The Cupcake Diaries (3 page)

During dessert, chocolate caramel cupcakes with chocolate sprinkles, Sarah handed her a letter. “From Idaho.”

The previous December, Stacey
did
have a date, one who ran out the door of the restaurant after eating and left her to foot the bill. Unable to pay, she’d had to call her roommate, Pam, to come bail her out of trouble.
Again.
Then when she’d packed her bags for her trip to Astoria to attend Rachel’s wedding, Pam had told her—in not very flattering terms—not to come back.

Stacey’s hands shook as she opened the envelope and read the legal letterhead.

Grandpa Lewy leaned across the table. “What’s it say?”

She stared at the paper. “It’s—It’s a bill.”

“A bill for what?” Grandpa Lewy persisted.

Stacey tried to speak but let out a strangled cry instead. How could Pam do this to her? Her throat closed up, her cheeks heated, and her eyes burned in their sockets.

Sarah leaned over the corner of the table and placed a hand on her arm. “How can we help?”

Stacey shook her head. “Pam claims I owe her $2,000.” She waved her hand back and forth over the sheet of paper as if that would make the numbers disappear. “The bill is for half the rent, utilities, and food for the five months I stayed with her before I came here.”

Sarah frowned. “But that was over half a year ago; why is she contacting you now?”

“The girl must have got herself into trouble,” Grandpa Lewy growled, “and is looking for a way to collect some money.”

“Did Pam ever talk about what you owed while you lived with her?” Bernice asked, joining in.

“No, never,” Stacey said and flipped through the copies of receipts Pam had included with the letter. “She knew I didn’t have a job when she offered me a place to stay.”

Stacey had tried to get a job, but she’d had trouble with the interviews. Every time she went in she’d fumble over her words, repeat herself, and squirm so badly it was a relief when the prospective employer put them both out of their misery and dismissed her. Like many of her dates.

“I had thought I
did
pay her back,” she said, looking around at each of their faces. “I helped with chores, I walked her dogs, cooked dinner, cleaned the apartment.”

“You cleaned?” Grandpa Lewy teased.

Stacey rolled her eyes. “Of course I cleaned. You know how I hate living in . . . any kind of mess, and Pam’s place was a disaster. But, obviously, Pam didn’t think my efforts were payment enough. She had her lawyer uncle draft this legal document stating that if I do not pay her the two thousand I owe her by July 15, they’ll take me to small claims court.”

“If you didn’t sign any contracts agreeing to pay Pam for expenses,” Grandpa Lewy continued, “then her uncle can’t make a case. You don’t
have
to pay her.”

Stacey thought of that night at the restaurant, and others like it, and knew Pam didn’t have to pay for
her
, either. But she had. And she would be forever grateful.

“Even if they’re bluffing, I can’t stand knowing that Pam thinks I wronged her,” Stacey said softly. “If she says I owe two thousand, then I need to give her the money.”

“Not many others would,” Bernice commented, “but that’s what I like about you, dear. Good things will come back around to you someday.”

Stacey wished she could believe that, but all she could think of was the money she needed in order to move into her apartment. With a forty percent commission, could she pay back Pam and still have enough for her security deposit?

A
FTER DINNER
S
TACEY
excused herself and went back up to her room to brainstorm ways to save money. Maybe she could buy less food or give up her cell phone.

No, she had to have a cell phone. What if the Volkswagen bus broke down on a backcountry road? What if there was another tornado? She gave an involuntary shudder and took a deep breath to block out the image of her childhood teddy bear swirling up into an angry Nebraska sky.

But there were no tornadoes here in Oregon. At least, she didn’t think there were. And after she moved into her apartment, she wouldn’t have to worry about moving anymore, unlike her parents, who still moved from state to state every other year or so. For the first time since the disaster, she’d have a home again—in a place she could finally feel
safe.

She tucked Pam’s bill next to the framed photo of her family in her backpack and recalled the words Rachel had said to her earlier that afternoon:
“Sell enough cupcakes this summer so come fall we can afford to keep you.”

“I will,” she’d promised.

