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Authors: Donna Kauffman

BOOK: Sweet Stuff
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But on Sugarberry, there really was no such thing as privacy, no matter where he sat. On the other hand, because he’d been so quickly and warmly adopted by the islanders, rather than finding their smiles and jovial hellos and hey, how are yas intrusive or suffocating, he found them welcoming and heartwarming.
He felt like the Norm character from the iconic
Cheers
television program, with everyone raising a mug or tossing out a friendly hello whenever he wandered in. Sometimes the islanders engaged Quinn in conversation, other times they’d leave him to his thoughts, but he was always greeted warmly and openly. More surprising to him was that, rather than sit back and keep to his own thoughts, or observe and listen, he found himself actively engaging in the conversations that sprang up around him, as most of the other diners did, everyone talking over each other and any number of conversations converging, dividing, then converging again. He’d immensely enjoyed the give-and-take, learning more about his new neighbors, and finding himself sincerely and actively getting caught up in their lives.
He still used the back entrance, though more as an amusing tradition, one he and Laura Jo enjoyed ... and he still took the rear table by the kitchen door. Mostly because Laura Jo still spoiled him with tasty tidbits.
He pushed through the door to the diner that morning and was greeted by a wave of “Hey,” and “Mornin’ ” and nods or coffee mug salutes all around. He gave a short wave and a smile to everyone, then settled in at his table, which already had a well-thumbed copy of the
Daily Islander
on it, even though it was barely past nine in the morning. He’d also discovered islanders were an early rising lot, and knew he was easily the fifth or sixth occupant of that table that morning. Not being a morning person, his leisurely mornings were one of the things he enjoyed best about writing for a living. That had shifted a bit since his arrival on Sugarberry. He wasn’t entirely certain why, but when the sun came up, he generally followed close behind it.
He was getting more regular exercise now than he ever managed in the city ... which he was doubly thankful for. He’d relearned the joys of the slower-paced, Southern lifestyle ... most especially as it pertained to the utter pleasure to be found in lingering over a well-prepared meal and a good cup of coffee. To that end, he settled back in his chair, the tension from Claire’s call already easing out of his neck and shoulders, then smiled broadly as he picked up the paper and realized it was Thursday.
Miss Alva’s advice column ran on Thursdays.
Laura Jo popped out with a fresh cup of coffee, two creams, one sugar, which wasn’t at all how he’d taken it in his former life, but how he always had his coffee now. “Thanks,” he told her, wondering how he’d ever enjoyed the brew bitter and black. “That bacon smells incredible.”
“Good. You’re about to get some with an egg, sunny-side up, on two slices of grilled toast.”
Quinn closed his eyes in anticipation. “My heart and soul thank you, even if my arteries do not.”
“Come now, a finer specimen of a man I don’t recall I’ve ever seen. Except, of course, for my Johnny. Rest his soul.”
“Of course,” Quinn agreed with a smile, “and thank you kindly.” She spouted some version of the same sort of flattery every time he came in, and he was quite certain did the same with every other customer as well, sounding just as sincere, which was a large part of her charm. And why his cheeks warmed right up, every time.
“I’ll be right back out,” she said with a wink.
He grinned and shook his head, taking another sip of the sweet, creamy, aromatic brew as he flipped the paper open straight to “Ask Alva.” The column was purported to be an advice column, but was, in fact ... nothing easy to label. Folks did send in letters, and they did ask her advice, but that only seemed like a flimsy excuse to gossip about everyone on the island. She didn’t name names, but there was no doubt to anyone who lived on Sugarberry—which comprised the entire readership of the daily paper—whom she was referring to as she spun her tales of “advice.” She always managed to include a colorful story about how someone of her acquaintance had once done something similar to someone else. The end result rarely was a flattering portrayal, but was always told in such an entertaining manner, it never left a bad taste. Well, other than perhaps to the person being scolded for their bad behavior. But since they generally appeared to deserve it ... Quinn didn’t judge himself too harshly for being amused.
