The Cupcake Diaries (2 page)

Dave smirked. “We won’t pay more than four.”

Stacey watched the seller’s gaze switch to her to see if she agreed with her admirable haggling champion, and Stacey realized the man thought they were a couple. She quickly gave a nod indicating Dave had her full support.

The seller’s shoulders slumped. “Five dollars, take it or leave it.”

Both Dave and the seller glanced her way, and she gave a big smile. “I’ll take it.”

Once the owner of the yard sale walked off with her money for the MREs and the multiuse knife, Stacey said, “Thanks, Dave. I really appreciate your help.”

The smile he sent her way made the glorious sun-lit day seem a hundred times brighter. “No problem. I’ve learned to live cheap since my divorce and got good at it. Besides,” he said, indicating the MREs in her hands, “half of what I said might be true.”

She shook her head and opened the cardboard end of one of the MRE boxes to let him peek inside. “See? The crackers are vacuum sealed in an aluminum foil pouch. So is the peanut butter. And the expiration date says it’s still good for another five years.”

“But you won’t wait that long to eat them, will you?”

“No, probably not.”

Should she ask if he’d like to try one? No, the dry, bland taste of the MRE might not score her a date.

“Well . . . it was nice to meet you,” she said. “Do you live around here?”

“Yeah, I have a house a couple blocks away.”

“Maybe I’ll see you around sometime?” she asked hopefully.

Stacey held her breath. From the light-hearted expression on his face when he glanced at her, she was sure he’d found her amusing, or at least interesting. He’d said he was divorced and hadn’t even hinted at a girlfriend. Surely he wouldn’t champion her so gallantly and then abandon her without a plan for further contact.

“Yeah, maybe I’ll see you hike down the beach with your backpack sometime,” he said, his tone upbeat.

“Yes, maybe.” She gave him a big smile.
And?

“Nice to meet you, too, Idaho.” He smiled back at her . . . then walked away.

Her mouth popped open.
No date?
Where had she gone wrong? Instead of her name, he’d called her “Idaho” like a chum. Should she have corrected his false notion that she was some kind of female
Rambo
?

She slipped the multiuse knife and MREs into her backpack. Served her right for trying to make him think she was something she was not.

Something great.

Chapter Two

As the ocean is never full of water, so is the heart never full of love.

—Author unknown

S
TACEY ADDED A
tray of raspberry cream cupcakes with vanilla frosting to the glass display case and hurried back to the cashier counter to help the next customer.

“Welcome to Creative Cupcakes,” she said. “Our top three flavors on the chalkboard are buy-one-get-one free if you purchase a twelve-ounce coffee.”

The woman she waited on wore a pinched expression as if someone had twisted the knot of bluish gray hair at the back of her neck one too many times. “I need to deliver a packet to the owners of this shop.”

“Oh.” Stacey hesitated, then reached for the large manila envelope in the woman’s hands. “Okay, I’ll make sure they get it.”

The woman hastily pulled the envelope back. “Are
you
one of the owners?”

Stacey shook her head. “No, but—”

“Are they here?” the woman demanded.

“Yes, but they’re—”

“Young lady, I do not have all day. It is imperative that I speak with the
owners
of Creative Cupcakes.”

“Which one do you want to see?”

“All of them.”

Stacey shut her mouth, abruptly turned, and burst through the double doors to the kitchen to retrieve the three who were up to their elbows in flour and frosting. “There’s a woman here to see
‘all of you.’
She’s very insistent.”

Andi frowned. “Do you know what she wants?”

“She won’t speak to me.” Not wanting to face the old thunder cloud alone again, Stacey waited until Andi, Rachel, and Kim had washed their hands and then followed them back to the front of the shop.

“I’m Andi Hartman,” Andi said and pointed to the two women beside her. “This is Kimberly Burke and Rachel Palmer.”

The woman gave them each a curt nod. “I’m Martha Slater, a coordinator for the upcoming state cupcake competition sponsored by Finley’s Fine Flours. Congratulations. Your shop has been selected to participate based on both your reputation and record of flour purchases from our company.”

Andi took the envelope the woman handed her. “Thank you, Martha. We’ll look it over.”

