Second Time Around (13 page)

“Me, neither. I think the gist of it is, the electrical system in this place is FUBAR.”

“As is this oven.” Anna tossed the cupcake tin into the kitchen sink. “I think our big baking marathon the other day must have killed it once and for all. The thing’s gotta be twenty years old. Jamie’s client is coming this weekend, and I need to provide her with some cake samples that don’t taste like excrement.”

“Please. Nothing you bake could ever taste like excrement.”

“Oh really?” Anna peeled the foil liner off one of the cakes. “Care to sample?”

Cait took a big bite, then made a face and spat into the sink. “This oven sucks.”

“It does?” Brooke peeked out from the cellar doorway. “Since when?”

Anna stared for a second, trying to figure out why Brooke looked so different, and then realized that Brooke was wearing a baseball cap for possibly the first time ever. Her golden hair was pulled through the back in a ponytail.

Brooke threw them a sassy smile. “What are you looking at?”

“You’re a Dodgers fan?” Anna asked.

“Jamie is. I appropriated this from the top of her dresser. Do you think she’ll mind?”

“Hell no.” Jamie strolled in from the living room with a mug of coffee in one hand and the latest issue of
Modern Bride
in the other. “I can’t stand the Dodgers. I’m a Yankees fan.”

Cait frowned. “Then why … ?”

“Ex-boyfriend’s,” Jamie said. “And now Brooke’s. Wear it in good health, sugarplum.”

Brooke plucked a strand of cobweb off her shirtsleeve and returned to the topic at hand. “So my oven sucks?”

“Blame Anna,” Cait said. “She worked it to death.”

“Well, put it on the list of things I need to repair,” Brooke said.

“No, no, don’t worry about it.” Anna shot Cait a look, which Cait pretended not to notice. “This is not your problem.”

“My house, my oven, my problem,” Brooke insisted, then added sardonically, “Welcome to Paradise Found.”

“Seriously, don’t sweat it,” Anna urged. “I won’t be monopolizing all your counter and fridge space much longer.” She prepared to break the big news. “I got a call from the English department this morning. They heard about the historical dessert tray I did for the anniversary bash, and they want me to bake for a faculty reception next week. I told them I’d do a literary theme: Jane Austen almond cake, Tristram Shandy sticky pudding, Beowulf mead, that kind of thing.”

“What?” Cait whapped her playfully on the arm. “I’m so excited for you! But how dare you hold out on me all afternoon.”

“Anna, that’s amazing,” Brooke chimed in. “Today, the English department, tomorrow the world!”

“I see big things ahead for you,” Jamie predicted. “Like a Food Network series. A bestselling cookbook. Your own line of outrageously overpriced pots and pans.”

“That’s a great idea,” Cait said. “She could inscribe the bottom of each with an inspiring literary quote.”

“‘Food for Thought’ by Anna McCauley,” Brooke suggested.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Anna laughed. “There are a few
minor details to take care of before I roll out my culinary cottage industry. Right now, I’m just looking into renting some commercial kitchen space. I need industrial-grade equipment and space to store all my supplies. Where I’m going to find all that in a town this size, I have no idea.”

“I know the perfect place,” Brooke said. “Pranza, that little café on Pine Street. They’re only open for breakfast and lunch. I bet they’d let you use the back room at night. My coworker’s cousin is engaged to the owner. Want me to give him a call?”

Anna joined Cait and Jamie in a moment of silent admiration for the blonde in the baseball cap. Then Jamie shook her head. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

“It’s amazing what one can accomplish with determination, duct tape, and good manners.” Brooke waved her pliers at them and headed down the hall. “They call me the Stealth Magnolia.”

“… So that about covers it. All the bowls are in the bottom cabinet, and the spoons and spatulas are in those drawers.” Seth Becker, Brooke’s restaurant connection, concluded Anna’s tour of Pranza’s kitchen space. “All I ask is that you clean up after yourself and remember to turn on the dishwasher so that the opening crew can get started on time in the morning.”

