Second Chance at the Sugar Shack (5 page)

Matt Ryan had been one of those kids.

She may not have known much in those days, but she did know she cared about Matt too much to trap him into a repeat of the life in which he’d been forced to live as a kid.

She’d wanted more.

He deserved more.

The Buick sputtered past Purdy’s Pawn Shop, which had expanded into the old Laundromat next door, and the Once in a Blue Moon Café where they served a heavenly Monte Cristo sandwich with homemade huckleberry jam. When she came to the red brick building in the center of the block, tucked between Buck’s Gun Shop and the Once Again Bookstore, she pulled over and parked in front. Half whiskey barrels brimming with autumn mums framed the door and eyelet lace hung like a Victorian petticoat behind the plate glass window. The building looked dated and worn out. But she knew it was as reliable as the sweets served inside.

The Sugar Shack.

Kate had spent the early days of her life in that bakery kitchen, licking chocolate cake batter from the big wooden spoon her mother used. According to Letty, metal turned the chocolate bitter. Whether the story was true or not, Kate never found out. And when she’d had sweet chocolate smeared all over her face, she hadn’t cared. The chocolate myth was just one of her mother’s quirks that everyone accepted as gospel. Her mother had a million bakery mysteries that ranged from the possible to the absolutely ridiculous.

Sitting in the driver’s seat of her mother’s car, Kate stared at the darkened window of the brick building and fought back the emotion welled in her throat. The engine idled to keep the heater running. She turned on the radio—oldies, of course. Practically the only station in town. Unless you happened to favor country—not—or the talk radio station out of Bozeman—to which she’d rather gouge herself in the eye with a wand of cheap mascara.

Tom Jones serenaded her with
It’s Not Unusual
. Her mother had adored the Welsh singer. Kate had always thought he had fish eyes and would get totally grossed out when her mother would giggle and swoon when old Tom swiveled his hips. Even after Kate had met the singer at a Grammy’s after party, she still couldn’t see understand her mother’s fascination.

Over the years she and her mother had argued who was better: Elvis or Tom, Gilligan or the Professor, Bo or Luke. Kate never won a single dispute. Hard to do when you were arguing against the 1965 Deer Lick Debate Champ.

Kate slumped further down into the seat to stay warm. She leaned back against the headrest, closed her eyes, and listened to Mr. Jones croon away.

It’s your fault. . .

She tried to push Edna’s accusation and all the chaotic thoughts in her head to rest. But as she sat there, the air thickened with the cloying scent of vanilla. Despite the heater blasting, the interior of the car grew colder. Kate rubbed her arms. Maybe she’d done enough reminiscing for one day. Maybe she just needed to go home, crawl into the same small bed she’d slept in most of her life, and pray for complete oblivion.

Inside the car the temperature took another dip. She shivered and reached for the gearshift. As her cold fingers curled over the plastic knob, the air inside the car vibrated.

Suddenly Kate knew she wasn’t alone.

Goose bumps rushed across her arms and up her spine. With one hand on the door handle, Kate snuck a peek over her shoulder, fully expecting to see some guy in a hockey mask waving a bloodied axe.

What she saw trapped a scream in her throat.

Surrounded by cookbooks, quilting fabric, giant knitting needles, and an odd hazy glow, sat her mother.

Looking anything but dead.

“Long time, no see, daughter.”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

“S
o how’d I look at the funeral?” her mother’s voice asked. “Okay? Or did Trudy White put too much blush on me like she does everybody?”

Kate twisted back around in the seat and faced the windshield. Her brain clicked through several cycles before she managed to come up with a relatively normal rationalization.

She was hallucinating.

No other explanation came to mind. It had been months since she’d had a decent night’s sleep. She’d been overwhelmed by the approach of awards season. And then her mother’s unexpected death . . . clearly she was exhausted.

As her heart tried to pound out of her chest, she reached up, adjusted the rearview mirror and scanned the reflection.

Just to be sure.

