Semi-Sweet (6 page)

“That’s because you have. Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Not much. And the kitchen looks like a bomb hit it.”

“Don’t mind the kitchen—I’ll give you a hand to tidy up this evening. I hope you had some breakfast.”

She shook her head. “Couldn’t—I’d definitely have thrown up.”

Geraldine regarded her daughter with concern. “I should have brought sandwiches. I’ll run out for some in a while. You have
to eat, whether you feel like it or not.”

“I know…maybe later.” Hannah tweaked one of the cupcakes on the display stand. “Does this look okay?”

They sat in individual wire circles that curled upward from the central branch. Each cupcake was skewered with a wooden cocktail
stick to which a brightly colored tag was attached.

“They look great, like a bouquet of flowers. All those lovely colors.”

“I was sure I’d never get them all iced; it took much longer than I thought. Just as well I gave myself plenty of time.” She
darted a glance at the clock on the wall. “God, it’s five to nine already.”

“Which means we have five minutes.” Geraldine disappeared through the door that led to the back. “I’m putting on the kettle,”
she called.

Hannah stared after her. “It’s five to nine.”

“And the place looks great, and it smells wonderful, and we’re all set.” After some splashing and clattering, Geraldine reappeared.
“And you need a cup of tea, whether you want it or not. And so do I.”

Hannah looked out through the plate-glass window. “There’s nobody waiting outside,” she said.

“Why would there be? You’re open all day, aren’t you? People don’t normally have cupcakes for breakfast.”

Hannah pushed a cocktail stick a fraction farther into the top cupcake on the stand. “These labels are too small. I told Adam
they were too small.”

“They are not too small. I can read them fine without my glasses. And I love that writing—it’s so cheery-looking.”

“Font.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s not called writing on a computer, it’s called a font. That one is called Mufferaw. We couldn’t decide for ages between
that and Sybil Green. I wanted Sybil Green, but Adam persuaded me that this one is easier to read—” She broke off. “What?
What are you smiling at?”

Geraldine stepped closer and put her arms around her daughter. “Relax, my darling—it’ll be great. Your cupcakes will be famous
in no time. You’ll have such fun with this, wait and see.”

Hannah nodded against her shoulder. “I know I will.”

But she knew she wouldn’t. She knew she’d made the biggest mistake of her life, taking her grandfather’s money and throwing
it into this liability, this tiny little cubbyhole on a corner that nobody else had been interested in renting. Why hadn’t
somebody stopped her? Why were they all letting her make this colossal, expensive mistake?

Geraldine moved toward the back again. “There’s the kettle now. Are you tea or coffee?”

“Tea.”

She didn’t want tea, she wanted to go home. She glanced up again at the big orange wall clock in the shape of a sun that Alice
and Tom had given her as an opening present. “It’s two minutes to nine,” she called.

“Deep breaths,” Geraldine called back, and Hannah inhaled shakily. She must be the only idiot opening a shop in the middle
of a recession, signing a twelve-month lease when she could be out of business in a week. It wasn’t as if cupcakes were basic
foodstuffs that people would keep on buying no matter how tough times got. They were one of the luxuries everyone was cutting
back on. She shouldn’t have set the prices so high—who on earth was going to pay €1.75 for a bun, no matter how fancy it looked?

“They’re too dear,” she called.

“Nonsense—they’re worth every cent.” Geraldine reappeared with two steaming mugs. “I think we’re all set.” She placed the
mugs on the counter and smiled. “Now darling, why don’t you open your shop for the very first time?”

Hannah walked to the door. She stopped, her hand on the key, and looked back at her mother. “Mam, what if nobody comes in?”

“And what if you open the door,” her mother replied, “so at least they have a choice?”

Hannah smiled and turned the key. “There.” She switched the sign that Adam had printed from
SORRY, FRESH OUT OF CUPCAKES
to
COME IN—YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO
. “We’re officially open,” she said. “I’m officially running my own business.” She paused. “For however long it lasts.”

“You’ll be here for years. You’ll become an institution.” Geraldine blew on her tea. “People will travel from all over for
Hannah Robinson’s cupcakes.”

“I don’t know about that, but I’m here for seven months anyway—Adam made me promise to stick it out till his birthday in August.”

“August? Didn’t you sign a lease for a year?”

“Mm-hmm—don’t remind me.”

They watched the steady stream of pedestrians passing the window.

“Drink your tea,” Geraldine ordered, and Hannah lifted her mug obediently. A minute went by. Geraldine rubbed with her sleeve
at a smudge on the glass-topped counter. Hannah tweaked another label on the cupcake stand, then undid and retied her apron
strings.

“I don’t know about that chair on the wall,” she said. “I’m not sure about it.”

“Just you wait,” Geraldine said. “It’ll be a real talking point.”

It was Granddad’s rocking chair. They’d painted it bright blue to match the sign above the shop, and they’d gotten a man to
hang it on the yellow wall to the left of the counter, since there was no room for it on the floor.

“What if it falls off and kills someone?” Hannah asked.

“Don’t be silly, dear,” her mother answered placidly. “The man said a hurricane wouldn’t knock it off that wall.”

Another minute went by, and another. The orange clock ticked steadily.

“I should have gotten a computerized cash register,” Hannah said. “Nobody uses a drawer for money anymore. It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s quaint, and people will be charmed by it. And the bell over the door, too, lovely and old-fashioned, really characterful.”

“Mmm.” Hannah wondered if there was such a word as “characterful” and decided that she didn’t care.

