“You shouldn’t have to.” Her father sounded a lot more like the grumbling, hardnosed cop he usually was. “Sure, he taught you what he knew, but then he dumped all the responsibility on you and took off for fame and fortune. You stayed behind, in a hostile work environment, and ran that place and made it sparkle. Then, when it was your turn, you left to start your own place. I’d say, at the very least, that makes the two of you even.”
“I agree, Dad, which is why I’ll handle ... whatever it is he’s coming here to do.” In the odd mood her dad was in, it was definitely not the time to reveal she’d already seen Baxter. And definitely not the time to tell him about the kiss. Not that she ever planned to tell him about that part.
“Do you know why he’s here?” her dad asked. “Have you spoken with him?”
“No, I don’t know,” she said, quite honestly, opting to dance around the other question. “I talked to Char and Franco this morning already, and though there’s a chance Baxter will mention it during a series of talk show spots this coming week to promote the current season, no word has leaked out in New York, or from Baxter’s production company or television network as yet. All I know is what was in our paper this morning—that he’s coming here to use Sugarberry as a remote location to shoot a week’s worth of episodes for his show.” She lifted a shoulder. “Maybe that’s all it is. Part of some sweeps or ratings stunt.” She wished she believed that.
Her father’s expression said he thought there was as much a chance of that being the case as she did.
Before he saw something in her face that gave anything else away, she stepped around the end of the table. “I don’t want you to do anything to complicate matters further.” She kissed him on the forehead, surprising them both into silence. “But I really appreciate that you want to.” Tears threatened suddenly again, and she knew she had to end this little chat before it became even more awkward. “I’ll deal with Baxter Dunne.”
“I’ve no doubt that you will. You’re a sweetheart, and everybody loves you for it, but I know your mom and I didn’t raise you to be a pushover.” He scooted the stool back and stood. “It’s just ... you shouldn’t have to deal with him again, Lei-lei. Not if you don’t want to. That’s all I’m saying. You shouldn’t have to.”
He didn’t call her that very often. She’d been named for him, after a fashion, anyway. He’d wanted a son, a namesake, but her mother had had such a difficult delivery, they both knew their daughter would be their only child. Her mom had honored him the best way she knew how. He’d shortened her name, calling her Lei-lei when she was little. But the more traditional Lani was the nickname for Leilani that eventually stuck. So, being stubborn, as he certainly could be, he’d called her by her full name. It was a rare occasion when his old pet name for her popped out.
It had been awhile. Since her mother’s funeral, in fact. It took her a second to regroup, and speak past the lump in her throat. “I’ve dealt with worse, Dad.” She immediately wished she’d thought that comment through a little better. She hadn’t intended to invoke the memory of her mother’s death, which had been by far the most difficult thing either one of them had ever dealt with, far worse than any nightmare work scenario Baxter could have inadvertently gotten her into. Her dad spoke of her mother often, in that way some people did, as if she was still there. It was just ... easier. Talking about her death, the impact of it, the gaping hole it had left in their lives, was still a hard thing for him. A very hard thing.
She winced when she saw him duck his gaze, then realized there was one other thing that could hurt him. She laid a hand on his arm, a gesture that would ordinarily be a little too touchy-feely for him, but, at the moment, felt natural. “I might have come down to Georgia for you,” she told him steadily, having long since figured out being direct with her father was the only way to really get through to him. “But I stayed here for me.”
“Leilani—”
“Dad, I’m fine. We’re fine.” She squeezed his arm once, then let go. “Now go keep the citizenry safe. I need to make these cupcakes fabulous, so they can bring me business after they’re auctioned off.” She smiled. “Then I can become ridiculously successful, and make Baxter regret not being a little more sensitive to the people who worked for him, right?” She wanted to lighten the mood, get them back on familiar footing.
But when she glanced up at him, instead of the impenetrable look he normally wore, she saw ... honestly, she wasn’t quite sure what she saw there. It wasn’t an expression she could recall ever seeing before.
