Life is Sweet (27 page)

Becca stood and held a hand out to Erin, who blinked at it suspiciously.

“You don't need to buy your way out of a blunder, or move to Mexico.” Becca pried her friend off the couch and dragged her toward the staircase.

“Where are we going?”

“Downstairs. I'll show you the problem with the cash register. It's old—I bought it used—and it sticks sometimes. I should have warned you about it.”

In the shop, Becca went over the things she should have the moment after Pam had slapped her apron on Erin. Cupcake Store 101. After walking her through several mock sales and teaching her exactly how to whack the temperamental cash register back to life when it jammed, she had her help make batter and bake and frost several cakes.

Three hours later, Erin looked tired and floury, but less inclined to flee the country. Becca finished with a quiz, drill sergeant–style. “What's your batter's enemy?”

“Lumps,” Erin replied.

“How much frosting is too much?”

“There's no such thing as too much frosting.”

They were making progress.

Like a coach, Becca sent her upstairs for a shower and a good night's sleep while she finished cleaning up the shop. She didn't feel a bit tired herself. Baking had given her a second wind—it had also provided an escape valve for all her broodiness about Walt and the other tens of thousands of people waiting on kidney transplant lists. But those people weren't easy to dislodge from her thoughts, and now that she was alone again, they settled right back in.

So many people, so much need. So many struggles that made her own previous concerns about the fortunes of the cake shop seem minor by comparison. For days, she'd tried to convince herself that Walt and his problems weren't really her lookout. She'd told herself she'd do a few things for him—like getting him on the transplant list—just so she could clear her conscience, and then her life would continue as before.

Attrition.
She wished she could banish that word from her brain. Unfortunately, it had burrowed in deep.

 

Matthew's phone rang while he and Walt were watching sports news. He reached into his pocket, saw who it was, and hit Talk.

“Are you feeling as claustrophobic as I am?” Becca asked.

He laughed in acknowledgment. It was true. Having another person living in your house didn't seem like a big deal . . . until there was another person living in your house. He liked Walt, but two guys rattling around the town house all evening didn't make for a lot of privacy. Walt probably felt the pinch, too, although he would never complain.

“Would you like to go for a drink?” she asked.

“Right now?” He looked at his watch. Just after nine.

A chuckle came over the line. “I know. It would be like we're adults or something. Crazy idea. I've had a crazy day, which might explain it.”

“Any place in particular?” he asked.

She named a bar in a shopping center equidistant from their two places.

“See you in ten,” he said.

When Matthew hung up, Walt spoke without glancing away from the television. “Something wrong with Rebecca?”

“How did you know it was her?”

“Because you were laughing. You always seem happiest when you're with her.”

He did?

“I'm glad she's got someone to talk to,” Walt said.

Matthew stood. “I told her I'd meet her for a drink.” He hesitated a moment, then asked, “Would you like to come along?” He was pretty sure Becca wouldn't want Walt there, but he couldn't see walking out without at least making the offer.

Walt glanced over at him. “On your date?”

“It's not a date.”

The other man smiled, then looked back at the television. “Thanks, but I can't drink anyway. You two have fun.”

Becca was already sipping something in a corner booth when he arrived. “You must have really needed that.”

“It's ginger ale,” she said. “I have to get up for work early tomorrow. Cupcaking requires a clear head.”

Matthew ordered a beer. “I just work for the government.”

“Walt driving you to drink?”

“No, no. We get along okay. He's been giving me lessons around the kitchen. Did you know he was a short-order cook after they let him out of prison? Man makes a mean Spanish omelet.”

“There's a lot about him I don't know,” she said, her lips turning down again.

“We sometimes get in each other's way, but it's been nice having him around, actually. He saw how upset I was that day with Olivia.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Nothing. We just played cards for a while.”

She smacked her fingers against the edge of the table. “Men are amazing. You have a huge problem and don't even talk about it.”

“Talking doesn't always help things.”

“But losing money to Walt did?”

“I didn't lose any money,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “A miracle.”

“I lost my Saturday morning,” he clarified. “The stakes were that I would take him garage saling.”

“What for?”

Matthew tilted his head. “I'm not sure. He said he needed a few things. But he might just want to get out. The town house isn't really convenient to buses. I think he feels isolated. But I would have taken him even if I hadn't lost.”