At eight minutes past nine, a man’s head appeared around the door. “You open?”

“Yes.” A twin chorus.

“Nice bell. Blast from the past.” He spotted the rocking chair on the wall. “Now, that makes a change from a picture.”

Geraldine laughed, catching Hannah’s eye triumphantly. “We wanted to be original.”

“Well, you’re certainly that.” He approached the counter. “I believe it’s your first day.”

“It is—and you’re our very first customer,” Geraldine told him.

“Am I really?” He peered at the cupcakes on the stand. “In that case I’d better buy something. What’s good?”

“Everything,” Geraldine told him, resting her mug on the shelf behind her. “And I’m sure you saw our sign telling you about
our opening offer of a free cupcake with every order, but since you’re the first customer, we’ll give you two free.” She turned
to Hannah. “That okay, love?”

Hannah smiled and nodded, because what on earth else could she do? “That’s fine.”

Two free cupcakes, and he might buy only one. She willed herself to relax. Who cared if he bought only one? It was still her
first sale, wasn’t it? And if he liked the one he bought, not to mention the other two, he’d surely be back for more. And
it wasn’t even ten past nine.

So what if she was so tired she could sleep standing up? So what if she still felt miserable whenever she found the time to
feel anything? She’d just opened her own shop. People didn’t stop eating cupcakes simply because there was a recession. They
still needed treats—in fact, maybe they needed them now more than ever.

The man was studying the samples on the stand. “I’ll take two chocolate, or my wife will never forgive me, and two of those
coconut ones.”

“Good choice—the coconut are my favorite,” Geraldine said, reaching for a yellow box and almost knocking her tea off the shelf.
“My daughter made them all, you know, earlier today. They’re as fresh as they could possibly be.”

“Excellent,” the man replied, pulling a wallet from his jacket. “Tell you what, why don’t you throw in a couple of those lemon-lime,
too? Since it’s your first day. And I’ll leave the free ones up to you.”

Six. He was buying six. Hannah watched as Geraldine arranged his purchases carefully in the box. Maybe it wouldn’t be a complete
disaster. Maybe she’d actually make a small amount of money before her mother bankrupted her.

The horror bloomed on Fiona’s face. “Tell me you’re not serious.”

Leah tightened her grip on her water glass. “Mum, I’d hardly joke about something like that.”

“When?”

“June.”

Her mother closed her eyes briefly. “You’re four months gone.”

“Thereabouts, yes.”

“And…you’re obviously keeping it.”

Leah looked sharply across the table. “Obviously.”

“I assume,” her mother said, “that it’s the newspaperman’s child.”

Leah’s knuckles were white around the glass. “Of course it is.”

Their plates sat between them, the remaining pasta cooling, the sauces just beginning to congeal. Leah’s two twenty-euro notes
were tucked into the bill wallet, waiting to be collected.

“And I suppose he’s delighted,” Fiona said.

Leah met her mother’s eyes steadily. “Yes, of course he is. We both are.”

Fiona’s smile was bitter. “Well, isn’t that nice? A happy couple, and a baby on the way. Just what I always hoped for my only
daughter.”

Leah stood up abruptly, almost knocking over her chair. Forget the fifteen euro in change: nothing was worth this. She grabbed
her bag and pulled her jacket from the chair back. “I have to go now. I hope you enjoyed your lunch.”

She didn’t look behind her as she strode toward the door. Once again she’d let her mother get under her skin. She always swore
it wouldn’t happen, and it always did. It was unfortunate that Fiona played bridge with Hannah’s mother, but it was hardly
the end of the world. Relationships broke up all the time—Geraldine Robinson knew that as well as anyone—but Leah’s mother
was determined to make a song and dance about it.

The pregnancy of course had been a gamble, and Leah had hated lying to Patrick about the Pill not working, but it had paid
off. He was with her now—and he
was
happy about the baby. He kept telling her how happy he was. Nothing her mother could say would change that, and in time she’d
have to come around to the idea of being a grandmother.

Leah walked quickly through Clongarvin’s busy lunchtime streets until she reached the pretty lavender-painted, window-boxed
frontage of Indulgence. She let herself in and leaned against the door, breathing in the subtly scented air, her hands coming
to rest on the stomach that was just beginning to swell.

At ten minutes to five, Hannah untied her yellow apron and hung it on the blue, star-shaped hook behind the counter. She leaned
wearily against the display cases and yawned as her mother counted the unsold cupcakes.

“Twenty-seven,” Geraldine announced. “How many did you say you started with?”

“A hundred and forty-four. My feet are killing me.”

“So that’s…a hundred and seventeen gone on the very first day. That’s just wonderful.”

Hannah smiled tiredly. “Not bad, I suppose.”

Not all sold, some given away—a fair few given away—but still, not bad for her first day in business. People, quite a few
people, had actually come into the shop and paid money for her cupcakes.

Geraldine indicated the leftovers. “What do you want me to do with these?”

“Bag them in assorted sixes and put them in that basket.”

“Six times four is twenty-four; there’ll be three left over.”

“You can bring them home.”

Hannah emptied the money drawer—a few customers had remarked on it, and there had been lots of comments, too, about the chair
on the wall—and bundled the cash into her satchel. Geraldine arranged the bags of leftovers in a green basket that announced,
on another of Adam’s signs, yesterday’s bake—
ALMOST AS NICE, HALF THE PRICE: 6 FOR €5.