and interesting things. There would be more days like this to come, too. It bolstered his confidence that he’d done the right thing, taking her to the turtle hospital.
She was already half dozing as Morgan ducked through the door to cross the lab. He nodded at Gabe, who smiled at him and his sleepy cargo, and nodded in return. He turned his back to duck through the long plastic flaps across the reception door and saw that Gabe had followed them to the front door.
“You know”—Gabe spoke quietly, so as not to disturb Lilly—“you should think about finding out why.”
Morgan paused. “Why what?” he asked, keeping his tone soft.
“Why your last name gave Miss Kit pause.”
“Why does it matter?”
Gabe smiled, his alert focus sharpening his gaze. “Well, since you’re helping with the funding, and possible video editing, and Miss Lilly there might be of some help this winter break when I lose my student interns from the college. . . it’s my guess you’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other.”
“We will?”
“She’ll be back. And often, I’m thinking. Best to clear the air now. It’s important things remain calm around here.”
“I doubt she’d be combative about it. I know it doesn’t matter to me, one way or the other.”
Gabe smiled again. “Maybe it should. Find her and figure things out.”
“How do you propose I do that?”
“It’s a small island. Can’t be too hard.”
“But—”
Gabe folded his arms, and Morgan was reminded that he used to be a college professor.
Heaven help the student who underestimates the kindly old guy.
“You’re a lawyer,” Gabe said. “I hear they’re supposed to be pretty good with words. I’m sure you’ll find some.”
Morgan smiled and shook his head. Cradling his sleeping niece, he crossed the lot to his truck. Intrigued by Gabe’s persistence and his own attraction to Kit, he thought,
Yeah, but will the words I come up with be the right ones?
Chapter 5
F
ive whirlwind days later, Kit found herself knocking once again on the back door to the cupcakery. It was time to meet up with more than just Lani and Baxter, who had indeed, turned out to be swoon-worthy. Big and blond, with charm to spare and a killer accent, he and his wife had been ridiculously adorable together the night Kit had had dinner with them. She only hoped the evening went half as well as that dinner had.
Alva opened the door and motioned Kit in. “Chilly out there. Hurry on inside where it’s warm.”
With the winter season almost upon them, the Indian summer temperatures had dipped unseasonably low the night before and had barely reached fifty that afternoon. For the Georgia coast in November, it was downright frigid.
Kit ducked into the kitchen area and Alva quickly closed the door behind her.
“You changed your hair”—Kit smiled at the older woman—“And here I thought we’d be Team Redhead.”
Alva patted her bonnet of artfully teased and lacquered curls, which weren’t red any longer, but retained quite a pink hue. “It was just a rinse I was trying out. Laura Jo’s been bugging me about it ever since she went red last year. I told her it wasn’t me, but you know she won’t keep quiet until she gets her way. She claims it’s what got the attention of Felipe, her man friend who runs the bait shop. Well, I tried to tell her I didn’t need any such help, but Lord knows she has her own mind about things. Before I knew it, I was in the chair at Cynthia’s place.”
“Well, what matters most is that you feel comfortable with it. People give me a hard time for keeping mine so short, but when you work in a hot kitchen all day, every day—”
“By people, I’m guessing you mean men,” Alva interrupted. “I’ll never understand their unending fascination with long hair. Why, just the other evening, we were watching television and Hank was making a comment about that actress—oh, what’s her name—who went and chopped her hair short for some role she was playing.”
“Is Hank your husband?”
Alva surprised her by blushing six shades of pink—none of them matching her hair—and fluttering her hands over the ever-present pearls at her throat. “Why no, that would be my dear, departed Harold. Love of my life, that man. Hank Shearin runs the grocery at the corner. He’s forever blocking our alley out back with his delivery trucks. A more frustrating man you’d never meet. Annoying you with his bullheaded opinions one minute, charming you right into having dinner the next.”
“Ah,” Kit said, unsure if she should squelch the smile she was feeling. “Well, whatever the fascination they have with long hair, they’ll have to get over it when it comes to me.” She skimmed her palm over the unwieldy tufts of hair poking up on the top of her head and flicked back the ones that constantly fell across her forehead. “I’d shave it, given half the chance.”
“You know, some women do. You might have the head for it. Our Miss Dre does. Have you met her yet?”
“Not yet, but now I’m even more interested in doing so. Completely shaved?”
“Not completely. She still has some in the middle. So, do you have a gentleman friend? A husband?”
