Vanilla Beaned (5 page)

“Not so lucky for the two men caught in the explosion,” Holly said. The fireman nodded and said, “Sorry.”

“I don't understand,” Mel said. “Shouldn't the gas to the premises have been shut off if the building was vacant?”

“You'd think,” the firefighter said. He escorted them farther away from the area. “Please stay back. We don't want anyone else to get hurt.”

“Come on.” Holly grabbed Mel's arm and they began to move away from the fire, which had now engulfed the small storefront.

“Mel!”

“Oh my god!”

Mel glanced up and saw Tate and Angie running toward her. They both looked frantic, and at the sight of them, she felt all the terror of the past few minutes bubble up inside her. Tate got to her first and wrapped her in a hug that threatened to crack her ribs. As soon as he released her to study her face, Angie lunged in between them and hugged Mel tight, not releasing her even when Mel patted her back to let her know she was okay and the hug could stop now.

“We heard the explosion,” Tate said. “Then there were sirens and people were running and screaming. They blocked off the area and we couldn't get through. I've never been so scared in my entire life. What the hell happened? Oh . . . hi.”

“Hi,” Holly said back.

Mel unhooked Angie from about her neck and stepped
back. She took Angie by the upper arms and met her terrified gaze.

“I'm okay, Angie,” she said. “Honestly, I'm fine.”

Angie sucked in a breath, nodded, and then burst into tears. Tate put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

“It's all right,” he said. “She's safe. Where are the others?”

“Scott was severely burned,” Mel said and she explained about the unfortunate meeting between Scott's cigarette and the gas. “Stuart had a head injury but no burns. They've both been taken to the hospital.”

“What about Holly?” Angie asked, glancing around to see if their future franchise owner was anywhere to be found.

“This is Holly,” Mel said, and she gestured to the woman beside her. “Holly, these are my partners, Tate, who you've spoken to, and Angie, my fellow baker.”

Angie's eyes went wide as she took in the woman beside Mel. Even covered in dirt, with her dark hair mussed and her makeup half cried off, Holly was never going to be confused with Betty Crocker. Mel knew Angie was thinking the same thing Mel had, that there was no way in heck this woman knew her way around a convection oven.

“You're Holly?” Tate asked. He was smart enough to turn his high-pitched note of surprise into a small clearing of his throat. “Sorry, I just . . . you're not . . . cupcakes, huh?”

Mel exchanged a glance with Holly. They both looked back at the blown-out storefront. The firefighters were
soaking down the interior, and were now milling around the front, waiting to see if any hot spots flared. The place that just minutes ago had had the potential to be a cute little cupcake shop in a high-traffic area was now a charred gaping maw, looking like it would devour anything that crossed its path.

“That was the plan,” Holly said. “But I think it's safe to say that it's gone up in smoke.”

Mel patted her shoulder. “I'm so sorry.”

Holly shrugged and Mel could tell by the sheen in her bright blue eyes that she was trying very hard not to cry.

“You were really amazing during the chaos,” Mel said. “You didn't panic at all but jumped right in and started taking care of Scott. I was very impressed.”

“Performing a live show, where anything can go wrong and frequently does, is great training for a crisis,” Holly said. “You were quick on your feet, too. I'd say for first responders, we did all right.”

“The hospital they took Stuart and Scott to is UMC,” Mel said to Tate. “We should check on them. Scott in particular looked . . . rough.”

“I'll go,” Tate said. “The police will want to talk to you two. Text me about what's happening and I'll do the same.”

“I'm staying with Mel,” Angie said.

“Of course.” Tate planted a kiss in her hair before he took off in the wake of the ambulance.

Two police officers arrived and Mel and Holly were separated and questioned about what happened. Angie moved from group to group, clearly not wanting either woman to feel abandoned.

Mel felt terrible that she didn't have more information for the officer, but the truth was she didn't know anything about Scott Jensen or Stuart Stinson. She hoped Holly knew more about Scott and she referred the officer to Tate for more information on Stuart. She had never felt more useless in her life.