“No problem,” Anna assured him. “I really appreciate you leasing the space and equipment to me.”

“Sorry I can only give you three nights a week, but if you like working here, and you’re willing to outbid the other baker who leases the space, you can increase your hours next month.”

“I’m gone five minutes and you’re already renting the place out from under me? For shame, Seth!”

Seth whirled around to face the back door. “Trish? What are you doing here? I thought you went home for the night.”

“Can’t find my car keys.” A tall, stalwart woman with broad shoulders and a thick auburn braid hanging halfway down her back strode into the kitchen. She started yanking open drawers and shoving aside sheet pans until she snatched up a ring of keys. “Got ’em.”

Then she turned her full attention to Anna. Her gaze was unflinching and more than a little hostile. “So you’re the one.”

Anna blinked at her. “The one what?”

“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Seth murmured and slipped out of the kitchen.

The Amazon in the spotless white chef jacket didn’t acknowledge his departure. She kept staring down Anna with those fierce brown eyes. “The one who decided she could waltz right in and snatch up all my kitchen time. Not to mention my business.”

“Um.” Anna straightened her collar and forced herself to maintain eye contact. “Have we met?”

“Not officially, but I’ve heard all about you. I’m Trish Selway.” Her voice rose. “The baker.”

“Ah yes.” Anna nodded as the pieces started coming together. “The baker who wouldn’t do the college anniversary cake.”

“Not wouldn’t.” Trish bristled.
“Couldn’t.”

“Okay.” Anna shrugged and opened up the carton of supplies she’d brought over from Brooke’s place. “Fine. Whatever. I don’t need all the details. I’m just going to set up my space and—”

“Help yourself to more of my customers?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I take a few weeks off work because my morning sickness makes me puke every time I smell vinegar or even look at raw eggs, and you zoom in and start poaching my most important clients.”

Under any other circumstances, Anna would have delivered to this harpy the smackdown she so richly deserved, but the words “morning sickness” derailed her. “You’re pregnant?”

“Four months along.” Trish placed a protective hand over her belly. “Aren’t you ashamed to be taking work away from a woman who’s going to have a child to support?”

For a split second, Anna did feel ashamed. Then she caught a gleam of triumph in Trish’s eyes and something inside her rebelled. “No. No, I am not. I’m a damn good baker and fertility—yours or mine—has nothing to do with this.”

“A damn good baker? Give me a break.” Trish snickered. “You’re just another legacy kid using her connections to get ahead.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Anna said. “Whatever makes you feel better.”

“How long have you been in town? A week? Two weeks?”

“Almost a week,” Anna admitted.

“And the college already booked you for a major event.” Trish put her index finger to her chin in mock contemplation. “Hmm. What a coincidence.”

“Coincidence or not, my food was so good that I’m already booking other events.”

“
College
events?” Trish pressed.

“That’s really none of your business.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Let me guess. You woke up
one morning, decided it would be fun to play pastry chef, got your Thurwell sorority sisters to make a few calls for you, and all of a sudden, you’re the Ace of Cakes. You know, some of us have to actually earn our referrals.”

“First of all, Thurwell doesn’t have a Greek system,” Anna said. “And secondly, if you hadn’t been turning down business, you wouldn’t be in this position, so don’t blame me.”

Trish paused. “I’m going to ask nicely, with cream and sugar on top: Put down your spatula, get off my turf, and we’ll save ourselves a whole lot of drama.”

“According to the rental agreement I just signed, it’s
my
turf now,” Anna retorted. “Three nights a week, anyway. And I have a lot of work to do, so I’m going to have to ask you to get out of my kitchen.”

“Fine. Have it your way. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Trish pivoted and made for the door, but not before tossing back over her shoulder, “Legacy.”

“Loon,” Anna muttered.

Slam
.

T
here.” Brooke finished applying foundation and dusted Cait’s face with translucent powder. “You can hardly even see the bruising.”

