Charleston with a Clever Cougar: A Dance with Danger Mystery #6 (5 page)

“Disappointed?” He tilted his head, watching
me with intense eyes that burned slow and hot, giving off steady
heat.

“No,” I insisted, suddenly feeling shy. I
reached for a more gracious tone. “No. I was waiting for my ride to
the shop. What are you doing here?”

“I’m your ride to the shop,” he announced
matter-of-factly, with what seemed to be some healthy measure of
satisfaction.

“Oh.” I was stunned.

“You have a mark on your face,” he told me,
striding across the living room and taking a tissue from the box on
the end table. “Let me get that.”

“That’s not necessary. I can do it.” Leaning
over the mirror again, I could see the black line, but when I
started to raise my right hand to wipe it away, the pain was
excruciating.

“Ready to say ‘uncle’ yet?” He stood three
feet from me, tissue waving like a white flag. “I promise not to
bite your head off.”

“I always do my own makeup,” I tried to
explain.

“Well, if you want makeup done right, you’ll
have to accept my help. Either that, or go without.”

Without makeup? The thought was impalpable.
But turning over my eyeliner to a stranger was equally
daunting.

“Pretend I’m a surgeon and I’m going to fix
you up,” he told me. Reluctantly, I handed him the crayon. He
gently drew the lines above and below my lids before handing it
back and picking up the mirror to show me his handiwork. “How’s
that? Okay? Now what?”

“Mascara.” I pointed to the tube on the
counter. “I usually just do the tips. And I hate clumps.”

He carefully stroked the tips of the lashes,
used a finger to blot a clump of black goo, and then used the brush
to fluff them up, All said and done, he did a decent job on my
eyes. I wouldn’t be a walking ad for a zombie when I got to the
shop.

“Lipstick?”

“Lip gloss,” I corrected him. There was a
tube of Maybelline Misty Pink in my makeup bag.

“I’ve always wanted to know the difference
between lipstick and lip gloss,” he told me. I could see the tiny
hairs on his masculine hand as he swiped my lips with the wand.

“I have no clue. I only know that my lips
don’t get chapped when I use lip gloss. Shall we go?” I asked him,
as he put the makeup back into its sack, put it in my pocketbook,
and picked up the tablet and the keys. “Can you please put the
tablet into the side pocket?”

“Handy. What about a coat?”

“Oh,” I groaned. Putting on the big shirt had
been painful, and the thought of slipping my arms into a coat was
almost more than I could bear.

“Where’s your closet?” he demanded. Spying a
door to the left of the entry, he quickly opened it and began
digging through the hanging items. He examined a couple of choices
before pulling out an old swing coat in raspberry wool.

“How’s this? You can wear it as a cape, so
you don’t have to put your arms through the sleeves.”

“But it’s pink!” I made a face.

“What’s more important, being
color-coordinated or being comfortable?” When I hesitated to
answer, he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “Okay. Suffer
if you must.”

Three coats later, I settled on my tan
microfiber parka, which he draped around my shoulders. I started
towards the front door when I heard him address me in that rough
tone again.

“You have your prescription?”

“What?” Turning, I looked at those fierce
eyes, unsettled by what I saw.

“Your pills. Do you have them with you?”

“Oh, no. They’re in the bedroom.”

“I’ll get them.” Before I could protest, he
had gone up the staircase, returning triumphantly a moment later,
bottle in hand.

“How did you know I had a prescription?” I
wondered.

“I was a medic, remember?” That rigid look
came back to his face. “I used to have to give these to guys who
were injured all the time. You don’t want to skip a dose. It’ll
create problems for you. What are you supposed to take for the
swelling?”

“Advil.”

“Where is that?” he asked.

“Powder room, on the sink.”

Once again he headed down the hall,
reemerging a moment later with the bottle. Everything was tucked
into my pocketbook, which he shouldered, and then he escorted me
out of the condo, locking the door behind us.

“I don’t even know your name,” I told
him.

“You can call me Doc.”

“Doc?”

“That’s my nickname.”

“What’s your real name?”

“I stopped using that a long time ago,” he
acknowledged.

“Why?” That slipped out before I could stop
myself. I heard him draw a breath before he answered.

“Dermot Ayotte.”

“Wow. That’s a mouthful,” I commiserated.