When the officer left her, Mel took a moment to get her head together. Angie was comforting Holly, who was looking at the charred remnants of what was once her dream bakery with the despair that came with watching a dream die. Mel felt terrible for her, she really did, but at the same time there was a tiny sliver of relief.

There would be no franchise now. Fairy Tale Cupcakes would remain hers, all hers, with no quality-control issues and no sharing her recipes or baking secrets. She felt a sigh of relief well up inside her, and she let it out in one long breath.

“That sounds as if it came all the way up from your feet,” Angie said. She and Holly joined her where she stood in the shade of a cluster of palm trees.

“I think it did,” Mel said. “You know, it's a good thing you didn't lease this place, Holly. If it was something faulty causing the gas to leak from the oven, well, you could have been killed.”

Holly shivered. “I really hope Scott and Stuart are okay. I'll just feel terrible if . . . well, you know.”

Mel understood. Holly didn't want to say the worst possible scenario, which would be for either of the men to die from their injuries. Mel agreed. She didn't even want
to think it. She'd had enough dead bodies to last her a lifetime.

“I have to say that despite this disaster,” Mel said, “it was really nice meeting you. Maybe our paths will cross again someday.”

Holly looked surprised and then sadly accepting.

“Wait . . . what?” Angie asked.

“Well, since there is no place to put the bakery now, I just assumed . . .” Mel's voice trailed off.

Angie propped her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes at Mel. “Really? Did you really think we were only looking at one property?”

“Well, I hoped . . .”

“Ah-ha!” Angie pointed at her. “You're still fighting it. You still don't want to franchise.”

Maybe it was the near death experience but Mel found herself incapable of denying the truth.

“That's not news,” Mel cried. “I've never wanted to franchise, and that was before I knew we were looking to partner up with a person who doesn't even have any baking experience.” She paused to look at Holly. “No offense.”

“It's okay,” Holly said. She sounded resigned.

“No, it isn't,” Angie said. “Mel, the three of us have been over and over this. We have to franchise for the good of the business.”

“No, you and Tate have muscled me into franchising ever since he quit being a wheeler and dealer and decided to be an entrepreneur with
my
bakery.”

“It's
our
bakery,” Angie argued, looking like she
wanted to bang her head on the first hard object she could find.

“Listen, I don't want to cause any problems,” Holly began but they both interrupted her.

“Hush!” Mel and Angie said together and then Mel softened it by adding, “Please.”

Holly nodded. “I'm just going to wait over there.”

As soon as she was three feet away, Angie turned on Mel. “What is the matter with you?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Mel snapped. “Maybe it's the near death experience I just enjoyed.”

“Oh, stop being dramatic, you were nowhere near the explosion.”

“I could have been seriously injured,” Mel said.

“By what?” Angie asked. “Tripping?”

“A shard of glass—”

“The windows were boarded up.”

“A very large splinter, I could have been impaled by a very large splinter.”

“What is your issue with Holly?” Angie asked.

“I don't have an issue, I mean, other than her lack of formal training in the culinary arts.”

“I don't have formal training; neither does Marty or Tate,” Angie said.

“Okay, look at her,” Mel said. “Does she look like a baker to you?”

“Sure, if you slap an apron on her and put her in some sensible shoes, why not?”

“She's a showgirl,” Mel said. “With no kitchen
experience, and you want to sell her a franchise of our bakery. I just think this plan is fraught with disaster.”

“Bigger than the one you just lived through?” Angie asked.

“Yes, because if she's a lousy baker and the product is no good, our reputation will be finished,” Mel said. “It won't matter how pretty she is. People are very unforgiving about their baked goods.”

“So, what's really bothering you is the fact that she's pretty?” Angie asked.

“No, yes, I don't know,” Mel said. “Doesn't it bother you?”

“Nah,” Angie said with a dismissive wave. “Looks fade. Besides, I think she has a lot of artificial enhancements going on. You always have to wonder what the poor guy thinks when he wakes up and his va-va-voom woman turns into a ho-hum girl.”