And that was exactly what she would do. She’d sell cupcakes like crazy. How hard could it be? The beach was packed with people in the warm weather, and the cupcakes were already made and packaged in boxes. She just had to collect the money and serve customers. With a forty percent commission, she
could
have the $2,000 she owed Pam and the money she needed for her apartment by the end of the summer.

She just needed to work harder, step outside her comfort zone, and become “the cupcake girl.” If Andi, Rachel, and Kim could open a cupcake shop and make their dreams come true, then so could she.

Just watch,
she thought to herself, and smiled. Her first day at the beach, she’d break all kinds of sales records.

Chapter Three

Ocean treasures left on the shore, Nature’s gift to adore.

—Author unknown

F
IVE DAYS LATER,
Stacey ground the gears of the Volkswagen bus as she turned the corner leading to the Cannon Beach entrance. She hadn’t driven a stick shift in a long time. Like Guy Armstrong, who sold her employers the vehicle, she preferred other methods of transportation to save money on gas and car insurance.

A blue signpost with a series of white arcing waves caught her eye, warning her she’d be working in the tsunami hazard zone, and her hand instinctively reached out to touch the emergency backpack on the seat beside her. Inside the front flap she’d tucked a map of the Oregon coast with arrows pointing the way to safety for each side street.

Her backpack also contained bottled water, matches, a portable radio, a tube tent, a first aid kit, a flashlight, bouillon cubes for broth, and a half million other things she’d collected over the past sixteen years. Disaster had caught her unaware once, and she’d vowed never to be unprepared again. But that didn’t mean she should go looking for trouble.

She hadn’t realized what danger she’d signed up for when she agreed to run the cupcake stand until early that morning, when she researched the Oregon coast on Kim’s laptop. Cannon Beach sat right on the Cascadia Subduction Zone. According to research, a massive, tsunami-generating earthquake had a thirty-seven percent chance of hitting the coast within the next fifty years. And there was a ten to fifteen percent chance the
entire region
would rupture within that same time frame, which could produce waves eighty to one hundred feet high.

“Ten to fifteen percent is slim,” Kim pointed out. “Besides, Cannon Beach has a siren to alert people to get off the beach in case anything ever did happen.”

Stacey still wasn’t comforted. What if a giant wave crashed over the beach? Would her cupcake stand float? How long would she have to get away? She wasn’t a strong swimmer. Maybe she’d buy a life preserver or a rubber raft to keep in the back of the Volkswagen bus—just in case.

She could turn the vehicle around, let one of the shop’s college-aged employees—Heather, Theresa, or Eric—take her place. But in the event of a tsunami, the Astoria shop, located next to the Columbia River, wouldn’t be much safer. She thought of her debt to her Idaho roommate and her dream of owning a home—preferably with a large underground bunker to house all her emergency supplies.

Kate Jones wouldn’t run.
A quiet voice rose unbidden in Stacey’s mind, challenging her fear. In her books the heroine braved shark-infested waters, escaped a collapsed mine filled with snakes, and survived a harrowing trek through the Yucatán jungle. Oh, how she longed for even just a quarter of Kate’s courage! Kate refused to let fear dictate her life. Maybe, just maybe,
she
could learn to do the same.

She could start by keeping her promise to run the cupcake stand on the beach. She might still buy an emergency floatation device, but if a tsunami washed her away, so be it. She had to prove she could do this and not be a coward.

Stacey pulled the Volkswagen bus to a stop toward the west end of Second Street. The town had given Creative Cupcakes permission to park near the beach entrance, but there was another vendor, a white ice cream truck, in her spot.

She held her breath as her gaze drifted over the slew of customers lined up on the sidewalk. Could Dave Wright be one of them? The yard sale where they’d met wasn’t far from here. Was it possible she might see him again today?

A horn honked behind her, making her jump in her seat and grip the steering wheel. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she realized she had a line of her own—a line of cars behind her waiting for her to get out of the way. She couldn’t park in the middle of the street, and the ice cream truck hadn’t left room for her to squeeze in next to the curb. Circling around and driving out the way she’d come, she parked around the corner.