Becca dug through her purse. “If he needs something, I have money.”

He held up his hand, palm out. “No need for that. I don't think he wants anything expensive. A shirt, maybe.”

She pushed a wad of cash across the table. “I never paid him for the last days of work he did. Give him this for me.”

He took the money. “All right—if he earned it, that might be okay. I don't think he likes charity.”

“He doesn't,” she agreed. “That's part of the problem. Whenever anyone mentioned insurance and other assistance today, I could see Walt tuning out. I had to explain that
not
signing up for aid means that he absolutely will default on his financial obligations down the road and end up in the ER. If I ever wondered where my lack of money sense came from . . .”

It was the first time he'd heard her speak of Walt as anything but her maybe-dad. “You've done okay.”

Shaking her head, she confessed, “I'm at the end of my
Me Minus You
money. I sank it all into schools I eventually dropped out of, moving, my building, and the startup costs of my business. And now it looks like I'm going to toss what's left at a guy who might or might not be my father.”

He could feel his brow pulling into a frown. “Walt's never asked for anything, has he?”

“Oh no. He doesn't want to be any trouble. The problem is, I can't get him out of my mind. My whole life, I wondered who my father was. I spent my adolescence playing opposite a fictional ghost dad. Part of the reason I did a good job was because I wanted to be that kid. Even though the character's dad was a ghost, I would have traded places with her. And now here he is—my ghost dad in the flesh. And rather than be any trouble, he's decided he'd rather just fade away or something. I'm not going to let him fade away on me.”

“What can you do?”

“I've thought about it all day. I can give him a kidney.”

Matthew gaped in surprise at her about-face on this issue. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

“He could die if I don't. The doctors are already looking at him like he's a goner. They don't say so in so many words, but I can tell. When Dr. Laverents was telling me about the waiting lists today, it started to sink in. The numbers are stacked against him. An old ex-heroin addict and ex-thief isn't going to be at the top of anyone's list. He needs a live donor, someone who knows him and wants to help. Who would that be besides me?”

He kept his gaze on her. “Still, shouldn't you think a little more before you do anything radical?”

“There's not much time to deliberate. You live with Walt. You can see how he is. And what's so radical about saving your father's life?”

“If he is your father,” he said. “You're the one who keeps saying he might not be.”

She gnawed on her lower lip for a moment, reminding him of Olivia struggling over her math homework. “I guess I should find that out.”

“DNA testing,” he said. “In two weeks you would know one way or another.”

Her shoulders lifted. “I know I should, but the whole idea of paternity testing keeps shutting down my brain. It makes sense that I should find out for certain. Yet at the same time, it feels sort of weird to say, ‘I'll give you my kidney as long as you're the louse who abandoned my mom and never contacted us until you were dying.' I almost felt more generous toward him when he was just plain Walt.” She frowned. “Although I don't know if I felt offer-him-body-parts generous . . .”

She would make light of anything, but
generosity
seemed inadequate when it came to talk about giving a part of one's body to someone.

“The strange thing is, the old Walt I
felt like
rescuing, and the new Walt I feel obligated to. But why? Because he's family? He never did one damn thing for me. Never.”

Matthew nodded, letting her vent. He couldn't imagine going through anything like this. It was hard to think of anything to say that could help her. All he could do was listen.

“I keep wondering what my mom was thinking. I get that she thought Walt wouldn't be a good father, but didn't she ever think this day would arrive? She knew he was
out there.
Committing crimes, and then behind bars, but still out there in the world.”

“She probably thought that after a quarter century had gone by, it was a non-issue.”

“Can family ever be a non-issue?” She met his gaze, then sank back against the booth. “This must all seem insane to you.”

“I think it would be really hard to experience what you have. I admire the way you're handling it. I have a hard time wrapping my mind around how disorienting it must be for you.”

“You've never had any long-lost parents show up on your doorstep?”

His lips crooked into a smile. “My family's so normal they squeak. I'm from Indiana—it's all marching bands and harvest festivals. My mom and dad were the town's Sweet Corn King and Queen their senior year.”

They talked until they had sipped down the dregs of their drinks, and when Matthew walked Becca out to her car, they were still yakking. Despite the chill in the air, it seemed a perfect night. All at once, more than anything he wished they were in some romantic city where they could stroll through a lamp-lit park, instead of huddled by a Subaru under the buzzing fluorescent lights of a sprawling, near-empty parking lot.