Even though Mel knew what Angie said was true, and how irritating of Angie to see all of the enhancements right away, she didn't feel like confirming it and proving Angie's point.

“You know, you have to get over this prejudice,” Angie said.

“What?” Mel gasped. “I am not prejudiced.”

“Yes, you are,” Angie said. “Overly pretty women make you uncomfortable and self-conscious. I think it harkens back to your awkward adolescence.”

“That is so not true,” Mel protested. “I treat everyone exactly the same.”

“Okay, then, how did you determine that Holly can't bake?” Angie asked.

“Well, just look at her . . . oh, crap,” Mel said. She hung her head. “Oh, man, I
am
prejudiced.”

“In your defense, the mean girls in school were usually the pretty ones, so it stands to reason that you are innately suspicious of them,” Angie said. “Remember that witch Madison Arthur? She was a blond, blue-eyed stunner with her phony ski jump nose and her inflated ta-ta's. She rode your case for years.”

“The one whose boyfriend Dwight nicknamed me ‘Melephant' until Tate punched him out?” Mel asked. “Yeah, hard to forget her. I can still see her pointing and laughing at me when my chair broke during band. I should have stuffed my clarinet right down her throat.”

“I'd have paid to see that,” Angie said. “She used to mock my eyebrows and blame my hairy Italian heritage. She told everyone that I probably had a hairy back. Man, I hated her.”

“I hope she's married to a jerk,” Mel said. “And she has six kids and the birthing hips to show for it.”

Angie laughed. “Time to focus. Holly isn't Madison, and we're grown-ups now. We can let go of all that stuff, yes?”

“Yes,” Mel mumbled then twisted her head to the side in a full-on sulk. “It's just not fair. Even if Holly is enhanced, she's still a knockout, and I really think that if she can cook, I'm going to be super irritated.”

“No, you're going to be nice and supportive,” Angie said. “Come on, you know Tate's right about the longevity
of the company. If we want to be able to keep paying everyone, we have to expand.”

“I know, I know,” Mel said. Her tone was grudging at best and she knew it.

“All right, then, let's tell Holly that we'll keep looking for new locations,” Angie said. “Who knows, we may find the perfect spot and the cupcakes will practically sell themselves.”

“Fine,” Mel said.

Holly looked wary when they approached, and Mel couldn't blame her. Even after the trauma they'd gone through, the woman still looked great, a little smudged perhaps, but still great. She wondered what Angie would say if she knew about the butt lifter padded panties. Knowing Angie, she'd want to pinch Holly's butt, too.

“So, Angie and I talked,” Mel said. She couldn't meet Holly's gaze. “And I guess we'll plan on going to look at more properties, say, tomorrow?”

Holly sagged in relief. “You mean it? Oh, thank you so much! You won't regret it. I promise. In fact, I want you to come over to my place tomorrow and I'll prove it to you.”

“Prove it?” Angie lifted her eyebrows. “Do I understand from that that you're going to bake for us?”

Holly nodded. “And trust me, I am going to blow your minds.”

“How is he?” Mel asked the nurse who came into Stuart Stinson's room while she stood awkwardly by his bed, not knowing what to say or do for a man she had only known briefly.

“Resting comfortably for now. He was awake early this morning and he didn't appear to have any permanent injuries,” the nurse said. “They are keeping him a bit longer for observation but he should be free to go soon. Are you family?”

“No,” Mel said. Relief that Stuart was going to be fine almost made her buckle at the knees; she hadn't realized how worried she had been. “I'm just a business associate, but I was there yesterday when he and Mr. Jensen were caught in the fire.”

The nurse nodded. “Mr. Stinson was lucky he didn't get burned. Mr. Jensen, well, it's been touch and go.”

“They wouldn't let me in to see him,” Mel said. Her throat felt tight and she drew in a shaky breath. “Can you tell me anything?”

The nurse reached over and squeezed Mel's forearm. “It doesn't look good, I'm afraid. I'm sorry.”

