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By some miracle, Summer and I pull everything together. She googles poodle moths on her phone (terrifying creatures, like something from the Island of Dr. Moreau), I whip up some chocolate raspberry batter that’s sure to please the pickiest eater on Camille’s team, we get to baking and cooling and icing and spraying gold frosting spray all over the store. By the time Wes has returned, we’re just boxing up the last of the cupcakes. Summer looks dirty, tired, and gold at the edges. I’m sure I don’t look much better. But Wes is smiling broader at me than he ever did on prom night. I guess some things beat even motel room cherry popping--like making your kid happy.
“Camille will love these. Thanks, Jules,” he says. I tell him it’s nothing and usher him from the store.
“I’m going to go home,” Summer says. She doesn’t even offer to help clean up, but then, she never does. “Put on some pajamas, drink some whiskey, have nightmares about those poodle . . . things.”
“Sweet dreams,” I tell her, waving her out. Honestly, I can’t wait for her to leave. It’s not that I mind Summer’s company. She’s sparkling, as always. Tonight, you might even say she glitters. But once I get the store locked up, I can sit back down at my laptop in peace to finish my conversation with cupcakecasanova.
But as she leaves, Mrs. O’Gilligan shuffles in. I wince. I’d almost forgotten our nightly regular. Mrs. O’G is about ninety years old, but she’s not your ordinary old lady. She rides a pink vespa, has a fluffy pink beehive of cotton candy hair, and is never seen without the vintage Hell’s Angel’s jacket that belonged to her old man. And every. Single. Night she stops in to get the same thing.
“I’ll have the Pink Surprise, dear,” she says, waiting patiently in front of the register. I concocted the Pink Surprise just for her. It’s red velvet with pink frosting inside--incredibly rich and incredibly sweet. I guess the sugar doesn’t bother Mrs. O’G. All of her teeth are artificial, anyway.
“Sure thing,” I tell her, sliding off my stool behind the counter to fetch her the last cupcake of the day. I place it carefully in a box and begin stapling it shut. Then I tie my signature black and white checkerboard ribbon around the box.
“Such personal service,” she says. “I’m sure you won’t find that at that new bakeshop down the street.”
My hands go cold as I go to hand Mrs. O’G the cupcake box.
“New bakeshop?”
It’s impossible. I know
everything
that happens in this end of Key West. If there was competition, I would have heard about it.
Or would I? I glance out the window, at the tourists coming and going. Business has been so slow that lately, we’re even bleeding regulars. I haven’t caught half the gossip I usually do.
“Don’t worry, darling,” Mrs. O’G says. She’s confused my dismay for something else. She thinks I’m scared of losing
her
rather than my hard-earned cash. “I’m
very
loyal.”
“Well,” I say, smiling kindly at her as I ring her up. “That’s good to know.”
“Hos before bros. Is that what the kids say?”
My eyes go wide. I wish Summer were here. I can almost hear her dry, sardonic laughter ringing in my head.
“It is.”
“Good night, sweetie,” she says, dropping a few coins into the tip jar.
“Good night!” I call back, and add awkwardly, “Sweetie,” just as the door shuts behind her.
But it’s not a good night. Not at all. I grab my keys and lock up the store, then head out into the perfect, beautiful Key West night, my stomach in knots, eager to scope out my competition.
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TASTY
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