When she walked back toward the ice cream truck and tried to pass the people waiting to place an order, a stern-faced woman twice her width stuck out an arm and blocked her.

“Hey,” the lady complained with a toss of her head. “The line is back there. No cutting.”

Stacey tensed. “I’m not cutting. I—I don’t want ice cream. I just have a question.”

“You can still wait your turn at the back of the line.”

Stacey’s set-up time had already been compromised. She couldn’t wait another twenty minutes for the vendor’s customers to be served. She had to speak to the owner of the ice cream truck now.

“This is important,” she said, and pivoting around the woman’s reach, she stepped toward the service window.

The customer first in line must not have seen her, because after he received his vanilla ice cream he turned and bumped straight into her.

“Oh, no!” Stacey sprang back, but it was too late. His cone took a nosedive straight for the sandy sidewalk. “I’m so sorry. Please let me buy you another one.”

“Sure, if you say so,” the guy said with a laid-back grin.

Technically, Stacey didn’t have to make the offer. He ran into
her, after all.
But she’d been in his way and would feel guilty all day long if she didn’t try to make amends.

She dug in her purse for some change and placed it in his outstretched hand. He looked like a surfer with his Hawaiian bathing trunks and his long, sun-streaked hair. Very attractive. Too bad they hadn’t met under better circumstances.

The surfer traded the change for another cone, and Stacey leaned toward the service window. “Excuse me, but I was told I could set up my cupcake stand at this location.”

“I’ll be right with you,” the owner of the ice cream truck called out. He didn’t look at her but wiped the counter, turned to replenish a container of plastic spoons, and slammed a receipt into the cash register drawer.

She found his attire . . . interesting. He wore white pants and a white shirt with a black bow tie, along with a white boat-shaped soda jerk paper hat, like someone out of the 1950s who worked at an old-fashioned soda fountain. Except he didn’t sound old.

A man twice her size stepped up to the counter, blocking her view, and placed an order.

“Can I speak to you for just a second?” Stacey asked, trying to peek around the large customer to get the vendor’s attention.

“You’ll have to wait your turn,” he said, scooping ice cream out of a deep bucket. “These other people were before you.”

“But I—”

The ice cream vendor stretched out a muscular arm and pointed. “The line starts back there.”

Muttering uncivil things about him under her breath, she trudged back to the end of the line, which had grown even longer since she’d arrived. From this angle she faced the side of the truck—and could read his sign.

D
AVE’S
I
CE
C
REAM
. And beneath it in smaller letter: I
CE
C
REAM
D
ONE
W
RIGHT
.

The gasp she let out drew several glances from the people in front of her. Dave Wright? She’d thought something about his voice sounded familiar. And those
arms
. She should have known, but his work uniform threw her off.

He didn’t recognize her. If he had, he would have helped her right away. Should she give him a hint? Would he care?
Business before pleasure
, she reminded herself, and fifteen minutes later she stepped up to the counter a second time.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

Suddenly, her stomach grew queasy, and her throat felt dry. “I—I think you’re in my spot. I was told by the town officials I could set up my cupcake stand on the west end of Second Street by the beach entrance.”

Dave grinned. “They told me the same thing. This spot is open to all vendors on a first come, first served basis, and I got here first.” He cocked his head, and his gaze locked with hers. “Don’t I know you?”

She smiled and nodded her head.

“You’re the backpacker from Idaho with the MREs and the survival knife.”

He
did
recognize her. At least this time her clothes were coordinated. No more mismatched patterns for her now that she had a uniform to wear.

He glanced at the pink apron over her white short-sleeved blouse and shorts and frowned. “Creative Cupcakes? The same cupcake shop that shut down a Zumba dance studio, put a French pastry chef out of business, captured ‘The Cupcake Bandit,’ and unmasked a Grinch?”

Stacey hesitated, not liking the way his tone had changed, as if their success were bad. “Yes . . .
that
cupcake shop.”

His expression hardened. Was he afraid they’d put him out of business, too?