“No to both.” Kit smiled in surprise at the question.
Alva smiled right back and patted her arm. “Well, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we, dear?”
Before Kit could get past the sudden choking sensation in her throat to consider formulating a response, Alva was sliding her arm through Kit’s and steering her into the kitchen. She patted Kit’s hand and leaned in to add, “If you do it right, you only need one to fill both positions.”
With no clue how to respond, Kit smiled, feeling a little more nervous about the evening ahead.
Lani walked over to her wearing a chef’s coat with GATEAU stitched over the breast, left over from when she had managed Baxter’s bakery in New York City. Her hair was pulled up in a simple ponytail. “I’d hug you, but I’ve got pastry dough hands.” She wiggled flour-covered fingers. “Come on, let me introduce you to everyone.”
For Kit, the days had been a blur of business talk, contract negotiations, celebrating, and jumping straight into helping assemble a small army of local tradesmen and subcontractors responsible for transforming the tailoring shop into a mail-order catering site. It was overwhelming in many ways, but such a welcome relief from what she’d dealt with for the past year, and had a far more positive end in sight.
However, the evening was social, not business. Usually quite confident in that area, she was coming to realize how decimating the trickle-down effect of utter betrayal could be. Intellectually, she knew only Trixie and Teddy were responsible for what had happened, but she couldn’t help feeling less than confident about her own judgment after being so grossly taken advantage of by the ones she’d trusted the most.
So far, everyone she’d crossed paths with had been quite welcoming, but she had no idea how she’d be received in a social setting or if she was up to reading the subtle nuances that came into play when meeting a group of people who’d already established a tight bond with one another. She knew Lani was hopeful they’d all become fast friends. Kit was just as hopeful. But it was a lot to take in, a lot to tackle—all at once.
“Everyone? Meet Kit Bellamy, new friend, fellow baker, and”—she paused for dramatic effect, much to the detriment of the knot already forming in Kit’s stomach—“our new manager of Babycakes!”
A cheer went up from the small group—which thankfully included Charlotte—and Kit saw nothing but sincere goodwill and joy at the announcement. The knot loosened up . . . and so did she.
She gave a little wave. “Hello, everyone. Thanks for inviting me.”
“Welcome to Cupcake Club,” Charlotte said, beaming with a certain amount of pride.
Whether it was for the club itself or for being the one to bring her into the fold, Kit had no idea, but it was all positive, so she ran with it. “Thanks. I’m happy to be here.”
“Rule number one,” Alva said, stepping forward. “What happens in Cupcake Club—”
“Stays in Cupcake Club!” everyone finished in unison, with the occasional brandished spatula or pastry bag.
Kit grinned. When you had an eighty-four-year-old, five-foot-nothing senior standing in front of you sporting pink hair, pearls, and another pirate apron—Errol Flynn this time—it was pretty much impossible not to. “Got it.” She made a zipping motion across her lips. “Thanks for the warm welcome. It smells incredible in here.”
“It’s my new recipe,” Alva offered, ushering her farther into the room. “With Thanksgiving here in just a few short weeks, I wanted to celebrate the season.” She picked up a cupcake from an industrial-sized cooling rack positioned on one of the rows of worktables. “My very own Sweet Potato Tater Cakes. Have a taste.”
Kit took the proffered cake. “That sounds . . . amazing.”
“Cardamom Cream Cheese frosting. Lani’s recipe,” Alva added.
“Can I?” Kit began peeling off the wrapper.
“Of course!” everyone said, again in unison.
She peeled off half the wrapper and used it as a cup to catch the crumbs as she sank her teeth into the cupcake. “Oh,” she said with her mouth still half full. “Wow.”
Alva beamed with pride. “I’m serving them at my holiday poker party next week.”
Kit took another bite, then thought
did she say
poker
party?
Before she could ask, a tall, muscular, and very swarthy young man approached, took her free hand, and bent over it in a deep, Gallic bow.
“Bonjour.”
His voice was a pleasant, deep rumble. “Pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Kit.” He straightened and smiled. “I am Franco.”
Wow, again,
Kit thought.
Handsome, at home in the kitchen—and French.
The evening was getting better by the second.
“Wait . . . Franco? As in Charlotte’s—” She realized she was speaking out loud and broke off mercifully, before adding “gay best friend.”
God.
Five minutes in the door, and she’d already put her foot in it.
“Partner in crime?” he finished, but with a twinkle in his eye that said he knew what she’d been about to say.
