Recipe for Love (3 page)

Gaston Pierre Hollande let out a high-pitched, explosive word, which Rachel assumed
to be a French curse, and stomped his foot. “Make no mistake,” Gaston declared, his
tone ten times haughtier than when he’d first walked in, “Hollande’s French Pastry
Parlor will be number one.”

The door slammed behind him on his way out, and Andi gestured to the Frenchman as
he passed outside the front window. “How did a cupcake get into his hat?”

“Mike swiped it off the counter with his hand behind his back,” Rachel said, smiling.

“Discovering my secrets?” Mike asked, giving her an amused look. He took out his wallet.
“How much do I owe you?”

“You don’t owe us anything,” Rachel told him. “You did us a favor. That man has an
ego larger than the Astoria−Megler Bridge.”

“I overheard the way he talked to you, and I didn’t like it,” Mike said, and a muscle
jumped along the side of his jaw. “My sister dated someone with a similar attitude.
It didn’t end well.”

“What happened?”

“He broke her heart.”

A string of faces floated through Rachel’s mind. The ones who had managed to get too
close were the ones who had broken
her
heart. “Has she met anyone else since?”

“No.”

Rachel recalled the boys in grade school who teased her for her freckles and red hair.
A few years later, after she’d used a myriad of beauty products to change her appearance,
her high school boyfriend dumped her for someone more popular because she didn’t party
enough. Then when she went to college and passed herself off as “the party girl,”
her college sweetheart took her for granted. That’s when she’d initiated the two-date
limit to keep her relationships fresh and exciting and her heart intact. So far, it
had worked.

“Rachel?”

She snapped out of her revelry, glanced toward the front door, where Andi and Kim
stood waving goodbye to the party guests, and refocused on the masked magician in
front of her. “Did you say something?”

“I asked for your phone number, but you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Funny how memories can haunt you,
she thought. She cocked her head, relishing the thought of a temporary diversion.
“You want my phone number?”

“Of course,” he said, and his mouth twitched into a subtle grin. “Unless you don’t
want to give it to me.”

“Depends,” Rachel teased. “Will you call to ask me to be the one you saw in half at
your next magic show, or will you use it to ask me out?”

“I’m asking you out now. I only need your phone number to confirm the details.”

Rachel gave him a big smile, turned toward her friends, and called out, “Andi, Kim,
where’s a pen?”

T
EN O’CLOCK
M
ONDAY
morning, Rachel sprawled across her quilted patchwork bed, her cell phone to her
ear, and waited for the coordinator of the Crab, Seafood, and Wine Festival to answer.

“The deadline for sign-ups was three months ago,” the woman told her.

Rachel’s spirits sank, but then there was another voice in the background speaking
to the woman in charge.

“You may be in luck,” the woman continued. “It seems one of our other food vendors
has an emergency and needs to pull out. I can let you have his space.”

“Great. How much?”

“A ten-by-ten aisle space rents for four hundred dollars.”

Rachel thought of Creative Cupcakes’ limited bank account and then Gaston’s smug face.
The event brought thousands of people into town each year, many from neighboring states,
and with them came a boatload of money. She hadn’t associated cupcakes with crab,
seafood, and wine, but, hey, why not? Cupcakes tasted good no matter where you ate
them, didn’t they?

A large percentage of the locals took on double-, sometimes triple-duty temporary
jobs during the weekend festival to both help out and earn extra cash. Last year her
postman drove one of the school buses transporting people back and forth from the
various hotels in town to the fairgrounds. Andi had once worked as a hired hand serving
crab in the main dining hall. And she herself had once stood near the entrance stamping
hands and collecting the fairgoers’ festival fee.

Still, $400 was a lot of money.

“Can I discuss this with my business partners and get back to you on this?” Rachel
asked.

“Only if you can get back to me within the next ten minutes,” the woman replied. “I
know others who would be interested in taking the space.”

Rachel called Andi at home. No answer. Next, she called Kim at the cupcake shop and
didn’t get a hold of her either. She called Jake at his day job working at the office
of the
Astoria Sun
, but he was out on assignment. And not one of them answered when she called their
cell phones.

