Sparked (11 page)

If it wasn’t lust, it suddenly seemed completely impossible that he had asked her out of anything other than pity. Maybe the kiss at the festival had been a joke, and he’d felt guilty about it. Maybe he saw her on that beach, all soggy and moon-eyed, and felt so bad for her he decided to ask her out as an act of charity.

But he had said he liked her.

He
liked
her.

Did he really like her? She didn’t see how it could be true. They barely knew each other. How could he possibly like her? 

But then, she realized, she liked him. She liked him a lot. And she knew almost as much about him as he knew about her. Their families were equally well-known in town, but her knowledge of
him
as a person was just as limited as most people’s assumptions about
her
.

Still, she liked him. She knew she did. He was so incredibly handsome. And the way their bodies felt together was pure magic. But was it just the kissing? Was she letting herself be blinded by her desire for him physically? She was the practical one. She ought to have better control over herself.

Cora kicked a rock at her feet. She wanted to explode. This was all so confusing. She couldn’t imagine how people ever fell in love at all.

Had she just thought the word ‘love’? 

Oh, dear Lord. 

She was losing her mind.

Cora tried to put Clayton out of her mind as she worked on the day’s baking. If she hadn’t lost so much time messing around with the water this morning, she would have had the cupcakes done in time to deliver to Mrs. Goodman on her way to Dr. Pinkerton's office. The morning already seemed like it had happened weeks ago. What a confusing, crazy day it had been.

Cora preheated the oven, then realized her only cupcake pan was still dirty from whipping up muffins for breakfast this morning. It gave her an idea. While she was in the lake today—before Clayton had rudely interrupted her—she had decided to practice her new skills whenever she got the chance. Now seemed like the perfect opportunity. She turned on the faucet and concentrated on directing the flow from one side of the sink to the other. She didn’t want another giant mess on her hands. It worked, rushing down the metal pan just as it would have coming out of the faucet. But that was little help. She’d still have to scrub to get the thing clean. What she needed was more pressure.

She concentrated harder, focused on speed, on the rush of water. All at once, water blasted out of the faucet and onto the pan. There was a loud, metallic thunk. Cora looked down to see that she’d bent the pan nearly in half.

No! It was her only one. How would she make the cupcakes now?

She pulled it out of the sink. It was certainly cleaner but shaped like an L, with the crease right at the middle. Perhaps she could bend it back into shape. But when she tried to press it over her knee, the thing just snapped in half. She supposed she could still use it like that, but it made her cringe to realize she would have to spend money to replace it soon. Cora decided that was enough practice for today. She removed the remaining bits of muffin with elbow grease instead.

With the pan clean and ready to use, she set about mixing the ingredients. She added flour and sugar to the bowl, then vanilla, oil, and eggs. As she stirred the batter, she imagined Clayton in the kitchen, watching her bake. And not just any kitchen—their kitchen. She imagined them in an apartment of their own—something small and sweet and cozy that they could fill with warmth on cold winter nights. In her imaginary world there were no Briggs and no Murphys, just them. She imagined him walking up behind her as she baked. How would it feel to have his arm circle around her waist, feel the press of his lips to her neck as he sneakily dipped his finger into the batter? The idea of it made her melt.

This was silly. Did he even like cake? She had no idea.

She wondered what he liked to eat, what kinds of sweets she could concoct to delight his palate. It would be so much fun to feed him. To see him enjoy something she had made with her own hands.

As the cupcakes baked, she whipped the frosting together, then divided it into smaller bowls and added food coloring until she had a vibrant red, a brilliant blue, and a sunny yellow in addition to the white.

These birthday cupcakes for Mrs. Goodman’s son required special decorations, and she’d had to charge the woman a bit more than normal to cover the cost. She laid out her purchases on the counter—carefully hidden in her bedroom since yesterday for fear of Butch devouring them. There were brightly colored candies and food coloring and a full package of pointy ice cream cones to make clown hats.