When she reached for her door handle, he did, too. The weird valet-parking-attendant move startled him as much as it did her at first, but when their hands touched, he understood where the impulse had come from. He held her hand, and then gently drew her to him.

The moment their lips touched, he knew this hadn't been an insane rebound impulse. She fitted against him perfectly, and he wanted to pull her closer, let his hands roam over the curves that had taken up so much room in his imagination lately. His pulse picked up, and it was all he could do not to suggest driving to some secluded spot, like teenagers.

Becca pulled back. “What are we doing?”

“What I've wanted to do for weeks,” he murmured against her lips. There. He'd admitted it.

“This is crazy.” Disappointment pierced him, until she added, “Neither of us even has an apartment to call his own.”

“I was just thinking about our current privacy shortage. Does Leesburg have a lover's lane?”

She laughed. “I'm not sure I'm spry enough for that anymore. Plus, I have to get up and make a wedding cake tomorrow. Big day.”

“When's the wedding?”

“Day after tomorrow. I have to deliver the cake Saturday morning. You've got Saturday morning plans, too.”

His mind was a blank. “I do?”

“You're hitting the garage sales with Walt.”

A wisp of her bangs was being lifted in the breeze, and he couldn't resist the impulse to comb it back into place. “What are you doing after the cake delivery?”

“Working.” She added, a bit mysteriously, “And there's something I need to do for Walt. I want to get him a gift . . . and maybe fill in another piece of the puzzle of who Walt Johnson really is.”

Chapter 22

Only her determination to be the very best friend possible to Pam made Becca push Nicole Parker's doorbell. This was not an encounter she relished having, nor was she the best person she could think of for the job. She was fairly competent at selling cupcakes. But as a spokesperson for the newly formed Butternut Knoll Afterschool Equestrian Program? The jury was still out.

She pressed her shoulders back, clutching the folder of flyers Pam had given her under her arm. She didn't know why she needed an entire sheaf of the things, since she'd only been given the task of talking to one person. When Pam had approached her this morning, Becca had tried to point out that she might not be the best candidate to put the appeal to Nicole.

“I'm sort of seeing Matthew,” she'd admitted to Pam, hoping she wasn't blushing. The kiss in the parking lot hadn't been far from her mind since it happened, and the thoughts were usually accompanied by a crazy schoolgirl flush.

“Everybody's known that for weeks,” Pam said, dismissing the argument.

“But now it's kind of true.”

“It was always kind of true,” Pam insisted, before her eyes bulged in a double-take. “Why? What happened?”

“He kissed me.”

“That must have been some kiss. You look like a strawberry that's sprouted hair.”

Yup, she could feel the heat in her cheeks. “It was.”

“But that's great!” At first, Becca thought Pam was congratulating her on the relationship, but it turned out she meant it was great for Butternut Knoll. “Think about it. Nicole will probably be relieved that Matthew's found somebody else. It's better than having an ex who's heartbroken and bitter, right?”

“Maybe . . .”

“And you have a closer personal connection to Olivia, so that might mean something to Nicole. She'll be more inclined to send Olivia to the Knoll on your recommendation.”

Becca had been about to inform her that one thing she knew about Nicole was that the woman was set against her daughter taking up horseback riding, but at that point, Erin had come in, and they'd dropped the subject. Pam had hung a flyer in the window and set a stack by the cash register. On parting, she pressed the folder containing the leftovers into Becca's hands and said pointedly, “These are for you to give anyone you know personally who might be interested.” Upon parting, she mouthed,
“Please.”

So for Pam and Cal's sake, here she stood. She'd had to deliver the wedding cake, so she was already out and about. And since she had her own personal errand she intended to run, she decided she should get Pam's task over with. She didn't know what she'd do if Bob answered the door. Or Olivia, for that matter. It didn't seem fair to discuss the program around Olivia, especially if her mom didn't go for the idea. Which was a distinct possibility. She didn't want to break anyone's heart.

But she was in luck—if having Nicole herself pull open the door could be called luck. The woman trained a cool up-and-down stare on Becca. “This is odd,” she declared by way of greeting.

It was almost a relief to have the pressure of sunny politeness taken off her shoulders. “I need to talk to you,” Becca said.

“About Matthew?” Nicole asked. “That's all over.”