“
Oui, monsieur.
” Kit laughed, recovering more quickly given his good grace. “I’ve heard great things.”
“Of course you have,
mon amie,
” he said, still grinning, “for I am a great chef.”
Kit laughed again, charmed. “I’m not usually so clumsy, sorry. I’m excited and happy to finally meet you.”
“Forget about it,” he said, in his native Bronx accent, which made Kit laugh yet again.
She knew he was a close friend of Charlotte and Lani, going back to their days in New York, and had made the move south the same time as Charlotte. He worked with her and Carlo in their catering business and as an assistant chef on Baxter’s television show. The times Kit and Charlotte had crossed paths at the same catering functions or foodie events, she’d talked a lot about Franco, but Kit had never had the opportunity to meet him.
She wasn’t quite sure she recalled what Charlotte had said about why he’d adopted the whole French persona thing, but, he worked it so well, and was so damn over-the-top charismatic with it, she really didn’t much care.
She turned to Charlotte, who’d woven through the tables to meet up with them. “You didn’t mention how good looking he is.”
“Please stop now or we shall never hear the end of it,” Charlotte instructed, her lovely Indian accent accentuating each word. She glanced at Franco . . . who was preening. Even sporting a Pink Panther apron with Chef Clouseau stitched on the front, he managed to look hot as hell. “Although there really is no stopping him.”
“I’m a force of nature,
ma charmante amie
.”
“
Oui,
” Charlotte said. “Of the Category Five variety.”
They all laughed.
“I love the aprons, by the way,” Kit said.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Lani picked up a flat, folded bag and carried it over to Kit. “Dre made one for you. She’ll be here later. It’s a little different from our usual silliness here, so if it’s not ‘you,’ don’t worry. We just wanted something to celebrate the new business and your arrival.”
“How is our Miss Dre liking her new job?” Alva asked. She’d gone back to her table and was presently swirling cream cheese frosting on the remaining Tater Cakes.
“We haven’t really talked much.” Lani nodded at Kit to open the bag. “She’s only putting in time here on weekends now, and I’m thinking that’s not for much longer—which, totally selfishly stating, is killing me—but I’m thrilled for her. After all those years in school, I’m so happy she found something in her field so soon after graduation.” Lani turned to Kit. “Dre is a graphic artist. She designed all the signage and business cards and what-have-you for Cakes by the Cup. That’s how we initially met. She’s just landed a job with a small marketing firm in Savannah that works mainly with gaming companies, graphic publications, and things like that. Go ahead”—she waved her hands at Kit—“I’m dying to see it.”
“You haven’t seen it?” Kit asked, dusting the flour from Lani’s hands off the bag.
“She said she wanted to do something for Babycakes and to welcome you.”
“That’s so sweet.” Kit was truly touched. “I look forward to meeting her.”
“
Open it!
” the other four shouted in unison, all but bouncing on the balls of their feet.
“Okay, okay,” Kit said, laughing, already feeling at home.
She opened the paper and carefully slid out the folded apron wrapped in tissue. She laid it on the nearest clean work surface and folded back the tissue. Her gasp of surprise and delight was echoed by the rest as they crowded around the table. “Wow. Just . . . wow.”
Kit looked up at Lani, stunned. “She designed this?”
Lani was beaming like a proud parent. “Sure did. She’s brilliant and amazing.”
“And then some.” The apron was a mural, top to bottom, side to side, of a rich, vibrantly colored fairy world, rendered in such elaborate detail it was truly breathtaking. A banner at the top, held up by tiny fairies, read BABYCAKES in beautifully stylized Old English script.
“Oh, look!” Lani said, pointing. “It’s the shop. Wait, it’s all of Sugarberry!”
Lani was right. The apron featured the whole island, transformed into a fantastical fairy world, with cupcakes perched in trees.
“Ha! There we are!” Charlotte pointed at the seven fairies flitting about over the town square with tiny cupcakes in their outstretched hands.
Kit smiled as she figured out some of them. The Alva fairy had perfectly coiffed silver hair and pearls around her neck. Lani’s fairy wings had an elaborate pastry with a heart in the center as part of the diaphanous detail. Charlotte’s fairy also had creative wings, a wedding cake etched on one side. Kit pointed to the red dash on the wings. “Is that a . . . chili pepper?”
Charlotte smiled and her cheeks bloomed with a little color. “Yes. Carlo’s family is Cuban.” She reached out and traced the tiny wings and the heart that was on the tip of one of them.