“I left that life behind when I went into the
Army. Now I’m Doc. Any more questions?” The tone warned me off, so
I dropped it. But it made me wonder who Doc really was and what he
was like before the Army claimed him.

He led me across the parking lot of the
Soundings to an old, beat-up green van. When he opened the door, I
stuck my head in, wondering what I was getting myself into by
accepting a ride from this stranger. There were two bucket seats up
front and an empty cargo space in the back. I could see a couple of
duffle bags, a sleeping bag, an inflatable twin mattress, and what
looked like a tent sack. Doc was a camper. Even though the outside
was showing wear and tear, the interior of the van was neat and
tidy, the seats clean and uncluttered, the cup holders empty.

“Let me give you a hand up,” he insisted, as
I studied the step I would have to navigate to climb in. Without
warning, his hands took hold of my waist and I could feel his
breath on my cheek. “Okay. Duck your head and step up. I’ve got
you.”

Once I was in the van, he reached across me
and pulled my seat belt into place, clicking the metal fastener
into its receptacle. Then he carefully closed my door and
disappeared momentarily. I waited, somewhat nervously. I wasn’t
used to letting strangers take over my life like this. I hoped he
was as careful with his driving as he was with his van. It didn’t
really matter how friendly he was. I just wanted to get to the shop
in one piece.

Chapter Five --

“Cady, baby!” Darlene threw her arms around
me, gently hugging me. “Oh, kid! You look like crapola!”

“How sweet,” I replied wryly. “You sure know
how to make a girl feel welcome.”

“You should have stayed home to rest,” she
chastised me, her tone motherly. “You’ll be back on your feet
sooner if you take care of yourself.”

“Can’t afford it. We’ve got the Henslacker
wedding on Saturday.”

“But this is Tuesday. There’s plenty of
time.”

“Not really,” I told her. “I have to shop for
the ingredients and then we have to make the cake and the
cookies.”

The lunch bunch was coming through for
coffee, snacks, and our ready-to-go sandwiches. Normally, we did
three daily choices on the bread of the day, threw in a pickle and
a bag of chips into the biodegradable containers made from sugar
pulp fiber. We also did a soup of the day and a soup/sandwich
combo. Our turkey and Havarti was usually a big seller, as was our
curried egg salad. On days when the soup choice was chili con
carne, we were out of it by twelve-thirty, because folks started
coming in for lunch at 11:30. Today’s choices were chicken salad,
fresh mozzarella with basil and sliced tomatoes, and ham with Swiss
for sandwiches, and minestrone for soup. I looked through the glass
door of the refrigerator and saw very few pre-wrapped choices
left.

“We’re almost out of sandwiches,” I
announced. “It’s not even quarter to one!”

I shrugged myself out of my coat, prepared to
hit the line to make some more, when Daisy came around the corner
with a tray laden with a fresh supply.

“Relax, Cady. I’ve got this,” she told me
confidently.

“Oh.”

“Doc thought it might be less confusing if I
prepped the sandwiches out back, so Mom and Darlene would have more
room to move.”

“Yes,” Darlene nodded. “That was a good
idea.”

“We’ve actually sold more than seventy-five
sandwiches,” Carole announced gleefully. “Isn’t that great?”

Normally, we were lucky if we sold fifty, but
that’s because the sandwiches were really just a way to promote our
breads.

“Yeah,” Daisy said, busy putting the
sandwiches into the containers and handing them to Carole to mark.
“We went through the sourdough and had to switch over to the hearty
multigrain.”

“Looks like you folks did just fine without
me,” I decided. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, especially
considering they changed the usual routine, with great success. “I
guess you’ve got all this covered for now, so I’ll just get started
on the shopping list.”

