Cupcakes & Chardonnay (18 page)

Sleep deprivation is not good for me.
She took a deep breath and started on another one.
Wait—it's not my hand shaking. It's the cupcakes.
There was a loud noise outside and the building shook, as if something large had just slammed into an exterior wall. Suzanne stumbled to catch her balance, dropping the pastry bag full of icing in the process.

What was that?

Then the shop started to rock violently from side to side. The tray of cupcakes slid off the table and crashed onto the floor.
It's an earthquake. We're having an earthquake.

Suzanne's mind went blank for a moment. What was she supposed to do? She couldn't remember. Get out of the building! No. Get in a doorway. She ran to the doorway between the seating area and the kitchen.
The ovens!
She had to turn off the ovens. It's not the earthquake, it's the fires, right? She stumbled into the kitchen, lunging at the oven controls and turning them off. She was trying to make it back to the doorway when something heavy hit her on the head. She tried to grab the corner of a table as she fell. Everything went black.

What is that infernal ringing?
Suzanne opened her eyes.
And what am I doing on the floor?
A large pink mixing bowl lay in pieces next to her. She tried to sit up, but was stopped by a throbbing pain on the back of her head. She gingerly threaded her fingers through her hair, feeling for blood. No blood, she determined, but an impressive goose egg from the feel of it.

And that ringing! She heard it for thirty seconds, then it stopped. Then it started up again. Then it stopped. It kept doing that over and over. It took her several minutes to recognize the sound as that of her cell phone. Now if only she knew where she'd left her phone. She crawled up onto her hands and knees and then slowly stood up. What she saw nearly knocked her right back down. The shop was a mess. It looked like someone had picked it up and given it a good, hard shake. She closed her eyes. Maybe she was dreaming. That was it. She had to be dreaming. She was simply asleep. That's why everything was so quiet. Normally, the shop was noisy—with mixers mixing, customers chatting, the punch and click of the cash register, the hissing and bubbling of the coffee maker.

The phone began ringing again. She answered it.

"Suzanne! Where are you?" She winced at the sound of Daryle shouting through the phone. The pain in her head pounded some more. "I've been trying to get through to you for hours, but the lines are all jammed."

"Hours?" she said, looking toward the front of the shop and the street outside. Nothing around her looked right. She was confused. The sun was bright, as in afternoon bright. How long had she been out?

"Where are you?" Daryle repeated.

"Daryle, please don't yell. My head is killing me. I'm in the shop."

"Which one? Are you in Napa?"

"No. The Marina—"

"The Marina's on landfill! Are you okay? What's wrong with your head?"

Suzanne was having trouble following him. "What are you talking about? One question at a time, please."

She heard him take a deep breath on the other end. "Are you okay?"

"I think so. I hit my head. Or something hit me, maybe." She looked at all the shattered bowls and glassware on the floor, on the tables and countertops. "Was there an earthquake? Is that what happened?"

"According to CNN, yes. There was an earthquake in San Francisco. Suzanne, are you by yourself?"

"I think so. But let me check." She picked her way across the debris that used to be her shop, looking for anyone else. She tried to think who was scheduled to come in that day. Karen had the day off, she remembered that. The pain in her head was making it hard to think. She peered under tables and peeked into the restrooms. "I seem to be by myself. I guess no one else came in after the earthquake."

"What time did you get in?"

"It was seven-ish, the last time I looked at the clock." Brent! Brent stopped in during his run. "What time is it now?"

"One o'clock your time. Wait—what have you been doing all this time?"

"I guess I was knocked out."

"You need to get to a hospital.

"I think I'm fine. I'm not bleeding. How—how bad was it?"

"Pretty bad, from what I'm seeing on television. 7.4, they're saying. How's the shop?"

She looked around. The glass in the pastry cases were shattered. All that was left of the front windows were a few pieces of glass dangling from the window frame. Tables and chairs were strewn everywhere. The big refrigerator in the kitchen had toppled over. Nothing was left on any shelf. And there was a huge crack along one wall, stretching from floor to ceiling.

Tears welled up in her eyes and then spilled down over her cheeks. "I think it's totaled," she whispered.

"We'll rebuild."

"You don't have to do that."

"Of course I do. I'm your husband."

Her phone made a pinging noise. A text was coming through. It was from Brent.
SQ? Cleaning up HbNb. Have pwr H2O. Come here. Lv Marina.

"Brent just texted me. His restaurant has power. He wants me to go there."

"I think that's a good idea. If there are aftershocks, the Marina is not the place to be. Brent's restaurant is on solid ground."

Suzanne heard the honking of car horns in the background from his phone.

"I'm catching a cab to the airport right now, to try and get on standby for the next flight to San Francisco," Daryle said. "Go to Brent's. He'll take care of you."

Chapter 14

The HobNob was a popular spot for movers and shakers in the city. Lots of deals—and lots of money—got made in Brent's restaurant. The place was carefully designed to evoke success and discretion. What was said inside those walls would stay inside those walls. Suzanne walked slowly through the dining room, taking in the damage, fighting back tears. Brent had poured everything he had into this restaurant. It might still have power and water—the bare necessities—but things weren't going to be business as usual any time soon.

The elegant wood walls were scarred with jagged cracks. The iron curtain rods that had held up the heavy burgundy drapes had been shaken off the walls. Two bartenders were sweeping up broken liquor bottles that had tumbled to the floor. People with dazed looks on their faces sat at the tables. No one was wearing a suit or carrying a power briefcase or thumbing away at a Blackberry.

But in the kitchen, the HobNob was closer to its normal self. Cooks manned the stoves and prep stations. Waiters jogged past carrying trays of food. The HobNob's kitchen was as busy as The Cupcakery was quiet and deserted.