“Thank you.” Mel nodded.

She turned and saw Tate standing at the nurses' station. He was undoubtedly getting the same report she had gotten. When he turned around, his wavy brown hair looked mussed as if he'd been running his fingers through it. Angie came up beside him and looped her hand through his arm. Tate leaned over and kissed the top of her head. It was a gesture of comfort and affection.

Again, Mel was pierced with a sense of aloneness that was so acute, it actually hurt. Was this how it would always be then, her two friends comforting each other while she stood on the outside looking in?

She shook her head. She was being a selfish brat while Scott Jensen was fighting for his life. She had no right to feel sorry for herself. She was fine, absolutely fine.

“You ready?” Tate asked as Mel approached. She nodded. They all knew the situation; talking about it only made it worse.

Mel grumbled all the way to Holly's house, which turned out to be well off the Strip. Even though it gave her an excellent excuse to zip through town in the silver bullet, as she had dubbed the Mercedes, she still felt grumpy. She
didn't particularly like change and it sure felt like it was coming hard and fast with no break.

On the one hand, she knew that it was her protectiveness of the bakery that was making her so franchise resistant, but on the other hand, she knew Tate was right that expanding was key to their survival.

She wondered if Holly had shown up yesterday looking a little pudgy with short-cropped hair and no makeup whether she would have felt more kindred with her. The answer would only validate Angie's observation that Mel had a pretty girl bias, but yeah, in Mel's head when they had talked about franchising, she had pictured someone, well, more like her.

Personal maintenance fell by the wayside when you had to be up at the crack of dawn to bake every day. Elaborate hairdos didn't go so well under the old chef toque or hairnet, makeup melted when confronted with a 350-degree oven, and when you spent all day using your hands to mold fondant and had to wash them a million times to keep the germs off the product, manicures seemed pointless. So yeah, Mel had expected someone a little more kitchen goddess and less bedroom siren.

That being said, Holly did seem nice. She had a quick response time in a crisis, and really, how could Mel dislike anyone with a fake hiney? It was so ridiculous, it actually bought Holly some points with Mel.

Tate navigated using the directional app on his phone. When they started rolling toward the McMansions on the west side of Vegas, Mel had to wonder how much being a showgirl paid if Holly could afford one of these places.

“Huh.” Angie grunted from the backseat. “I think I may need to look into how much a girl gets for high kicking.”

“I don't think she makes enough to live here,” Tate said. “Do we have the right address?”

“Let's double-check at the gatehouse,” Mel said.

She pulled up to the small brick building with a uniformed guard stationed in the doorway.

“Good morning, how can I help you?” the guard asked. He was middle-aged and a little pudgy, which was unfortunately accentuated by his emerald green uniform. He had a righteous handlebar mustache that was trimmed to perfection, framing his mouth and accentuating his pouty lower lip.

“Hi, we're guests of Holly Hartzmark,” Mel said.

“Just for the day?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

The guard ducked back inside his little house.

“‘Who rang that bell?'” Tate squawked from the passenger seat. “‘Who rang that bell?'”

Angie burst out laughing but Mel refused to react, fearing the guard would hear them.

“Stop it,” she hissed at Tate.

“Oh, come on, you were thinking it, too. He's a dead ringer for him.” Mel was silent so Tate cajoled, “You know what movie I'm talking about. ‘Who rang that bell?'”

“
The Wizard of Oz
, now shut it.” Mel identified the movie just to hush him up. “Behave.”

The guard popped back out of his house, handed Mel a dated pass to hang on her rearview mirror, and gestured for her to go forward.

“You're all set, ma'am, have a nice day.”

“You, too,” Mel said. She moved the car forward and a massive wrought iron gate slowly glided open to the right to let them through.

Angie leaned forward and said, “Well, the joke is on them.”

“How do you figure?” Tate asked.

“Because I'm pretty sure these exclusionary gates were designed specifically to keep our sort out,” Angie said with a snort.