It did make him wonder why anyone would send a letter in and assume they’d retain any sense of anonymity, which led him to suspect the actual validity of those letters ... but as a born storyteller, he’d immensely enjoyed the few columns he’d read thus far and settled in with the happy anticipation of another round of entertaining anecdotes over breakfast.
Laura Jo popped out a moment later and slid a steaming plate in front of him. It was like a mini buffet for one. He loved the South. In addition to the egg and bacon grilled sandwich, there was a side of pan-browned, hashed potatoes, a small bowl of buttered grits, and what he knew was going to be a melt-in-your-mouth flaky, buttermilk biscuit. Add to that the little bowl of apple butter, another one of sausage gravy, and a second mug of coffee to replace the one he’d already drained, and it was his own personal definition of the “great and grand beyond”—which was where it would likely send him, if he kept eating like this, he thought with a chuckle ... then dove right in.
When Laura Jo stopped by to top off his mug again, Quinn looked straight into her lively gray eyes. “Will you marry me?”
“Well, now that my sweet Johnny has met his maker ... I am available,” she responded, without missing a beat. “Of course, I’ll expect you to take me away from all this.”
He gave her a look of mock horror. “Why would I want to do that?”
She leaned down and propped her ample frame on the table with one hand, while the other expertly kept her serving tray aloft. “If I can put out that food you’re devouring from my little, sorry excuse of an aging kitchen where half the stuff don’t work unless you kick it, pound it, or swear at it, imagine what I could whip up for you on that brand-new Viking I hear you have.” She fluttered her lashes as she straightened. “I’ll consider that your dowry.”
Quinn laughed outright, then took her hand and kissed the back of it. “Take me, I’m yours!”
She tugged her hand free, then swatted him with the towel she kept tucked in her apron pocket, but not before he spied the bit of pink in her cheeks. “Scoundrel.”
“Saucy temptress.”
She laughed even as she snapped the towel at his leg and stepped back toward the kitchen. “Just because you have a way with words, don’t think you can woo me.”
“Good thing Johnny’s not around, or I’d have to tell him to keep an eye on his back,” he called out as the door swung shut behind her. Still grinning, he continued his meal with renewed energy, like a man starved, knowing it wasn’t so much his belly but his battle with indecision fueling his need for biscuit-and-gravy comfort. There were few forms of comfort more satisfying than a home-cooked Southern breakfast.
His mind immediately skipped from Alva’s sermon on the evils of coveting your neighbor’s wife and how she once knew a certain tackle shop owner who should really have kept his bait on ice ... to a different kind of comfort food. Riley Brown came directly to mind, full lips parted, blouse opened, with chocolate frosting smeared all over her—
“Well, look who’s up early and eating like a man should first thing in the morning.”
Quinn startled guiltily from his little reverie, so much so that he rattled the table and almost knocked his coffee mug over. He quickly steadied everything, then looked up to find all five-foot-nothing of Alva Liles smiling straight at him. “Good morning to you, Miss Alva. What has you up and about this fine morning?”
Quinn shifted uncomfortably in his seat, thankful for the linen napkin covering his lap, certain that, like his body’s current condition, his thoughts would somehow broadcast themselves like a neon sign. But that was Alva’s influence on folks.
Eighty-three or not, ol’ eagle eye immediately spied the column he’d folded the newspaper to. She beamed. “Are you enjoying today’s column?”
“I am. Always do,” he said, happy and thankful to direct his thoughts away from Riley and on to anything else.
As if Alva had some kind of Vulcan mind meld with him—the more he got to know her, the more he wasn’t too certain she wasn’t at least part alien; it would explain so much—she took the seat across from him. “Can I ask you a nosy question? And you can just tell me I’m an old busybody who should mind her own business. I won’t take offense.”