“You’re already ridiculously successful,” he said, almost angrily. “And I haven’t met the man, but I know that Baxter Dunne is an ass for letting his best business asset get away, and a blind fool idiot for not seeing you’re best thing that ever happened to him.”
Lani stood there, mouth agape, then finally pulled it together and responded to the one part—the only part—she could. “Dad, I don’t want to work for Baxter again. And I don’t want to go back to New York. Or anywhere else. I love my shop. I love Sugarberry. I want to be here. I want to do this.” She saw the stubborn set to his jaw, and her heart broke a little. “Is that what this is all about?” She swallowed hard against tears that sprang forth again, but for entirely different reasons. “Are you ... embarrassed? By my decision to run my own place here on the island instead of running Gateau?”
She’d worried about making her father understand that she’d wanted to stay for her own reasons, not because she thought he needed her help. He was stubborn and had too much pride for his own good. It had never once occurred to her that he might not actually support her choice because he thought it was beneath her.
“I’ve never been anything but proud of you,” he said, his tone still rough. “But you used to cater UN functions and visiting dignitaries from all over. Your desserts have been served to some of the most important people in the world. Are you really expecting me to believe you’re satisfied with feeding cupcakes to a bunch of—”
“Hardworking men and women who support their community and do what they can to improve the lives of those around them?” She set the pastry bag down before she squeezed it so hard it exploded. She didn’t know if she was more pissed off, or crushed. She did know she was shaking. “Yes, Dad. Yes, I am. I like working for myself. Correction, I love working for myself. And, even better, I like making people happy with my food. People I know. People I will see more than once in a lifetime. People who matter. People who care about me, too. Really care.” She knew, deep down, he wasn’t trying to insult her or hurt her feelings, that he wanted what was best for his only child. But it was hard—very hard—to hear that he apparently thought she’d taken a step down by moving here, by opening her own place.
Impulsively, she scooted around the end of the table again, and hugged him—hard—then bussed him on the cheek. “I’m happy here, Dad. More fulfilled than I’ve ever been, personally and professionally. And that’s the God’s honest truth. I know you may not understand that, and of course, I want you to be proud of me, but I mostly want you to stop worrying about me.”
“I am proud of you, babycakes.” He shocked her again by hugging her back. Hard. That bear hug she’d wanted so badly. It was as good as she remembered it to be. Better. “As for not worrying ... I’ll do that,” he said, gruffly, “just as soon as you stop worrying about me.” He let her go, then leaned past her and snagged another cupcake before she could gather her wits. He saluted her with it, then walked out through the front. “I’ll lock it,” he called, not sounding particularly angry anymore. Or particularly settled, either. She didn’t know how he was feeling, actually.
“Join the club,” she muttered.
She’d been worrying about telling him about Baxter, and what that conversation would lead to. Now she had a whole new slate of things to think about, worry about.
She turned and looked at the worktables filled with silver cooling racks, relieved beyond measure that she had over a hundred cupcakes to pipe frosting onto.
That, at least, she understood.
A whole seven hours went by before she had to deal with the matter of Baxter Dunne again. She wasn’t any clearer on how she intended to deal with the matter, much less him personally, than she’d been at six-thirty that morning. She hadn’t seen him since he’d walked out her delivery door, had no idea where he was staying, or what he was doing, or who else might be on the island with him, in terms of a production team.
She’d opened her shop on time at nine. Her special blend coffee was percolating and ready for serving, along with her warm-from-the-oven streusel-topped cupcakes—both popular items with her growing group of steady morning customers—and proceeded to jump every time the chimes on the door jingled. She’d been half expecting to look up into Baxter’s smiling eyes again. When it wasn’t him—which it hadn’t been, yet—she’d waited for the inevitable gushing, excited, eyewitness story from each and every customer, telling her all about how they’d spotted him somewhere in town, or on the island.