Again, her thoughts drifted to the idea of an apartment with Clayton, of coming home together after a day of working—in a bakery, maybe? Or a flower shop? They would cook together. It wouldn’t be like it was now, where she felt like a servant in her own home. It would be a gift, something he could cherish. And he would help. She knew it was unusual for men to help around the house, but she couldn’t imagine marrying just to become someone’s servant. She’d had enough of that already in her life. If she couldn’t marry as an equal, she wouldn’t marry at all. Clayton would be horrible at cooking, of course, having grown up the way he did. But she could teach him. 

She imagined guiding his hand over a pot of soup as she decorated the clown cupcakes with frosting heads and candy faces and little dots on their ice-cream-cone hats. She tried to make each one unique, imagining the children at the party being delighted to have something that was their very own. The process relaxed her, made her feel better. Baking always did that for her. It was something her mother taught her, a way to escape.

Her date with Clayton would be fine, she decided. She would figure out how to handle herself. It wouldn’t matter what she wore. They would have a good time regardless. And maybe he’d even kiss her again.

When the cupcakes were finished, she packed them carefully into a basket and walked back into town. Mrs. Goodman lived in a newer area of Independence Falls called Riverview—a suburban development that had popped up after the war. Its modern brick ranch homes contrasted greatly with the stately Victorians on Highledge.

“They’re delightful. Just delightful. You have a real talent, Cora,” Mrs. Goodman said when Cora unveiled the bundle in her kitchen. “Kenny and his friends will love them.”

“I hope so,” Cora said.

It always felt good when someone recognized her hard work. She loved baking and wished there was a bakery in town where she could apply for a full-time job doing it.

“Here’s what I owe you,” Mrs. Goodman closed the coins in Cora’s hand. “And a little extra to say thank you.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—” Cora said.

“You charge too little, Cora. Cupcakes like these would sell for three times as much if we were in Denver.”

“But we’re not. And I really couldn’t—”

“I won’t hear another word about it,” she said. 

Cora conceded. She didn’t feel right about accepting more than her quoted price. But with all her savings gone, she couldn’t afford to argue.

“Now you have yourself a nice evening,” Mrs. Goodman said. “And don’t forget to stop by next week so we can discuss what I’m going to serve when Bob’s boss visits.”

“I won’t forget. Thank you, Mrs. Goodman.”

Cora tucked the cash in her pocket and made her way back toward town. She’d have to figure out a new hiding place for the money when she got home. Perhaps she’d sew herself a money belt so she could keep it on her all the time. But for now, she would enjoy her walk. The sun had just set, casting everything in a dusty blue. Some of the shops in town were still open—the diner, the general store. Their lights glowed through the shop windows, spilling a little gold out onto the street. The town could be nice sometimes. She imagined herself strolling through the town square on Clayton’s arm, the two of them talking about their day. The idea of it suddenly made the town itself seem more bearable, even charming.

Then she spotted Clayton, and her heart sank. 

He was at the drugstore, sitting at the soda fountain counter with a group of his friends—all the most popular kids that had either barely noticed she was alive in high school, or had given her hell every step she took through the long halls. And there she was too—that awful woman who had laughed at her for kissing Clayton. Violet Miller, too pretty by half.

At that very moment, Violet slipped her arm through Clayton’s and whispered something in his ear. What she said was so funny that Clayton chuckled, and Violet brought her cherry lips closer, closer, so close. Too close.

Cora turned away. She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t watch him being so affectionate with someone else. And not just anyone else—
her
.

Cora had allowed herself to believe that Clayton was telling the truth about their kiss at the festival. But if it wasn’t a trick, then why would he practically hang off the arm of the very woman who had tormented them?

Her throat felt thick and she could feel tears threatening the corners of her eyes. Clayton wasn’t interested in her at all. Maybe their moment today at the lake had been real—it felt like it had been real—but she was fooling herself to think that it was anything more than lust. Boys like Clayton didn’t take women like her out on dates. They had their fun and then moved on to women like Violet.
She
was the kind of woman Clayton could take home to his parents. Not her. Not a Murphy.