Quinn, who couldn’t imagine anyone saying that to Alva’s face—certainly not him—simply nodded. And braced himself.
“I was wondering if you were ... involved. With a woman, I mean.” She placed her tiny, birdlike, blue-veined hand on his arm, and gripped it with surprising strength. “I don’t want any details, you know, just a simple yes or no. Are you available?”
Quinn instantly thought of Riley again, and was surprised. More from panic than plan, he flashed Alva a grin and covered her hand with his own. “Why, Miss Alva, are you askin’ me what I think you’re askin’ me?”
She swatted at him much the same way that Laura Jo had. And blushed much the same way, too, he noted, charmed by the notion that anything could make the tiny octogenarian blush.
“Now, now, Mr. Brannigan, what kind of woman do you take me for?” She smiled at him, that devilish twinkle back in her eyes. “On second thought, be the gentleman I know you to be and don’t answer that.”
He laughed, and her eyes twinkled.
“So”—she said, not letting him off the hook.
“Is this going to end up in your column?” he asked.
“That depends. Are you asking for my advice?” She leaned a bit closer. “Perhaps you’d like some guidance on how to approach a certain someone who might have caught your eye?”
He saw the speculative gleam behind the deceptively sweet twinkle. In his head, he heard the
danger, danger
sirens go off, but somehow managed to smile. “I’m usually pretty good at that sort of thing, once I set my mind to it.”
Alva slid her hand free, and thanked Laura Jo for the mug of coffee she slid in front of her before trotting off once again with a full tray. “Well, then, I suppose the only other question left is ... what are you waiting for?”
Quinn was amused by her endearing question. Speculation and potential gossip fodder aside, he knew her interest was sincere. Perhaps not so much on his behalf, as that of her fellow Cupcake Club baker.
“I wasn’t so much waiting as being respectful,” he said, not bothering to confirm they were talking about Riley. Alva was no dummy. Other than Laura Jo and Miss Alva herself, Quinn hadn’t spent any real time chatting with any other woman on the island.
“Well, that’s a measure of what a fine Southern gentleman your mother raised you to be—”
“And grandmother. My mom passed when I was young, and Grams picked up the project from there.” He smiled. “And what a project I was. But I’d like to think they’d be proud of how I turned out.”
Alva’s smile was warm. “I’m more than certain of that. But I’m not entirely certain what it is you think you need to respectful of?”
Quinn was amazed he was even having this conversation. He was always the questioner, the seeker of information, never the one being questioned. “Well, not to speak out of turn, but, assuming we’re talking about Miss Brown, I was being respectful of her current relationship.”
Alva’s carefully penciled-on brows—works of art in and of themselves—furrowed delicately, though her magnificently rendered bouffant of blond and silver curls didn’t so much as quiver. “What relationship?”
It was Quinn’s turn to frown. He didn’t think it was possible that anyone on Sugarberry could have a relationship that wasn’t known to the rest of the population. Especially the member of said population currently seated across the table from him. But Riley did a lot of work in the lower islands, and it was quite possible that she was able to keep her private life discreet and at a distance. She was from the city, too. Perhaps she wasn’t comfortable conducting her romance in a fishbowl.
In that case, he definitely didn’t want to be the one to out her to her friends. He gave Alva a half-abashed smile. “Perhaps it was simply her way of letting me know she’s not interested. Please, don’t mention it to her. I appreciate her kindness in letting me down gently.”
To his dismay, Alva’s frown didn’t ease, nor did the speculative gleam in her eyes diminish.
Wonderful.
Now what had he done?
Chapter 9
R
iley plopped her tool bag and supplies on the worktable next to Charlotte, then gave her a quick hug. “If it’s any consolation, boys are dumb.”
“Hey now,” Franco said, stationed at the table just behind them.
Riley looked over her shoulder at him and made a kissy face. “Not you, my sweet baboo,” she crooned, “never you.”