What should she do? She hated making a decision without consulting her friends, but
this was an opportunity too big to miss. Hoping she wouldn’t regret her choice, she
called back the woman in charge of the Astoria Crab, Seafood, and Wine Festival.

“Yes,” Rachel said, her voice resolute. “We’ll take it.”

If they didn’t make any money at the festival, Rachel would take responsibility and
suffer the loss from her own earnings from the cupcake shop. She might not be able
to afford gas for her car, but Kim didn’t have a vehicle and managed to get around.
She could do the same.

She flipped open the latest issue of
Beauty, Fashion, and Glamour
magazine to an article titled, “Top Ten Tips: How to Make Men Fall Irresistibly in
Love with You.”

Her cell phone buzzed, and she wondered which of her business partners had finally
received her message. Instead, it was a text from the magician, Mike Palmer.

Are you available for dinner tonight?

They had agreed on dinner at the new seafood restaurant on pier 39 in the renovated
Bumble Bee Hanthorn Cannery but hadn’t decided what night would suit both of their
schedules.

Smiling, she rolled over on the bed and punched in her reply.
Need to work. How bout this weekend? Oops. Scratch that. Our shop @ the Crab & Wine
fest.

Mike responded a few seconds later.
Next Wednesday?

She tried to imagine what he might look like without the mysterious black mask. Would
he live up to her expectations? After checking her calendar, she sent back:
It’s a date.

The deep rumble of her mother’s car sounded in the driveway, and Rachel pushed aside
the flimsy lace curtain to look out her second-story garage apartment window. Tossing
her cell phone on the dresser filled with perfume, nail polish, and makeup, she hurried
down the steps.

“You’re home early,” Rachel said, as her mom got out of the beat-up minivan.

“I had to take your grandfather to his doctor’s appointment.”

“How did it go?”

“As well as it could.”

Her mother’s face appeared more haggard than usual. Could be from the two jobs she
took on to pay her grandfather’s medical bills.

“Rachel, help me get your grandfather into the house, please.”

She obeyed and opened the passenger side of the car. Grandpa Lewy had his wispy white
head tilted back, and he was snoring with his mouth wide open. Her mother gave him
a gentle shake, and the old man woke with a start.

“I told you I like my eggs hard-boiled,” he scolded.

Rachel and her mother pulled him out of the seat, and balancing his weight between
them, they managed to lead him into the house.

“When were you hired? You aren’t the regular nurse who comes in,” Rachel’s grandpa
said, looking up into her face. “Do I know you?”

“Yes,” Rachel answered, meeting her mother’s gaze as they helped him into his rocker.
“I’m your granddaughter.”

“I’m related to you?” The old man laughed. “Your hair is as red as a twelve-pound
radish!”

“So was yours back in the day,” Rachel’s mom chided.

A few minutes later, Grandpa Lewy was comfortably snoring once again.

“Would you like breakfast?” Rachel followed her mother down the hall. “Or should I
get out the leftover chicken-and-rice casserole from last night?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“How about I fix you some tea and maybe we could talk?” Rachel asked hopefully.

“I have to sleep now so I can work tonight.” Her mother patted her hand and shot her
a look of compassion. “Soon?”

Rachel had heard her mother say “soon” for the last decade. “I thought life would
be easier with the state-certified nurse coming to watch over him every day.”

“His Alzheimer’s is getting worse,” her mother confided. “The doctor told me there’s
a new treatment that could help, but it’s deemed ‘experimental,’ and the insurance
won’t cover it. I might have to find extra work.”

“Mom, no!” Rachel protested. “You’re already working two jobs. I can’t remember the
last time we spent a whole day together. If you take on more hours, I’ll never see
you.”

“What choice do I have?”

“Let me help,” Rachel told her. “Creative Cupcakes still needs to grow, but I’ll give
you whatever I can each week.”

“We need $10,000,” her mom said wearily, “and if he doesn’t start the treatment soon,
we could lose him.”

“Lose Grandpa?” Rachel swallowed hard. It seemed like they’d just lost her father
not too long ago. Drowned in a boating accident. She couldn’t lose Grandpa Lewy, too.
Out of all her family, he was the one she’d always related to best.