Brent was on his cell phone, talking to someone in his usual forceful manner. "Yes, we're open! We're feeding people. Yes, for free!" He hung up and rolled his eyes when he spotted Suzanne. "I'm trying to let the media know that we've got food and water for people who can make it down here. We're making whatever we can with whatever we have, until we run out."

"What can I help with?"

"Are you sure you're up to this? You look like hell, pardon my French."

"I'm feeling better. The walk helped clear my head. Besides I don't have anywhere else to go. The Cupcakery is a mess. And I went by my apartment on the way here."

Brent grimaced. "I almost hate to ask. What did you find?"

Suzanne angled her hand to simulate a leaning building. "It will have to be torn down. And there's a huge chunk of a building sitting in what used to be my car. So I'm officially homeless."

"You're the most chipper homeless person I've ever met."

"Nothing I can really do about it at the moment, right? I'm here, so put me to work."

Suzanne spent an hour making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for kids, then batch after batch of buttermilk biscuits. When Brent said he was improvising, he wasn't kidding. He had people frying chicken, grilling burgers, chopping salads, making pitcher after pitcher of tea. It wasn't the Hob Nob's usual fare—that tended toward thick bloody steaks and heavily sauced pastas—but the people streaming in the front door didn't seem to care.

Suzanne was chopping onions for soup when she felt a hand, firm and possessive, settle on her lower back. She looked back over her shoulder to see who it was. Her eyes widened when she saw Daryle standing there.

"How—" she turned around to face him. "How did you get back so soon?"

"I ended up calling in a favor from a big customer. Someone who happens to own a private jet." He grinned, then leaned in to embrace her

She held out her arms and backed away. 'I'm a mess," she said. "I've been chopping onions for over an hour."

"I don't care—" Just as Daryle reached out for her again, Brent clapped him on the shoulder.

"Thanks for the financial support, Mr. Catterton," he said. "But if you're here, you gotta work." He handed Daryle an apron and pushed him in the direction of the dishwashers.

"Did he—"Suzanne said.

"Yup. He called me from the airport to say he'd pay for all this today. Which was very generous of him and I'll accept the help, but I don't want him near you." He reached out and brushed an errant strand of hair out of her face. "Just because you were knocked out and don't remember how you felt this morning doesn't mean I've forgotten it."

Suzanne continued chopping onions, then carrots and celery, occasionally sneaking a glance toward the back of the kitchen. Brent caught her doing it once and wagged his finger at her. She hadn't seen Daryle in weeks, since right after the funeral. She had missed him. There. She admitted it. Even though he was divorcing her and paying a large sum of money to get her out of his life, she missed him.

I'm hopeless. Of all the men I've dated, Daryle has treated me the worst.
And the best, a tiny voice in the back of her head piped up. With Daryle, the highs were the highest and the lows were the lowest.
I need a relationship that's more even-keeled. No highs, no lows. Just someone steady.
That would never be Daryle.

When she ran out of vegetables to chop, she wandered over to where Brent's pastry chef was working and helped her get more layer cakes in the oven. Then she made pitcher after pitcher of iced tea and circulated among the dining room tables, pouring refills and clearing tables.

At seven o'clock, she poured herself a glass of cold water and slipped out into the alley behind the restaurant to get some fresh air. She drank the water like she'd just spent a week in the desert, then poured some over her neck. She gasped as an ice cube fell from the glass and slid down between her breasts, a lone trickle of moisture making it all the way to her navel. She'd forgotten just how damn hot a restaurant kitchen gets. Even at its busiest, The Cupcakery's kitchen never got as hot as the HobNob's. 

The evening sky was grey and damp with fog. It would be dark soon. She leaned back against the cool stone of the building. What a day, she thought. A 7.4 earthquake. Her shop and apartment destroyed. She was back cooking in Brent's kitchen, like old times. And Daryle was washing dishes. Something she'd bet her last dollar on that he had never done before.

She heard voices coming from around the back corner of the building. No, just one voice. She listened closer. It was Daryle. She moved toward the corner, then stopped as she heard the strident tone in his voice. She peered cautiously around the edge of the building. Daryle was standing with his back to her, his phone pressed tight to his ear.

"I want it done right away, Liam! It's a divorce. How long can it take?" she heard him say, in that impatient I'm-a-rich-important-person voice. "I will inform Suzanne myself."

Suzanne slunk back to her side of the building, her heart dropping further into her feet with each cowed step. Even in the aftermath of an earthquake, with much of the city shut down, all he was really worried about was getting the divorce done as fast as possible. When she had turned to see him standing behind her, with an expression of concern on his face that had certainly
looked
sincere, she thought maybe ...? Maybe she'd been wrong earlier? Maybe he did have feelings for her? After all, he'd just flown all the way back from Texas and come straight here. If Brent hadn't interrupted, she would have thrown her arms around him. Against all her better judgment, she would have done it anyway. She was that glad to see him.

How many times do I have to be wrong about this guy?

She fought the urge to stamp her feet like a child and scream. Stupid, she thought, how could I be so stupid! To fall for Daryle Catterton all over again? Even though he had been nothing but upfront with her this time. He wanted to marry her so he could inherit Iris Vineyards. After that was accomplished, he would divorce her.
What part of that did I not understand?

On the other side of the alley was a row of metal trash dumpsters, surrounded by paper and boxes and broken glass. It was going to take months to get the city cleaned up, she thought.
What the hell.
She threw her water glass across the alley with all the might she could muster. It crashed into one of the dumpsters with a satisfying shatter. She watched the tiny shards of glass glitter in the fading daylight as they fell to the ground. It wasn't until she exhaled that she realized she had been holding her breath. It felt good to release that energy.