“Damn straight.” Delivering the words in his full-bodied, Rambo-from-the-Bronx voice, he then executed a perfect curtsy and twirled around back to his table. “Carry on, ma petite mes amies.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes, but she offered Riley a short smile. “Why does it have to be so complicated?”
“Because your fiancé is Puerto Rican and you’re from New Delhi. Even though the two of you are poster children for the rainbow coalition, your parents are from different cultures and different generations. Take heart, Carlo’s folks loved you.”
“As a business partner and potential career stepping-stone for their son, yes. As his wife? Don’t fool yourself, Riley.” Charlotte laid her hand on Riley’s arm. “We knew it would be far from easy. With that as a given, our visit to his family went very, very well. I think that’s why I was so surprised to hear they have no interest in meeting my family when they come to visit next month. I thought I was being accepted into the family circle, but I was just being accepted into the one-of-Carlo’s-nice-friends circle.”
Riley frowned and lifted up Charlotte’s left hand—the one with the beautiful diamond and antique platinum setting adorning her ring finger. “They do know you’re engaged. Wasn’t this his grandmother’s ring? I’m sure they didn’t miss that.”
Charlotte looked away, but only for a moment. Riley tightened her grip on Char’s hand when she tried to tug it free. “Tell me you did not take this ring off when you met his folks.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you. We wanted to test the waters first, see how they liked me. We were going to have a little dinner party later on, and make the formal announcement to them then.”
“Your parents know, right?”
Charlotte shot her a dark look. “Why do you think they’re traveling here? They didn’t come to see me graduate from culinary school. They didn’t come to see me accept any of my awards. But I announce I’m engaged, and suddenly they’re booking flights. I honestly didn’t think they’d care.”
“Really?”
Charlotte squeezed Riley’s hand, then let it go. “We haven’t been any kind of actual family for a very long time. I don’t know why they’re suddenly being traditional about things. Possibly they want grandchildren. I haven’t a clue. But it won’t change things between Carlo and me, no matter how horrid they are. And they will be horrid. At least I’ll defend him to them, if it should come to that. We’re not asking them for anything to do with the wedding, or anything else. Neither are we asking anything from Carlo’s family. So there’s no dependency on either side. I just wish ...”
“That he’d been as willing to face the fire as you are?” Charlotte nodded. “It’s unfair, I know. He’s close with his family. All five million of them—which is why I left it to him to handle however he saw best. But now ...”
“Now you want him to stand up for you.”
“At least stand with me. He’s ... waffling. Not about us, but about how to blend me into his family. He doesn’t want any strife, and I know that’s not possible.”
“You don’t think he’d end things with you because of family pressure, do you?”
Charlotte shook her head, but her eyes told another story. “I wouldn’t think so. Or I hadn’t. Before. Everything has gone so well. Amazingly well. It’s truly like a fairy tale. Not that it hasn’t taken a lot of work on both our parts. We work together now, and live together. All that togetherness brings many challenges, but they’re the kind you want to tackle, relish tackling, and figuring out. Because the reward is so worth it. Worth ten times more. A hundred. Any number to infinity. We both know what we have is special. We’ve been around long enough, dated enough, hurt enough, and loved enough, to know that this kind of relationship comes along once in your life. We’re not going to mess this up. Do you know what I mean?”
“I do, yes, very much.” Riley, moved by Charlotte’s avowal, answered without thinking.
Charlotte took both her hands. “I suspected so. Will you tell me?”
“Us,” Franco chimed in, not even pretending he wasn’t hanging on their every word.
“What happened to your fairy tale, Riley?” Char asked. “It wasn’t long ago, was it? Is that why you came to Sugarberry?”
