Cupcakes & Chardonnay (17 page)

Daryle stood up and strode over to the window. Liam had a point. Some people might find it odd that he and Suzanne were divorcing after less than a year.

"It will take some time to happen though, right?" he said without turning away from the window. "So if we get things started now, by the time it's done, enough time will have passed."

"There's a six month waiting period, that's true. And if you're discreet, no one needs to know what the two of you are doing until the divorce is final." Liam joined Daryle at the window. "Your wife's new shop seems to be doing well. My wife and daughters are in her Marina one all the time. I should be an investor."

Daryle nodded, noncommittally. It was true. The Cupcakery had been a smashing success in Napa. He had wondered if traffic would drop off after the grand opening. But he drove past it almost every day and there was usually a line snaking out the front door and onto the sidewalk.

"That's exactly why I need to get this started right away. Suzanne could expand her business considerably, if she had the resources. I don't want to hold her back by delaying."

Liam rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I'm not sure this was what your mother really intended, though."

Daryle threw up his hands in exasperation. He wasn't used to other people parrying his wishes. "I know what my mother's intention was. And her intentions were usually good, if sometimes a little ill-conceived. But the issue here is Suzanne's intentions. She married me—and did it very reluctantly, I might add—in exchange for the money for her business. I can't renege on that. Even if Suzanne wanted to stay married to me, which she doesn't. She held up her end of the bargain and so I owe her a divorce."

Liam looked curiously at Daryle. He had inherited a little of his mother's testiness after all. "I'll get to work on it then. Leave me her contact information."

Daryle scribbled Suzanne's cell and home phone numbers on the back of a business card. "I'm flying out tomorrow for a wine conference in Dallas. I'll touch base when I get back."

Daryle rode the elevator back down the twenty stories to the parking garage. Inside his sleek grey car, he inserted the key into the ignition and then leaned his head against the cool leather seat. Wasn't it just yesterday that he had "kidnapped" Suzanne and driven her to Napa to convince her to marry him? It sure felt like it. And now it was ending. He should be happy. He had Iris Vineyards. He was now the owner. And as soon as the divorce came through, he could start dating again. That would be fun, he told himself.
Remember when you had sex every night?
There'd been more women than he'd had available nights.

He pulled out of the garage and wound his way through the streets of the financial district. Daryle loved to drive. That was one reason why he had never minded the frequent trips back and forth between the city and the winery. He crossed Mission Street into arty South of Market, then began the steep drive up to Potrero Hill. He'd owned a condo in Potrero Hill for years.

When he unlocked the door, he was hit with a stale, musty smell. He hadn't stayed here in months. Alanna used the place when she was in town, but other than that it had been mostly unoccupied since he began working at the winery. He opened the refrigerator and leaned in. Not much in there. A few bottles of water, half-empty condiments, a stick of butter. He grabbed a water and sat down in the morning room.

How many mornings had he sat here with a beautiful woman—clad only in one of his custom-made shirts or a bathrobe or, well, even less—drinking coffee and looking out over the breathtaking view? From here, candy-colored houses cascaded down the steep streets of the neighborhood; in the distance rose the skyscrapers of the financial district. He uncapped the water and took a long, cool drink.

Suzanne had spent only a few nights here. When they were dating, usually he spent the night at her place. Suzanne liked to be on her own turf. He sighed. She had never been comfortable in his world. There was nothing of Suzanne in the condo. Lots of remnants of other women, but not of her. He slammed the water bottle down, spilling water onto the table. He ignored it and strode back to his marble-clad bathroom. He began yanking open cabinets and drawers.
Look at all the stuff in here.
Lipsticks, hairbrushes, expensive shampoos, a small leather bag of cosmetics. He didn't even know who these things belonged to anymore. He retrieved a trash bag from the kitchen pantry and tossed everything in.

He looked around the leather sofas in the living room, the large screen plasma television, the fully-stocked bar, the modern paintings on the wall.
I need to sell this place.
The thought came out of nowhere, but once it was there, it felt right. The condo no longer felt like his. He couldn't imagine living here now, couldn't imagine living anywhere but at the winery. That's where his life was. Nor could he imagine bringing women here anymore. The thought of dating again suddenly depressed him.

This was what he had wanted. He had wanted to inherit Iris Vineyards, and now he had. So why wasn't he happy?

He leaned his forehead against a window and peered out into the city. Where was she right now, he wondered. Was she in the Marina shop? Or Napa? He never knew. She came and went without telling him. Every evening, he went back to his suite, hopeful that there'd be some sign she had been there. Something left in the bathroom or the impression of her body in the duvet on the bed. But she came and went like a ghost. She was trying to leave so little imprint on his life, but it was having the exact opposite effect. Her absence swirled around his days, whispered in his ear at night, followed him out into the vineyards.

She had stayed at the winery until just after the funeral, then she'd gone home. It was like she had—pouf—disappeared into thin air. Well, what did he expect? This was what he had offered her. She was only living according to the terms he had come up with. There was no need for her to pretend to be his loving wife anymore, and so she had gone back to her own life. She was just waiting for the divorce now.

I want to see her.
He'd been trying to avoid that thought for weeks. But there was no denying it. He wanted to hold her in his arms. Kiss her for hours on end. He wanted to wake up and find her soft warm body in his arms.
I want to go back to that time when I had sex every night. With Suzanne.

Chapter 13

Suzanne was inside the pantry in the Marina Cupcakery. It was early in the morning, the dawn sun outside still filtered through the fog. She liked to take inventory before her staff arrived. Once the day's baking began, it was hard to account for every last bag of cake flour and bottle of imported Madagascar vanilla.