There had been plenty of buzz about the television show coming to town based on the story in the morning paper, which had worked some of her customers into a veritable fever pitch of anticipation over the arrival of the show’s star host. She was pretty sure she’d sold several dozen cupcakes, all before noon, just because her customers had been hoping to pump Baxter’s former employee for what she might know about his possible whereabouts and details about the show. To their great dismay, she’d been an utter disappointment in both departments. She hoped the cupcakes made up for it a little bit.
It was after two in the afternoon, and there had been nary a single Chef Hot Cakes sighting. On an island the size of Sugarberry, if he’d been seen by anyone, anywhere, every last man, woman, and pelican would know about it within five minutes. She’d even shamelessly debated on the relative merits of leaving the shop in the hands of her part-time helper, Dre, and going home to hide out until he surfaced—somewhere, anywhere—but had decided she was a better woman than that. Well, that, and Dre hadn’t been in her employ for a full week as yet. Still, she’d like to think she’d stuck it out because she was strong, independent, and didn’t really give a good ganache where Baxter was or what he was doing.
So ... where is he? What is he doing?
And how was it no one knew he was already here but her?
She’d almost talked herself into believing the entire episode had been some sort of stress-fueled hallucination, or a waking dream of some kind. Considering the way she’d all but yelled at him ... after which he’d kissed her—kissed her!—that was almost the more sensible, rational explanation.
Then Alva Liles rushed into Cakes By The Cup just as Patty Finch, the local librarian, and her nine-year-old daughter, Daisy, were leaving ... and Lani’s tidy little it-was-all-a-dream rationale went straight in the Dumpster.
“Afternoon, Patricia, Miss Daisy.” Alva smiled as they held the door for her. “Why, Lani May, there you are!” The petite senior bustled—which was the perfect description for how Alva Liles moved—straight up to the counter. She was also the very definition of
all aflutter
.
It made Lani’s heart sink. And her gut clutch.
Here it comes,
she thought, and braced herself. Of course, it was going to be Alva. She should have guessed. “Yes, Miss Alva, here I am.” Lani refrained from pointing out it was unlikely, during business hours, that she’d be anywhere else. Or that her middle name was Marie, not May. She’d learned it was apparently an affectionate Southern thing, then remembered Charlotte’s Indian-inflected version of a Southern twang as she’d repeated the name several times after Lani had shared it with her. Lani’s smile came more naturally, then.
“I’m sure you read this morning’s paper,” Alva said, her perfectly coiffed white-blond curls all but vibrating around her head like a miniature beehive. Everything about Alva Liles was in miniature, from her height, to her frame, to the itty bitty silver rimmed bifocals perched on the end of her perfect, tiny nose. She was, in a word, adorable. Sugarberry’s answer to Betty White.
Normally, Alva was one of Lani’s favorite customers and Lani always enjoyed seeing her come through the door. Normally. Alva had the best stories, yet somehow managed to sound like she truly cared, and cared deeply, about each and every person on the island ... as she threw them directly under the gossip bus. Lani loved her.
Normally.
She had a feeling, however, that the gossip bus was going to be aimed straight at her.
“I got a glimpse of it,” Lani replied. “I was up early working on a few special flavors I’m featuring during the fall festival tomorrow.” Hoping to distract and redirect, she leaned on the counter, inviting Alva to step in closer. “I have one available for limited taste testing. A new take on Boston Creme. The filling has a bit more of a kick and I think the new chocolate glaze is something special.”
“I’m certain you outdid yourself,” Alva said sincerely, “but then I’d expect nothing less. You’re an absolute marvel. My waistline might never forgive you, but I can’t seem to walk by without stepping inside.”
Lani smiled. “Then my work here is done.”
The twinkle in Alva’s eyes turned to more of a speculative gleam as she leaned across the counter and dropped her voice to a whisper. “What decadent treat are you tempting us with for the auction tonight, dear?”