Regrouping quickly Riley turned Charlotte’s hands over in hers, squeezed back gently, then let go. She turned away to fiddle with her tools, but wasn’t paying any attention to what she was unpacking. “You’re in a really good place, Charlotte. You and Carlo. You’re so lucky. Even better, you both know how lucky you are.” Riley sent her a brief glance. “Hold on to it, do whatever you can to nurture it. Don’t take it for granted. I know you’re struggling right now. Talk to him. Honestly. Openly. Tell him what you’re feeling. Don’t make him guess and don’t sweep it aside.”
Franco came around the table and gently pulled her against his side with a brawny arm over her shoulders. “You should take your own advice,
ma belle
.”
Riley snorted, but it caught on a sob in her throat. “You don’t have to tell me that. Trust me, if I ever get the chance again, I will.”
He turned her to face him and Char joined in their little circle. “You have the chance now. That rule doesn’t just apply to partner relationships, but to friendships as well. Both require trust and commitment, after all.”
Riley blinked away the sudden sting behind her eyes. “You’re right. Don’t think I don’t love and appreciate both of you. I know I’m new to your group, that you both go way back with Lani, but—”
“It’s not about time spent,” Franco said. “Paths cross, some briefly, and others stay connected forever. Ours will.”
“Thank you,” Riley said, deeply sincere. “You all don’t know how much your friendship has meant to me.”
“You have friends back in Chicago,” Char said. “Have you at least been talking with them?”
She looked first at Char, then at Franco, then down at her hands. “I do. A very few. But ... not like the three of you are with each other. It’s complicated.”
Riley had long ago shared with the group that both her parents had passed away. She’d never really known her father, who’d died in combat when she’d been barely a toddler. Her mother, in the same branch of the military, had died of complications from pneumonia when Riley was in college. Hers had been a nomadic life. Her mom was often gone and Riley stayed with this family or that one on whatever base they were stationed, until her mom returned. There had been nothing traditional about her upbringing, but it had been the only life she’d known. She’d been independent very early on, and hadn’t thought that was so bad.
While her life had prepared her to fight her own battles and fend for herself, it had taught her little to nothing about how to put down roots, much less make and sustain lasting friendships. She had no immediate family, just a string of cousins scattered all over that she’d never really known or been particularly close to.
Char one-arm hugged Riley, too. “I’ve been going on and on about my bliss, then whining about little things. You must think me a ridiculous fool.”
“No, I think you’re madly in love and you want to hold on to that forever. You should want that.” Riley looked at Char. “And you will hold on to it. So will Lani and Baxter. You guys are doing it right.”
Franco gave her a supportive smile, but there was sadness in it. “Not all of us get a real chance to fulfill our dream.” He was referring to the painful end of his relationship with Brenton.
“Exactly.” Riley still hoped she could escape without rehashing the entire humiliating ordeal of Jeremy.
But Char pulled up a work stool and Franco pulled up two more. “Sit,” he commanded. “No one else will be here for at least an hour. Alva is helping Lani cater the Kiwanis community garden fund-raiser, and Dre isn’t coming tonight.”
“I know, she told me her fall semester schedule is still all screwed up.” Riley smiled. “I’m so proud of her. It’s her last year.”
“We are, too.” Char rubbed Riley’s arm. “You don’t have to share if you don’t want to.”
Franco shushed Char with a
“shh”
and a glare, then gave Riley his most earnest and supportive look. “You’ll feel better. You remember how long it took you all to pull the story out of me—”
Char snorted. “Right. I believe it was, oh, approximately sixty seconds after you came storming in the back door.” Then she relented and rubbed his arm, too. “And it was horrible. We were all devastated for you. You know that.”
It had been horrible. And no one had understood the depths of Franco’s pain brought on by that kind of devastating blow more than Riley.
Franco had moved to Savannah from New York to stay with his newly committed partner, Brenton, a PA on Baxter’s cooking show. For Franco, Brenton was the love of his life, and everyone who had seen them together would have agreed the feeling was mutual—right up until ten months ago. Franco had surprised Brenton on set to celebrate the anniversary of the purchase of their condo where they’d first lived together as a couple, only to discover Brenton locked in an embrace with another PA—a female PA, at that—in the prep kitchen.