Mel laughed and Tate turned around and planted a kiss on Angie's lips. “That's my girl. Don't ever change.”

“All right, you two, no making out while I'm driving, or I'll need a carsick bag,” Mel said. “Tate, where do I go now?”

“Head straight for half a mile and then take your first right. Basically, head straight for the big red rocks up ahead. We're looking for number 6844.”

“Got it,” Mel said.

The massive houses surrounding them were gorgeous; there was everything from fancy Tudor-style homes to starkly modern palaces. It was definitely a mishmash of styles with the only thing they all had in common being their ostentatious show of wealth.

Mel was happy to admire them from afar, but she knew she would hate living in a house where she needed GPS tracking to get from the bedroom to the kitchen. And what if she had children? You could lose a child in one of these colossal casas, quite possibly for days. It reminded her of what her dad always used to say about conspicuous
consumption—just because you can doesn't mean you should.

Mel drove down the wide street, slowing to read the numbers in front of the mansions. Each one was again gated, because the uniformed guard at the front station clearly wasn't enough security to keep the riffraff out.

Finally, they stopped in front of a mansion with the matching number. A cobblestone driveway led from the street through another huge wrought iron gate to an enormous mansion beyond. Mel pulled into the drive and stopped in front of the gate. There was a buzzer mounted on a stone pedestal to her left and she pressed the button.

“Oh, you're here!” Holly's voice greeted them. “Come on up to the house.”

The spiky gate opened as if by an invisible hand. Perfectly manicured lawns hugged both sides of the drive while a line of tall palm trees led the way to the house.

“Okay, I am definitely working on my high kick,” Angie said. “This is unfreakingbelievable.”

A three-story gray stone building that was all sharp corners and jutting angles, with walls of sheer glass on the upper stories framed by burnished steel, loomed ahead. Mel parked in front, feeling as if her silly Mercedes wasn't good enough even to be parked in front of such opulence.

As they climbed the stairs to the front door, Mel caught her breath. The doors were two huge steel half circles that met on their inner edge to make one large circle.

“I feel like I'm going into a superhero's lair,” Tate said. “At least, I hope it's a superhero's. If it's a villain, I am so out of here.”

One of the half circles opened and a young woman wearing baggy shorts and a Hawkeyes football jersey with her dark brown hair in a high ponytail poked her head out.

“Hi, guys,” she said.

Mel blinked three or four times. She glanced at Tate and Angie. They looked equally perplexed.

“Holly?” Angie finally asked.

“The undone version,” Holly said and she held her arms wide.

“I didn't even recognize you,” Tate said. “You look so . . . normal.”

Holly laughed. “I'll take that as a compliment, I think. Come on in.”

Tate and Angie filed into the house while Mel brought up the rear. She took a second to study Holly. Tate was right. She was unrecognizable and in the best possible way.

Mel grinned at her. “So, all of that . . .” She waved her hands around Holly's face and body before she added, “Really was just makeup and filler.”

“And attitude,” Holly said. “Don't ever underestimate the attitude component.”

“Clearly, that's what I've been lacking all these years,” Mel said. She put her palm to her forehead as if she'd suddenly seen the light.

“Truthfully,
filler
is the perfect word,” Holly said. “Being a showgirl, you learn how to work with what you've got and make it bigger. This is Vegas, after all.”

“Well, it's incredible,” Mel said. “You were right. If I passed you on the street, I wouldn't have recognized you as the same woman I met yesterday. I never would have
believed it if I hadn't seen the transformation or more accurately the un-transformation myself.”

“I like to think of it as the equivalent of taking flour, eggs, sugar, and butter and whipping them into something much more lovely and yummy than they are by themselves,” Holly said.

“I like that metaphor,” Tate said. “See? She even thinks like a baker.”

Mel was spared having to answer when a little girl, who looked to be about five, came tearing into the foyer of the house wearing a chef's hat and an apron, both of which were entirely too big for her.

“Mom, Mom, Mom, the buzzer's going off!” she shrieked.