Stacey watched Ms. Slater lift her chin and look Andi squarely in the eye. “You won’t want to wait too long. There are dozens of shops that would kill to take your place in the competition.”

“What’s the prize?” Rachel asked, leaning forward.

“A thousand dollars.”

Stacey didn’t think Andi, Rachel, and Kim looked impressed. In addition to the Astoria shop here on Marine Drive, they shipped tons of prepackaged cupcake mixes nationwide to local distributors. She should know; she’d helped pack them. While a thousand dollars would be cause for
her
to celebrate, it was probably of little significance to her three employers.

“The winner of the state competition then advances to regionals,” Ms. Slater informed them. “The winner of regionals is featured in
Cupcake Chef
magazine and receives a prize of $5,000.”

“Now,
that
could be interesting,” Andi said with a smile.

“Great promo for your new cookbook,” Kim added.

“The winner of the regionals,” Ms. Slater continued, “is invited to compete in a national bake-off competition on TV, similar to
Cupcake Wars.
In addition to prime-time exposure, the winner gets $10,000 and the opportunity to showcase their cupcakes at a star-studded show in New York City.”

“Now you’re talking!” Rachel exclaimed. “Where do we sign up?”

Ms. Slater’s mouth twisted into a tight-lipped smile, as if finally satisfied they appreciated the contest’s importance. “All the information is included in the packet.”

After the coordinator left, Stacey let out a low whistle, then said, “You’d think she’d be happier to deliver such great news. At first I thought she was here to deliver a court summons.”

“Maybe she’s having a bad day,” Andi said and withdrew several papers from the envelope Ms. Slater had handed her. “The state cupcake competition is Saturday, September 6, two weeks after Kim’s wedding. Hmm. We could use the same lemon meringue recipe we’re using for Kim and Nathaniel’s wedding cupcakes.”

Kim peered at the entry forms in Andi’s hands. “It says we will need to prepare five recipes of our own choosing fresh from the kitchen the day of the competition. Then we present them, one by one, to the Finley Fine Flours panel for judging. Each of the five cupcakes will receive a score from one to ten.”

“The judges come to us?” Rachel asked.

Kim nodded. “Yes, the panel travels around the state from store to store, and once they’ve judged each shop, they’ll announce the winner.”

“We can promote the event and draw people into the shop to watch,” Rachel said, her voice rising. “What an excellent opportunity for publicity!”

Andi pulled out their Cupcake Diary from under the counter and wrote down some of the info. “Win or lose, we could hand out samples of the competition cupcakes to everyone.”

“Sounds like fun,” Stacey mused. “Do you think I could be a part of it?”

They turned to look at her, their expressions hesitant, and her face flooded with embarrassment. Had she really said that, aloud? She hadn’t meant to sound so forward. After all, this wasn’t
her
competition. Who was she to think she could join in without them asking her?

“You’ll probably be too busy running the cupcake stand at the beach,” Andi said, giving her a big smile.

Stacey drew in a deep breath, relieved her verbal gaffe hadn’t alienated the trio.

Andi pulled out a second three-ring binder from beneath the counter. The cover was decorated with a big yellow sun hovering over a pink umbrella stuck in the ocean beach sand. “Mia picked this out,” Andi said, referring to her seven-year-old daughter. “We figured you would need your own Cupcake Diary to record all your upcoming adventures.”

Stacey thought of the book she still hadn’t read and doubted
Kate Jones
would call selling cupcakes on the beach an adventure. Not unless explosives and a whole army of bad guys were involved.

She glanced at Andi to clarify exactly what was expected of her. “Don’t you mean use the diary to keep track of sales and customer comments?”

Rachel gave her a wink. “You could also write down the phone numbers of any cute guys you meet.”

“Describe what the sky looks like at sunset,” Kim suggested.

“Have fun with it,” Andi encouraged. “You know we write down anything from a new recipe idea to private notes to each other in the diary we keep here. Make it your own.”

“Speaking of the cupcake stand,” Rachel said, excitedly squeezing her shoulder. “Do you hear that? I think it’s here.”