“It's about Olivia,” Becca said. “Matthew doesn't even know I'm here.”

Obviously curious, Nicole stepped back to usher her in.

“Is Olivia . . . ?” Becca darted a tentative glance around.

Nicole shook her head before she could finish the sentence. “She had a sleepover at a friend's house. She's not back yet.”

For some reason, Becca expected to be taken back to the kitchen. Instead, Nicole steered her the few steps to the living room and nodded toward a wing chair before settling herself in a matching one just opposite.

“What's this about?” she said, not offering a drink, or even a smile.

Becca suddenly sympathized with the door-to-door salesmen of yesteryear. In fact, she suspected she'd have better luck selling Nicole miracle elixirs or encyclopedias than getting her to send her daughter to Butternut Knoll every day.

She took a flyer out of Pam's folder and handed it across to Nicole. At the cupcake shop, she'd thought the flyer looked professional. It had been printed on glossy paper, but now that she was presenting it to someone, she noticed that there were more pictures than actual information. The program itself was laid out in simple bullet-point fashion, promising personal growth and achievement through:

Watching Nicole flick her glance over it, Becca wondered if she shouldn't have come right out and said,
“I'm drumming up business for this program my ex-husband and friend just cobbled together.”
Instead, she reached for phrasing that would be more persuasive. “The program is in its infancy, but I thought Olivia would—”

“Yes.”

Becca blinked, confused. “Yes . . . ?”

“Yes, she'd love to do it,” Nicole said. “Yes, I'm interested. Should I write you a check?”

Becca had to think about that. She'd rung the doorbell expecting a hard sell. She'd spent the car ride over imagining arguments and counter-arguments, and was prepared to wheedle and cajole. One thing she hadn't been prepared for was instant capitulation. “A check would be fine.” She swallowed. “You can make it out to Cal McGinty.”

Nicole stood. “I'll be right back.”

Becca remained in her chair, stunned by her own success. While Nicole was gone, she peered around the room in curiosity. She'd always assumed brainy people had messy houses—that their thoughts went into important problems, not into dusting and tidying. But just as her neat blond hair and business-casual appearance cried out local news anchorwoman instead of scientist, Nicole's home screamed anal-retentive homemaker, not absentee parent. So much perfection would have been depressing, except for the small detail of Nicole's dumping Matthew. How could anyone be that stupid? There was serious disorder in that brain somewhere if she thought she'd be happier yoked for life to Bob.

When Nicole returned, she had her checkbook and was already uncapping a fountain pen. “The rates on this flyer are listed by the month. Should I pay one month in advance?”

“That would be fine,” Becca said, winging it. It had never occurred to her to ask Pam how to proceed if she was actually successful.

“Maybe I can convince Olivia's friend Deirdre's mom to sign her up,” Nicole said. “It would be nice if Olivia had another pal with her.”

Deirdre?
Good luck with that.
From what Becca had seen, Deirdre's mom was nervous about letting her kid breathe on her own. Although . . . Becca wondered if she should try her luck on Deirdre's mom herself. This seemed to be her lucky day for persuasion.

Or maybe she was overestimating her own powers. Looking a gift horse (so to speak) in the mouth was foolish, but when she reached out to take Nicole's proffered check, she couldn't help asking, “What changed your mind? I was afraid you'd be dead-set against Olivia riding every day.”

Nicole leaned back in her chair. At first she looked as if she was going to tell Becca to mind her own beeswax, but then she let out a long breath. “I just want her to be happy.”

The memory of Olivia's plaintive voice in the cupcake shop, begging for a job, came back to her. “She'll definitely be happy.”

“I was never going to let her ride,” Nicole admitted. “Maybe it's irrational, but to me all this equestrian stuff is just marginally safer than letting her swim with sharks every afternoon. I never thought the day would dawn when I'd agree to something like this. But then, I was just thinking of Olivia as my daughter. I was forgetting that she also has to be her own person.”

Becca nodded.

“I think riding is a foolhardy way to spend free time,” Nicole said. “But I'm not infallible, as Olivia's pointed out to me a million times in the past weeks.”

“I'm sure she'll be as safe and careful as she can be,” Becca answered. “I was going to offer to let her ride my horse, Harvey, during the week. He's big, but he's gentle. He's an old man now, and hasn't thrown anyone in over a decade.”