Cora quickened her pace, breaking into a run. She had to leave, had to get out of town and back home. She didn’t want Clayton to see how upset he had made her. 

As she ran, she forced the tears back down. She wouldn’t let herself cry. In fact, she was glad she’d seen them. At least this way she could keep her dignity. She would put a stop to their little joke before it went any further. When he showed up tomorrow night—
if
he showed up tomorrow night—she’d simply tell Clayton she wasn’t interested and that would be that. And she would never let him see that he had hurt her. She didn’t have much, but she had her pride.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Clayton

Violet hooked her arm into Clayton’s. “If your brother doesn’t stop mooning over his fiancée, I think I’m going to lose my milkshake,” she whispered, her lips so close he could feel the puff of her breath against his ear.

Clayton chuckled. Even though they were here with the rest of the gang, Meg and Will had tucked themselves into a private booth—just so they could hold hands and stare at each other all night, from the looks of it. Clayton didn’t mind. They both looked happy.

“I say we create a diversion, then kidnap them separately just to see if they could still breathe without each other,” Violet said.

“Aw, leave them alone.” Clayton shifted so he could unhook Violet's arm from his without offending her. Ever since the party his mother had thrown, she’d been a little too quick to touch him—putting a hand on his shoulder, crooking her elbow into his. Maybe it had been his fault. Maybe he’d been too friendly with her that night. But things had changed since then. A lot. And he wasn’t the kind of guy to run with two women at once.

“They’re in love. It’s sweet,” he said.

“Oh, please,” Violet said. “Since when did you care for displays like that? You barely let me hold your hand in public when we were dating.”

“Maybe I’ve changed,” Clayton said.

“I’ll say he has,” Frank piped in with a sly laugh from behind the counter where he worked as a soda jerk. “You should have seen him earlier today. It was a regular Broadway show.”

What was that supposed to mean? Had Frank been spying on him with Cora? What kind of guy watched another guy kiss his girl? And why was he thinking of her as his girl at all?

“Quiet, Frank,” Clayton warned. Frank was probably just trying to impress Violet. He had always had a thing for Violet. A lot of people had always had a thing for Violet. But still. He was walking on very thin ice. It made Clayton want to rip that stupid paper cap right off his head.

“Don’t you dare be quiet,” Violet said, swiveling on her stool to turn her attention to Frank. She seemed a little too bright and a little too chipper, the way women sometimes did when they were hiding their disappointment. “Spill. I want every detail.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Clayton said, eyeing Frank to keep his mouth shut. “I helped her get out of the water. That was it.”

“That was some way to lend a hand, pal. You should’ve seen it, Vi,” Frank said, leaning on the counter until he was eye-level with Violet. “Clay had Cora Murphy on the trail by the cliffs today, and I’m telling you, it got steamy.”

“Cora Murphy?” Violet asked, looking very much like she thought Frank was telling tall tales.

Where had that louse been hiding? He was sure he and Cora were out of view of the water, at the very least. Maybe he was just bluffing.

“You need to get your eyes checked, Frank,” Clayton said, trying to play it off.

“I know what I saw. They were like glue and paper.” Frank started kissing his hand and moaning.

Violet looked stunned, speechless.

Clayton shoved his fist in his pocket so he wouldn’t punch Frank in the face. He wasn’t sure what made him more angry: Frank spying on them, or Frank telling everyone their personal business.

“And she was half naked,” he said. “Went in the water that way.”

That was it. Trashing his reputation was one thing, but Cora’s? Clayton had had enough. 

He caught Frank by the lapels of his white uniform jacket and yanked him forward until his belly was on the bar. He stared him straight in the eye. “Whatever you thought you saw, you were wrong.”

“Clayton Briggs!” Violet shouted.

“Take it easy,” Frank moaned. “I was just ribbing you a little.”

Clayton let him go. But he could see in Frank’s eyes that the two of them had finally come to an understanding. He wouldn’t be mouthing off anymore. Frank turned and began aimlessly wiping down the soda machine with a wet rag.