The radiance remained, floating above the clutter in the backseat. Nothing else seemed out of sorts. The glow could be just the moonlight bouncing off the oversized knitting needles. And the voice? Well, she’d always gotten good grades in her creative writing class. Looked like she was putting that imagination to good use. She shook her head to clear it and decided she definitely needed to get some sleep. Again, she reached for the gearshift.

“Katherine Spencer Silverthorne, are you going to answer me? Or just sit there and ignore me like you did your entire senior year?”

And now the voice in her head was pissed off?

Kate whipped around in her seat. Sure enough, there was her mother, wearing her famous red plaid flannel over a white T-shirt and denim overalls. A cranky expression crinkled the skin between her green eyes.

Had someone made a mistake?

The woman in the coffin had looked like her mother but maybe something else had happened. Maybe it was like the
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
and the woman in the backseat was really an alien. And to come up with such a ridiculous idea, maybe Kate had been living in Hollywood too long.

But how could the idea of a movie plot be any more bizarre than her dead mother sitting in the backseat?

Kate blinked. “M-mother?”

“Of course it’s me. Who else would it be?”

“But you’re . . .”

“Yeah.” Her mother leaned forward. “I know.”

Kate scooted toward the door.

“Too bad too.” Her mother rubbed her chin. “I had a new recipe for better-than-sex chocolate cake I intended to try out for Nancy Yost’s thirtieth birthday. You remember Nancy, don’t you? She was the cutest, chubbiest little thing. Never did change much.”

“Mother?”

“Katherine?” Her mother’s head cocked in a perplexed puppy way. “Are you going to tell me how I looked or what? Did my Bobby pick out a beautiful casket?”

“You looked . . .”
Dead.
“. . . um, great.”

“Not too much blush?”

“No.”

“And the casket?”

“Oak with polished brass and ivory satin.”

“Flowers?”

“A white rose spray and dozens of autumn arrangements.”
Okay, this was just crazy.
“Jesus, Mom, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Katherine! Do not use the Lord’s name and a curse word in the same breath.”

“Sorry. I’m just a little . . . freaked out, you know?”

“Imagine how I feel. One minute I was getting ready to ice a batch of cinnamon rolls, the next I was looking down at myself wondering why I’d never dyed the gray out of my hair.” Her mother glanced out the window, fidgeted with the wavy hair pulled up on top of her head. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Frighten me? You’re scaring the crap out of me!” Then a thought screamed through her brain. “Wait. Does this mean I’m—”

“No, Katherine, you are very much alive.”

Kate exhaled. Thank God. If she died now, she would have some very ticked off clients back in L.A. “Then what—”

“I had some unfinished business. And well, let’s just say when that light appeared, I kind of ignored it.”

“A light?” Kate asked. “There really is a light?”

Her mother’s brows drew together. “You think so many people would lie about that?”

“I never really thought about it before.” Kate faced forward and undid the seatbelt so she could shift easier in the seat. “I can’t believe this.” She looked up into the mirror. Again her mother had disappeared.

“Mom?” She heard a sigh.

“Don’t bother lookin’ in the mirror. I don’t think I have a reflection anymore.”

Kate looked into the backseat again and, sure enough, there she was. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Her mother shrugged. “I think when you go through the light, you get all the answers, like in some kind of dead person’s handbook or something. I’m kind of flying by the seat of my overalls.”

“No. I mean why are you still here?”

“Don’t you know?” Her mother’s voice rang with disappointment. A tone Kate had heard millions of times before.

“Me?” She pointed to herself. “Uh-uh.”

“Well, you don’t just wake up one day and say, gee, I’m going to leave all this unfinished business behind. Life’s a gift, Katherine.” Her mother folded her ghostly arms across the red flannel. “You don’t just toss it in a drawer like an old shirt figuring you can pull out a new one when the old one is worn out.”

“I, um . . . have no idea what you’re talking about,” Kate said.

“Of course you don’t.” Her mother smiled the way she used to when she had something to hold over Kate’s head. “But you will. Now answer your phone and tell that young man to stop bothering you.”