Stacey handed her position at the front counter off to Heather, the teenage employee who doubled as Andi’s babysitter, and followed the others through the door to the street. The noise sounded like the hum of a Volkswagen, quite different from the incessant clanking of the rickety 1933 Cupcake Mobile they used for deliveries. And indeed it
was
.

The new cupcake stand wasn’t a stand at all. Not the square white vendor trailer Stacey had imagined, anyway.

Andi’s wonderful, warm-hearted husband, Jake Hartman, jumped out of the driver’s side, came toward them, and caught Stacey’s eye. “What do you think?”

Stacey opened her mouth, and the words “It’s pink” fell out.

“Pink and white,” Rachel amended.

Kim clapped her hands and laughed. “A hippie van! Where did you find this?”

“One guess,” Jake offered.

Andi pointed to the tattoo shop next door. “Guy Armstrong!”

“The same guy who gave you the Cupcake Mobile?” Stacey asked.

Jake nodded. “Guy has a whole shed full of antique vehicles. This model is a genuine 1962 Volkswagen bus.”

She had never seen the pony-tailed tattoo artist behind the wheel of anything other than a bicycle. “Why doesn’t Guy drive any of them?”

Jake smirked. “He said he’s through dealing with the expense of gas and insurance.”

How much could it possibly cost to insure this elongated, half-century-old metal contraption in front of them? Stacey wondered. Did they really expect her to drive this “hippie van,” as Kim referred to it, forty minutes back and forth to Cannon Beach every day?

She stepped closer and surveyed the fold-out shelf running along the side of the vehicle to form a makeshift customer counter, then took a quick peek inside.

“The windows lift upward,” Jake said, inserting a pole to prop them open and keep them in place. “And there’s plenty of room in the back to transport the umbrella table and stools you’ll be setting out on the sand for customers.”

“Think of it as your
very own
cupcake shop on wheels,” Kim said, taking her arm and strolling around the exterior.

A shop of her very own?
She took another look at the vehicle, and her heart softened. Why, this Volkswagen bus wouldn’t be so bad. It had charm, personality, and the pink and white paint was almost . . .
pretty.
The interior dashboard even had a small vase to place a sprig of daisies. People would point to her and give her big smiles. Who wouldn’t want to work in a fun, happy environment like that?

“Well,” Jake asked, when she returned to the front. “You never answered my question. Stacey, what do you think?”

Her eyes welled with tears, and she found it hard to express how much having
anything
of her very own, even as an employee, meant.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“Work the cupcake stand on the beach, and you can keep forty percent of the sales,” Andi told her.

“Like a partner?” she asked, her spirit soaring.

“Like a commission,” Rachel corrected, then gave her a big, teasing smile. “Sell enough cupcakes this summer so come fall we can afford to keep you.”

S
TACEY COULD HARDLY
contain her excitement over the prospect of earning a forty percent commission as she walked back to her aunt Sarah’s place. She’d already paid the $600 holding fee on her new apartment, which would go toward her first month’s rent when she moved in. And with forty percent of the sales as commission, she’d have the other $600 the landlord required for security in no time. She might even be able to start saving for her dream house, one with a mailbox with her name on it, a fenced in yard, flower boxes under the windows, and a two-person swing on the front porch.

She hummed to herself as she imagined the other details and climbed the stairs to the room she temporarily shared with Kim above the garage.

The room over the garage, which was separated from the main house by a paved driveway, used to be Rachel’s until she wed Mike Palmer and moved in with him. Kim, too, would be moving out when she married her Swedish hunk, Nathaniel Sjölander, at the end of summer. The space seemed to be a holding facility for future brides.

But not in
her
case, of course. She couldn’t hope to find a husband in three months. When she moved out, she’d be happy if she just found someone to date.

She thought of Dave Wright, the handsome man she’d met the day before at the yard sale. If she’d been more experienced in the art of flirtation, she might have found a way to meet up with him again. But she was a total geek in the romance department. While many women her age were married and having kids, she’d barely held anyone’s hand.

Later that evening Stacey went into the main house for dinner. Sarah had made a pot roast, and Grandpa Lewy and his new wife, Bernice, had come over from their senior housing facility to join them.