She was tallying up bags of coconut, when she heard someone knocking on the front window of the shop. The unexpected noise startled her and she dropped both her pencil and notepad. She hurried out to the front of the shop, expecting to see the police.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Brent, in running shoes and shorts, peering in through the window. She unlocked the front door and let him in.

"I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard someone pounding on the window," she said. "You're not supposed to stop for cupcakes when you're running, you know."

"Usually, I stop for a grande latte halfway through."

Brent touched a finger to Suzanne's chin and lifted her head up. He squinted at her face.

"Either you've developed a severe allergy to cupcakes or you've been crying," he observed.

"I'm coming down with something."

"It looks like you're coming down with pinkeye, in which case you really shouldn't be working in a food establishment. I could call the health inspector."

Suzanne turned away to return to the pantry. "If I'd known I was going to have visitors, I'd have worn sunglasses," she muttered under her breath. Yes, her eyes were red and puffy. Yes, she'd spent half the night crying.

Brent followed her into the back. "I knew this was going to happen. You fell for him again, didn't you? And now his mother is gone and he's divorcing you."

Suzanne shrugged her weary shoulders without looking back at her friend. She was in no mood to discuss this with Brent. Or with anyone, for that matter. The Cattertons' family lawyer had contacted her yesterday to let her know that Daryle had initiated divorce proceedings and what the approximate timeline would be.

"I have half a mind to drive up to Napa right now and tear him limb from limb," Brent said.

Suzanne stopped and turned around. "You can't," she said. "He's in Dallas for a wine show." A fact she discovered when she called his office line yesterday and got a voice mail recording informing all callers that Daryle Catterton would be out of town for a week. He started the divorce, then skipped town without even telling her? That was what had set off last night's crying jag. He couldn't extend to her the courtesy of a phone call? Or an email, even? Hell, she'd have settled for a text message. He treated his grape pickers better than that.

She let out one long, sorrowful sigh. "You were right, Brent. You were one hundred percent right, as usual. Is that what you want me to say?"

Brent shook his head. "No, Suzanne, it's not what I wanted you to say. I'd been holding out hope that he had changed. For a while there, it seemed like maybe he had."

"He couldn't even tell me himself that he was initiating divorce proceedings! He had his lawyer call me. Then he left for Dallas without telling me that either."

"I'm sorry, Suzanne. I know people in Dallas."

"Scary dangerous people?"

"Well, no."

That was enough to get a half-hearted laugh out of Suzanne. "The lawyer said Daryle wants to front me the money now instead of waiting for the divorce to be final. God, he really wants to be rid of me, doesn't he?"

"I'd take his wines off my wine list in retaliation ... but we never put them on in the first place."

Suzanne took a deep breath. "I'll be fine, Brent. I will. This is what I signed up for. He used me and I used him. We were both consenting adults."

"The problem is you consented to a few other things along the way."

She smiled ruefully. "I know. I thought I was so over him that I could pull it off. I underestimated his charm, that Catterton charisma."

"Well if it's any consolation, everyone underestimates people like that." Brent looked at his watch. "Gotta run. I'm interviewing new maitre'd candidates this morning. Call if you need anything."

"Good luck," Suzanne said as Brent pushed open the door and stepped back out onto the foggy street. She was about to relock it, when a thought occurred to her. She jogged after Brent.

"Brent," she called out.

He turned around, continuing to jog backward.

"Question. Noe Valley or Rockledge for the third Cupcakery?"

"Both," he called back. "Get that damn divorce and open both. Success is the best revenge, Suzie-Q."

Except she didn't want revenge, she reflected later. She pulled a tray of double fudge cupcakes from the oven. She wanted to be angry, spilling over with blind fury at what Daryle had done ... but she couldn't. It wasn't in her. What she felt, instead, was a deep sadness and a whole lot of confusion.

This was the deal that Daryle had offered. No one had forced her to accept it. She could have walked away. She very nearly did. But ... had
everything
been a sham? The week in Chicago? That last dinner they'd shared at the winery? Daryle had set up a round café table outside, among the vines, where they'd have complete privacy. There had been wine and candles, and a soft blanket on the ground for after ...

How could a person fake that? How can you kiss someone the way he had kissed her, touched her, held her—and have it just be business? She sure couldn't. But maybe a man like Daryle Catterton could. Maybe he could do business and enjoy himself a little at the same time. He'd certainly enjoyed himself with her. Yet again.

She whipped together butter, sugar and vanilla in the mixer until it was fluffy and creamy. She counted out drops of raspberry liqueur and gently mixed those in, then  carried the large stainless steel mixing bowl over to the table of cupcakes.

I need to go back to focusing on my business.
She had control over the business. If sales slipped, she could advertise more, run special promotions, make more catering calls. That was all within her power. Daryle Catterton was not, nor ever would be. He had been an interesting diversion, but that was all Daryle wanted to be to women. He wanted a pretty thing on his arm and in his bed. Well, there were plenty of other women who would be happy to play that role. Suzanne was done with it.

She stepped back to admire the first cupcake she frosted. She was good at baking and running a cupcake shop. She never tired of unlocking the door to her own place in the morning, of firing up the ovens, of watching the smiles on customers' faces as they tasted her creations. She believed that everyone had their place in the world, the thing they were meant to do. And this was hers.

She leaned in to frost the next cupcake. She squeezed the pastry bag slowly and steadily, laying down thick coils of pale pink frosting around and around the domed top of each cupcake. She was almost to the top of the cupcake when her hand wobbled. She frowned at the squiggle of icing that now hung off the side of the cupcake and dripped onto the table. She set that cupcake aside and started on a fresh one. But her shaking hand ruined that one too.