“What?” As if on cue Kate’s cell rang. She looked up. Her mother was gone. For real this time. Kate even leaned over the backseat but no sign remained of the woman who’d given her life. On the second chorus of the
Sex and the City
theme, Kate hit the talk button. “Josh? You are not going to believe—”

“Kate!” Josh’s voice was in full bitch mode. “We have crisis number two. Michael Black refuses to wear the Hugo Boss tux. He swears he’s going to wear something called
Wrangler
unless we find him a designer out of Nashville or at the very least, Texas. I know this is a bad time, but you seriously need to get your butt back here.”

“I’ll . . .” Kate’s gaze wandered again to the empty backseat. “. . . be home tomorrow night.”

And making an appointment with a head shrinker.

I
n the morning Kate awoke tucked into the twin bed in which she’d spent the better part of her life. Sleep had evaded her until exhaustion finally grabbed hold and she’d passed out. For hours she’d lain awake, thinking of her close encounters of the mother kind. She wondered if she’d imagined it. She wondered if maybe she’d really just been pushing herself too hard and needed to dig her toes in some sandy beach and enjoy some umbrella drinks served by a sexy cabana boy.

Maybe she just needed a sexy cabana boy.

She sat up and threw back the daisy sheets she’d picked out from a catalog in her junior year. Back when her mother had offered to let her and Kelly decorate their room however they wanted. Big mistake. Kelly’s preference of a stern black and white pin-striped pattern had clashed with Kate’s frivolous floral prints.

Their choices spoke volumes about their very different tastes. To prevent a constant bitch session, their mother had divided the room with a curtain rod and white sheet. On Kate’s side there were still teen mag photos of Leonardo DiCaprio and Brad Pitt carefully stapled to the sheet. Apparently back then she’d been in a blond-haired pretty-boy phase of her life. Since then, she’d met both gentlemen and realized while great to look at, both were just regular guys. No reason, really, to initiate all that teenage lust. She was into more
manly
men now. Not actors. Or rock stars. Or any man who wore pants tighter than hers. Or spent more time in a day spa than Paris Hilton.

Kate crept from her bed, tossed a pillow at her snoring sister, and raced from the room to grab a cup of the coffee she smelled brewing in the kitchen. She walked down the hall in bare feet on carpet that needed to be replaced. As many times as she or Dean or Kelly had offered to buy their parents new flooring or furniture or even a brand new house, they’d refused. Their house was the nest they’d built with love, they’d said. They were just fine with what they’d had. As Kate stopped to look at the gallery of family photos on the walls, she understood what they meant. Love warmed every nook and cranny in this house. And it was that love that warmed her heart as well.

She found her father leaning against the faux marble counter where she’d first learned to properly ice a birthday cake. She’d done a disastrous job but he’d praised her as if her work had been good enough for royalty. On the counter beside him sat the morning paper and a steaming mug. He was dressed in the white pants, shirt, and apron he wore to the bakery every day.

“Dad?”

He turned and accepted the kiss she bussed on his clean shaven cheek. “Morning, sweetheart.” His balding head gleamed as sunlight filtered through the window over the sink. The dark circles beneath his eyes made Kate wonder if he’d even slept a wink all night.

Her chest tightened and her concern for him increased. “You’re not dressed for work, are you?” she asked.

“Of course.” He sipped carefully from the mug. “Have to open up shop today.”

“But . . . Dad. Don’t you think it’s a little soon? Don’t you think you should—”

“I should what? Sit around and feel sorry for myself? Your mother wouldn’t like that at all.” He shook his head. “She’d look down at me, wag her finger, and tell me to get it together.”

Or she’d be looking at him from the backseat of her battered Buick if he chose to drive it to work.

Before her siblings brought chaos to the table, Kate needed to find a way to break it to him that she had to leave in less than eight hours. She hoped the news wouldn’t shatter his heart even more. She intended to come back as soon as possible, but that probably wouldn’t help the hurt much. And there was again, that repetitive little problem of her misdirected good intentions.