It had shattered his entire world, and the whole Cupcake Club had suffered right along with the brokenhearted Franco.
“I know you were, and it meant the world to me.” Franco looked back at Riley. “Trust me, honey.” All traces of France were gone. “Never underestimate the power of collective disdain and loathing on the one that done you wrong. It’s so much better than a pity party for one.”
“I know, I just don’t want to dwell on it anymore. I’ve moved on. Rehashing it won’t help me now. A group bashing session would just feel ... petty.”
“Did you think I was petty for wishing bad things on Brenton?” Franco spit the name out like he’d just tasted something bitter. “Or worse, yet, pathetic?”
“No, no, not at all. But it had just happened to you. It’s expected when you’re raw from being so badly hurt. It’s been almost two years for me. I have no excuse.”
“That depends,” Char said. “What did he do?”
“Why do you think he’s the one who did anything?”
Char and Franco gave Riley a quelling look, then Char added, “It doesn’t take two years to get over it when you’re doing the dumping.”
“Maybe I deserved it,” Riley pointed out.
Instead of admonishing her, Franco stroked her hair. “Oh,
belissima
, is that what you think?” It was such an instinctive, heartfelt gesture of comfort, hot tears instantly gathered in the corners of Riley’s eyes. “Bastard,” he added, with just the right amount of French-accented disgust to make her go from the verge of tears, to half-snorted giggle.
“Well ... he is that,” she agreed. “But it sounds so much better when you say it.”
He hugged her again, then pumped his fist in the air. “
Soli-daritie!
See? I told you, ees much better, this beetching with friends.” All he needed was a French flag to fly over his head.
“Will you tell us what happened?” Char asked.
Riley sighed. Somehow, telling them didn’t seem all that bad. Maybe Franco was right. When you knew the people you were sharing difficult news with would have your back, no matter what ... telling became almost a relief. Determined not to get sniffly again, she took a breath, squared her shoulders, and smiled at them. “You know, maybe if I’d spent my time cultivating true friendships and not just work relationships, things would have turned out much differently. But I had no time for real friends. I was too obsessed with the amazing bliss that was my relationship with my fiancé.”
“Possibly. I know it’s helped having all of you keeping me grounded when I feel like I’m floating five feet off the ground.” Charlotte smiled dryly. “I was never a floater. Ever. In fact, I was always the lead balloon in the room. If you’d told me I’d ever be in this situation, a ring on my finger, and fighting mad about families blending and still wanting this partnership so badly, the cynic I used to be—”
Franco snorted.
Char elbowed him, not gently. “And am not any longer, would have had a very good, very long laugh. In fact, it’s a good thing I met Carlo about the time Lani and Baxter figured things out, because I don’t think I’d have been the friend she needed, otherwise.”
Char made a face at Franco, who bussed her noisily on the cheek, making her smile sincerely. She looked at Riley then, with all that honest affection still clear in her dark eyes. “I shamelessly need you to help me navigate this, so please let us help you navigate, too. Even if it’s in the past, some waters stay dark and run too deep, until you cross them and realize it wasn’t so bad a crossing after all.”
“Maybe.” Riley was heartened by the steadfastness she saw in both their faces. She huffed out a sigh. “Okay. His name is Jeremy. He’s a journalist, a very good one, magazine articles mostly, and a trained chef, so his work was all food oriented. We both worked for
Foodie
.” Char and Franco knew that was the magazine she’d styled food for back in Chicago. “It was love at first sight. We were disgustingly inseparable when we weren’t dragged apart by work, which wasn’t often, but you’d think we’d been cast off to the desert for months after just a day spent apart. Yes, our bliss was that disgusting. I knew I was, hands down, the luckiest girl in the world. He made me feel like the only woman who’d ever existed in his.”

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