She remembered her grandfather running around the beach, his bright red hair waving
in the wind as he chased her through the tide pools when she was a little girl. In
a family of redheads, tempers tended to flare, like hers did when they moved from
Long Beach, Washington, to Astoria when she was in the first grade.

The kids in her new class at school took one look at her ruddy freckles and flaming
hair and called her “the Sunkist Monster” because she was all orange. She’d exploded
into a rage and promised revenge, but her fuse was doused by the tears that followed.
It was her grandfather who had pulled her close, cradled her in his arms, and told
her not to listen to them.

“There will be at least one other girl eager to be your friend, if you look hard enough,”
he predicted.

He was right. Next door to their new house there were two girls, a blonde about her
age and the dark-haired sister who was four years younger. Through the years they’d
fought and played, but they always stuck together when it mattered most. Who knew
they’d end up opening a cupcake shop together?

Harnessing her Irish temper into firm resolve, she pushed her voice past the ache
in her throat. “Mom?”

Her mother had walked down the hall, but upon hearing her name, she paused and looked
back.

“I’ll help you get the money for Grandpa’s treatment.”

Her mother nodded, gave her a brief smile that didn’t offer much hope, and disappeared
into her bedroom.

Rachel didn’t know how she’d get the money, but she and her two best friends didn’t
know how to open a cupcake shop either when the crazy idea first sprouted in their
heads.

Miracles could happen. All she needed to do was believe.

Chapter Three

Put “eat chocolate” at the top of your list of things to do today. That way, at least
you’ll get one thing done.

—Author unknown

“I
KNOW THREE
days doesn’t give us much time to prepare,” Rachel said, casting a glance at Andi
and Kim as they boxed up several dozen chocolate cupcakes. “But I believe setting
up a booth at the Crab, Seafood, and Wine Festival is a good investment. If it weren’t,
Gaston Pierre Hollande would never have signed up. Besides, who doesn’t love a good
party?”

“Wish I had your faith.” Kim shook her head. “How are we going to bake enough cupcakes
for both the shop and the festival before this weekend?”

“We can do it,” Andi said, her face lit with excitement. “We’ll have to bake like
crazy and freeze some ahead of time, but Rachel’s right. The profits could be amazing.”

Kim gave them each a wary look. “Or not.”

Leaving Andi’s teenage babysitter, Heather, in charge of the shop, they walked down
the street, crossed the railroad tracks, and carried the cardboard trays of cupcakes
along the black paved path beneath the bridge.

“Coffee and cupcakes,” Rachel called to the five people waiting for the Astoria Riverfront
Trolley.

One man raised his hand. “I’ll take one of each.”

Rachel smiled as she served the order. “Here’s a coupon for a dollar off your next
Creative Cupcakes purchase. We’re located straight up the block on Marine Drive.”

A woman rushed toward Kim, her eyes wide. “Are those triple-chocolate caramel fudge?”

“Yes,” Kim replied, “with double dark chocolate whipped buttercream icing—”

“And a cherry on top,” the woman finished and drew in a deep breath. “I knew I smelled
chocolate. How dare you scent the air with those fat-inducing treats!” She glanced
in each direction up and down the Columbia River walkway, then pulled two twenty-dollar
bills out of her purse. “Better give me the whole box so others don’t fall prey to
your temptations.”

As the woman hurried away, Kim held up her empty hands. “Now
this
was a great idea. We should sell cupcakes along the waterfront every morning.”

Andi agreed. “Hopefully, the people like the cupcakes so much they’ll use the coupons
to come into the shop.”

“If we’re going to compete against that French baker, we’re going to need to step
up our promo,” Rachel said, serving two more tourists cups of coffee to go along with
their cupcakes. “Why don’t we start serving fresh brewed coffee and specialty tea
in the shop to help wash down the cupcakes?”

“Don’t forget the kids,” Andi said as they moved farther along the waterfront walk.
“Mia and Taylor will want milk or juice.”

“Milkshakes,” Kim added. “Chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry milkshakes. All we would
need is a few more ingredients and a couple blenders.”