“Dad? I thought since Dean, Kel, and I all have to leave soon we all might—”

“Come down to the shop with me?” Her father’s face lit up. “Excellent idea, Katie.”

She’d rather eat paste. Memories of long hours after school and the two years following high school, helping her mother decorate birthday cakes and cupcakes regurgitated in her brain every time she smelled sugar. Her legs still ached from all those hours of standing. She’d been pretty good at decorating though, and had even gotten into the creative flow
when
she’d been allowed to do her own thing. Even as a child she’d never been a paint-by-numbers/stay-within-the-lines kind of girl. Which was only one reason her parents’ family business had never interested her. Her mother loved to dictate. Kate loved the freedom of choice. Their culinary tastes clashed like marzipan and vinegar.

Now that she was thirty years old and had a sugar-free career in California, there wasn’t a chance in the world the bakery bug would bite her. Not. A. Chance.

“What’s all the racket?” Dean shuffled into the kitchen, his stylish short hair as rumpled as the grey T-shirt and cargo shorts he wore. A five o’clock shadow dusted his dimpled chin. And he still looked like a superstar.

“Katie said you kids are coming to the Shack with me today.” Their father took down two mugs from the cupboard and filled them full of coffee.

“No way.” Dean scrubbed his multi-million dollar throwing hand across his face.

“Way,” Kate grumbled.

“Remind me to kill you later,” Dean grumbled back.

“Your mother would have been thrilled to see you all together in her bakery again.”

“Together where?” Kelly wandered in, unlawyer-like in her pink cat pajamas and disheveled ponytail. She smacked Kate in the head with the pillow Kate had thrown earlier.

“The bakery,” Kate and Dean said in unison.

Kelly’s response was silent but readable by the wide eyes and gaping fly trap.

Their father dragged down another mug and filled it for Kelly. Then he gathered them all in a group hug. Tears welled in his already red-rimmed eyes. “I’m so lucky to have all of you.”

Lucky?

An icy fist slammed Kate in the gut. She looked at her siblings. They’d all three been gone from home for so long. How could her father possibly be happy they were only back for a couple of days?

And how could she possibly tell him she had to leave tonight?

T
he scuff marks Harvey Tittlebaum’s shoes left on the dusty sheriff station floor were only one piece of evidence that Harvey had seen his way through yet another bottle of rum. Harvey liked his rum straight, he liked it in mass quantities, and he liked it early in the day. His wife, Lulu, however, had had quite enough of Harvey’s all-consuming habit. An hour ago she’d called the station and told Matt to come pick up the S.O.B. or she’d fry him with her liver and onions.

“Did I tell you my wife stinks I’m drunk?” Harvey’s words collided like trains on the same track.

Matt chuckled as he eased the elderly man onto the tufted mattress in a holding cell. “I believe she told me that herself. Now, why don’t you catch a little cat nap? I’m sure you’ll feel better in no time.”

“Hell, I feel perfeck right now.” Harvey popped up from the mattress like a jack-in-the-box. “Bring on the party. Where’s the dancin’ girls?”

“Mr. Tittlebaum,” Matt nudged Harvey back onto the mattress with little more than the weight of two fingers, “I think the only dancing girls you’re going to see are in your dreams.”

“Pfft! That’s what Lulu says, ‘In your dreams, Harvey!’ ”

The next sound Harvey made after he plopped down to the mattress was a loud snore. Matt shook his head and closed the cell door but didn’t bother to lock it. Harvey wouldn’t wake until later tonight. Hopefully by then his veins wouldn’t be quite so pickled and he could go home to round two with Lulu.

The constant battle between the Tittlebaum’s wasn’t unusual in a town the size of Deer Lick. The entertainment in their community was what one could call lacking and old Harvey was a prime example of small-town boredom. Next in line were the kids who, if they weren’t locked in their homes glued to some video game, were out scoring alcohol or pot. The outcome was never pretty.