“That's nice of you. Thank you. Olivia will be over the moon.” Nicole shook her head. “You know, when you first hold your baby in your arms, you tell yourself you'll make any sacrifice so that they'll be happy. I never realized that the real sacrifice would be my own peace of mind.” She stood up—a not-so-subtle indication that the conversation had reached its natural close. “But that's family, I guess. You'll do anything for them.”

Becca got to her feet. “I discovered the same thing myself recently.”

Once her encounter with Nicole was concluded, Becca got back in her car and unfolded the address she'd written down earlier. When she'd looked up the music store online, she'd been surprised that it was less than a mile from where she lived. How had she never noticed it? But nothing about Gibney's Music was memorable. It stood next to an older shopping center, and its squat, stucco façade and faded sign seemed unremarkable by design. The interior wasn't much better. The gray carpet beneath her feet was worn through almost to the backing in places, and the whole store had a mildewed, metallic odor, like the inside of an old trombone case.

The man who came out from a workroom in the back at the sound of the doorbell also looked in need of updating. He had flyaway Einstein hair, and Mork from Ork suspenders stretching over an impressive gut. His green T-shirt decorated with a treble clef declared the wearer to be N
OTHING
B
UT
T
REBLE
.

Becca smiled at him in greeting and then looked over at the wall where a surprising number of instruments were displayed on holders. As a businesswoman, she was impressed by the variety, as well as by the fact that the man stayed in business at all. How many clarinets and flugelhorns could a person sell in a town the size of Leesburg?

“I'm looking for a saxophone,” she said.

“For a student?” he asked.

“No—the man knows how to play really well. Someone told me he could have been a professional.”

The folds of the man's face gathered together. “We don't rent professional instruments.”

“Then what do pros do?”

“They buy.”

She stepped forward and looked at the price on a medium sized–looking saxophone.
$6,998.00.
She gasped. No wonder Walt had hocked his and never replaced them.

“I can't afford that.”

“We rent student instruments by the week or month. There's a two-week minimum.”

“Okay. Could you rent me the best saxophone you have for two weeks?”

“Sure. What does he play?”

Hadn't they already covered this? “Saxophone.”

“There are different kinds.”

Right. Damn. She stared up at the wall again. Walt had even mentioned what he played, but she couldn't remember.

Seeing her confusion, the man prompted, “Soprano . . . alto . . . tenor . . . baritone . . .”

Tenor—that was it. She frowned. Or was it baritone. Or both.

“What would be cheaper? Tenor or baritone?”

“Tenor.” His eyes lit up. “Tell you what. I can rent you this old model I fixed up. I was going to put it on eBay, but I wouldn't mind keeping it around for a while. It's an old Buescher Top Hat and Cane. A classic!”

She couldn't bring herself to tell the man he might have been speaking Swahili to her. Besides, he was already rushing to the back to retrieve it.

Fifteen minutes later, she schlepped the sax in its tattered wood case across the Strawberry Cake Store's threshold. She'd been gone longer than anticipated, and she half-expected Erin to have run away to South America. Instead, all was calm. A modest line trailed away from the counter, and Erin looked perfectly in control of the situation. Progress.

Erin glanced down at the case as Becca dragged it back to the storeroom. “Are you going on a trip?”

“It's a gift for Walt. And a test, sort of.” Less conclusive than a DNA test, but she was curious to see how he'd respond.

Erin shook her head. “You're making even less sense than usual. Maybe you should have a cupcake.”

What Becca craved was caffeine, but first she helped out at the counter and caught up with serving the customers. As soon as they were alone again, Erin cornered her by the coffee station. “So how was it?”

Becca thought about the music store. “Being in that musty place made me glad I run a cake shop.”

“It was musty?” Erin jumped on the detail with surprising glee. “Good. Bob has allergies.”

Bob? Becca spent a split second connecting the dots. Somehow Erin had found out that she'd gone to talk to Nicole. “The
music store
was musty. Nicole's house wasn't. That woman's neat as a pin.”

Erin frowned. “Did you see Bob?”

“How did you know I was over there?”

“Pam called to find out how your ‘mission' had gone. It took me approximately thirty seconds to pump the specifics out of her.”

Of course. “Bob wasn't there,” she told Erin. Or if he was, he'd been hiding in a closet or something.

“What did she say about him?”