“Masterful work. You’re like Mary Cassatt with a makeup brush.” Cait checked herself out in the bathroom mirror. “I look so much more alluring without the black eye.” She leaned over the sink basin to examine a red smudge beside her eyebrow. “What is that? Am I bleeding?”

“No, I am.” Brooke turned on the faucet and ran her right hand under the tap. “Sorry. One of my cuts must have reopened.” She pressed a folded square of toilet paper against
her index finger. “Will you please check the medicine cabinet and see if we have any Band-Aids left?”

Cait obligingly opened the mirrored door and scanned the shelves. “I don’t see any in here.”

“Dang.” Brooke removed the tiny tissue compress and examined her raw skin and ripped cuticle. “I must have used the last one yesterday.”

“I think I have some in the travel kit I keep in my suitcase,” Anna said. “But what on earth are you doing to yourself that requires a whole box of bandages?”

Brooke shrugged. “Wiring.”

“
Here
you all are.” Jamie’s tanned, freckled face appeared in the doorway. “What are we doing?”

Cait scented a faint trace of cigarette smoke. Evidently, Anna did, too, because she made a big show of wrinkling her nose and asking, “Has someone been smoking?”

“Not I.” Jamie crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe.

“Really.” Anna pursed her lips. “Because you smell like an ashtray.”

“Must be my new shampoo.”

“Huh. I didn’t realize Marlboro had put out a line of hair care products.”

“Oh yeah. It’s all the rage.”

“And is your mouthwash also by Philip Morris?”

“Ladies.” Cait stepped in between them and called for a cease-fire. “I hate to interrupt, but could we please focus for a minute while I decide what I’m wearing?”

Anna glanced at Cait’s plum-colored top, dangly turquoise earrings, and a dark denim pencil skirt. “You decided half an hour ago. You look fine.”

“But I don’t want to look fine.” Cait ran her hands through her hair. “I want to look, you know,
fiiine
.”

Jamie grinned. “Oh right; it’s your big date with the loin-stirring man of letters. How could I forget?”

“You’ve had a lot on your mind lately,” Brooke said. Her voice held an ominous undertone, but Cait had no idea what she was hinting at. “Have you called them back yet?”

“Called who back?” Anna asked.

“Never mind, it’s not important,” Jamie said hurriedly. “What is important is that Cait look as ravishing as possible. And I hate to say this, but that outfit’s all wrong.” Jamie shook her head. “Your neckline should be about three inches lower and your hemline should be about six inches higher.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little desperate?” Cait said. “It’s bad enough that I’m his former student. I want him to see me as a grown woman now, not some shameless teenybopper falling all over myself to get his attention.”

“Most guys actually prefer the shameless teenyboppers,” Jamie said. “Take my word for it. I have a no-fail halter dress. Guaranteed to get your man into bed every time. Want to borrow it?”

“No!” Anna and Brooke cried in unison.

“We’re going for understated sophistication,” Brooke added.

“In Thurwell, New York?” Jamie laughed. “Good luck with that.” She turned back to Cait. “At least wear red lipstick with your wimple and your chastity belt.”

Cait turned to Brooke for approval. Brooke sifted through the contents of her makeup bag and pulled out a tube of lip color. “Well. I suppose a nice shade of cranberry would be permissible.”

“Thank you, Mother Superior.” Jamie said. “I won’t even waste my breath arguing for a padded bra and another coat of mascara.”

Cait frowned down at her cleavage. “I could be talked into a padded bra.”

“Stop trying to hussy her up,” Anna scolded Jamie. “She’s not that kind of girl.”

Cait applied the red lipstick and said nothing. Her recent forays into literary lasciviousness had forced her to admit that she no longer knew exactly what kind of girl she was. Up until a few weeks ago, she had prided herself on being a scholar and a serious writer, but now that she was facing the blank page every morning, she found herself preoccupied with topics that she suspected her colleagues would dismiss as shallow and frivolous. Like falling in love. And romantic conflicts.