I headed into the back, where I had a proper
kitchen with big ovens, a walk-in, and storage shelves, my
pocketbook gripped tightly in my hands, so as to not jar my sore
muscles. I passed the stainless steel prep table where Walter was
punching down down dough in a big bowl and went into my little
cubicle of an office. Sinking into my swivel desk chair, I pulled
out my tablet and turned it on. I thought I could do a “click and
pull” order for BJ’s Wholesale Club in Waterford, if I could get my
list ready before five. I’d just have to find someone to pick it up
tomorrow. I knew I needed flour for the cake and the cookies. Tara
Henslacker and her husband-to-be, Todd Gump, wanted a very
untraditional cake. They settled on the death-by-chocolate version,
which was a rich, moist cake I make with Dutch-processed cocoa and
strong, hot coffee. Each tier would be sliced into four thin
layers, with chocolate mousse between, and once I covered it with
fudge frosting, I would smother it in white chocolate ganache and
then white fondant, before adding details in icing and decorations.
Lucky for me, they had requested the simple stacked round version,
which meant four graduated layers on a cake stand. Nothing fancy or
complicated. I was bent over the tablet, typing notes, when I
sensed a presence. Looking up, a figure stood in the doorway.

“What do you need me to do?” Doc asked.

“Do?”

“You need help. What do you want me to do?”
Those green eyes were on me. “And don’t insult my intelligence by
suggesting you can do whatever you’re doing by yourself. I don’t
take rejection well.”

What did that mean? I was afraid to ask. I
took a moment before answering. I realized I was actually
considering his offer. What I really needed to do was to take
inventory of what I had on hand, what I would need by Thursday, and
then I would double it, just in case anything went wrong. In the
warmer months, I didn’t use this strategy, but when there was a
risk of a late winter storm, I learned it was best to be prepared.
When I did the Rorchak wedding three years ago, Marnie wanted a
winter wonderland theme and she got it, with a big-time,
traffic-paralyzing blizzard. Unfortunately, it resulted in a power
failure two days before the wedding, while the cake was baking in
the oven. I had to scramble to buy the ingredients to make another,
wait for the power to be turned back on, and then I was up all
night putting it all together. Ever since, I made a point of making
sure I had enough to redo any disasters. That way, if the weather
was inclement, I could still be ready for Saturday, even if I had
to walk in the snow to get to the shop.

“If you’re sure you want to do this....”

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t prepared to see
it through,” he replied gruffly. “Bring it on, sister.”

“Okay. Let’s go into the kitchen. I have to
check supplies.” I slipped past him, all too aware of how close he
was. Only a few inches taller than me, it was hard to escape those
eyes. They seemed to follow me everywhere I went. “Can you please
give me an estimate of how much flour I have, third shelf up. Same
with the sugar, the confectioner’s sugar, the baking powder, the
baking....”

“What kind of estimate?”

“Half a bag, quarter of a bag....”

A hour later, Doc and I were in his van, on
our way to shop at BJ’s Club. He had offered after I’d consumed
some soup, a muscle relaxant, some Advil, and coffee. While I was
seated at one of the shop’s little tables, Daisy informed me that
Doc made the coffee for the shop, that he even knew how to operate
the bean grinder. She was very impressed. Carole sat with me for a
few minutes while I finished my coffee, telling me he had arrived
at the shop a little after seven to ask Walter how I was and he
ended up staying to pitch in when the shop was flooded with
customers. And now he was to be my chauffeur for the afternoon.

“I should pay you for your time,” I told Doc
as we crossed the bridge into Old Lyme, barreling along I-95.

“Not necessary. Happy to do it,” was all he
said, his eyes on the road.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to pay you in free
coffee,” I smiled.

“That depends,” he replied. “I only want to
drink coffee I enjoy. None of that stale stuff.”

“Oh,” I laughed lightly, “so that’s the way
it’s going to be, is it?”

“Throw in the blueberry muffins and you’ve
got a deal.”

“You should try my banana muffins. Those are
pretty good, too. And my peach cobbler muffins....”

“I’ll think about it.” For a moment, I almost
thought I saw a smile forming on his face, but then it was gone and
he changed the subject. “How are you going to do all this baking
for the wedding? You can’t really do any heavy lifting.”

“Well, I was going to ask Walter to help me
mix the cake and bake it. And we have to bake the cookies, too. I
thought I could ask Daisy to help me on that.”

“When do you normally do your baking for
weddings?” he asked. The question surprised me.

“When do I normally do the baking? Why?”

“Walter starts early, at four in the morning,
right? He does all the bread, because the dough has to rise for a
couple of hours before baking. From ten to two, you folks deal with
the lunch bunch. Doesn’t that mean the cake and cookies get baked
between two and six, when you close?” Doc glanced over at me, his
heavy glasses obscuring his eyes.