The Cottage on the Corner (5 page)

“You have bread in here, Charlotte?” Zim called.

“It's out here.” She opened the old bread box that Tessa had given her. She must have realized how much Charlotte had loved the box. She'd wrapped it up and given it to her for her birthday. Now it sat in a place of honor on the counter. She took out a loaf of bread and handed it to Zim.

“Perfect!” He took two pieces and put them into the toaster. “How about fruit?”

“Fruit?”

“She's a little girl. She needs good nutrition. She needs fruit. Bananas, maybe. You have bananas, right?” He shot her a hard look, and she was pleased to admit that she did, indeed, have bananas.

“Go ahead and grab one. Cut it up into slices, then cut every slice in half. You don't want Zuzu to choke.”

“I'm not choking,” Zuzu said.

“And we're going to make sure you don't. Ms. Charlotte is going to cut your bananas up. You like bananas, don't you?”

“Yes!” Zuzu clapped her hands, and Zim smiled.

Charlotte would have smiled too, but she was beginning to feel like a stranger in her own home. Zim and Zuzu had known each other for less than ten minutes, and they already seemed to be best buddies.

Not that Charlotte needed a best buddy. She didn't really need a good buddy or a mediocre one, either. She was content and happy to be on her own. She enjoyed quiet nights and peaceful mornings. There was always the remnant of her dreams, though. The ones she'd thrown aside when she'd discovered Brett's betrayal—love that lasted forever, children. No matter how much she tried to drive the dreams out for good, they always reared their ugly heads when she was the most tired and the most stressed.

Right at that moment, she was both.

She grabbed a banana from a basket hanging near the pantry door, cut it up just the way Zim had said. Her body ached from hours of being on her feet. Making the cake for Tessa and Cade's wedding had taken a lot out of her. Physically
and
emotionally.

Which seemed silly.

It had been three years, after all. Brett was dead and gone, his ashes interred in a cemetery near his other family in St. Louis.

“Hurry it up, Charlotte. This little girl can't wait forever,” Zim barked as he buttered toast and put it on a plate with scrambled eggs.

“Done.”

“It's about time,” he muttered, scooping bananas onto the plate with Zuzu's eggs and toast. “Here you are, doll. You're all set.”

He set the plate on the afghan and handed Zuzu a fork. Zuzu held it with one hand and grabbed egg with the other. Little bits of yellow dropped onto the afghan and the floor.

Nice.

Charlotte marched into the pantry, absolutely refusing to say a word about the mess. After years of being married to a man who'd wanted every piece of furniture dusted every day, every floor swept or vacuumed or cleaned, every surface wiped down, she had a penchant for a neat house that even she'd admit was a little crazy. A place for everything and everything in its place. That's what Brett had always said. It had been cute the first two or three times. After a dozen or so repeats of the same, it hadn't been cute anymore.

He hadn't been cute, either, when he'd lifted furniture to make sure no dust bunnies were hiding underneath, checked behind doors to see if she'd remembered to sweep there.

She frowned, dragging down boxes from the shelving unit that she'd installed in the pantry.

She assembled two boxes and filled them with muffins. Pumpkin, lemon poppy seed, carrot cake. She filled another box with fresh bagels. Plain and whole wheat. She'd wanted to make sesame, but Ida had said too many of the historical society members had partials and sesames would get stuck under their teeth.

“Those look mighty good,” Zim said as she tucked the last bagel into the box. “They smell even better.”

“I just finished making them. They're still a little warm. Want one?”

“Actually, I had a hankering for one of those pumpkin muffins of yours. If you have any to spare.” He eyed the cooling racks spread out across the huge kitchen island. Another expense that had been well worth it, the molded cement surface easy to clean and difficult to damage.

“You know I do.” She grabbed a muffin and placed it on a plate. “How about some coffee?”

“Don't mind if I do.” He didn't wait for her to pour it. Zim had spent so many mornings in her kitchen, he rarely asked or waited for anything anymore. He knew where the mugs were, the cream, the sugar that he loved to scoop into his cup.

“You're going to kill yourself with that stuff, Zim.”

“Sugar?” He eyed her over the rim of the coffee cup. “It's better than that fake stuff that's in your diet pops.”

“I don't drink soda anymore. I gave it up for the new year.” She glanced at Zuzu. She'd made quick work of the toast and banana and was tossing bits of egg across the room. “I don't think Zuzu likes eggs,” she murmured.

“What clued you in?”

“The egg that's spread from one end of my kitchen to the other,” she responded dryly.

“She's a kid. Kids make messes.” Zim shrugged, settling into a chair and stretching out his legs with a quiet groan. “There we go. This is better. You sit down, too. We'll take a little break before we make your delivery.”

“We?” She topped off her coffee but didn't sit down. She had a long list of deliveries to make, and her customers weren't going to be happy if she kept them waiting so that she could have coffee and an early-morning chat with her neighbor.

“You can't do it alone. Not with little Zuzu along.”

“I—”She was going to tell him that she could manage just fine, but he had a point. Deliveries usually meant more than one trip from her station wagon. She couldn't drag Zuzu along for every trip, and she couldn't leave her in the car. “Maybe you could stay here with her or take her over to your place. That would probably be the easiest thing for everyone. I could pay you in baked goods. I'm making a lemon chiffon cake for a baby shower in Spokane tomorrow. I could do an extra for you.”

“Hmmmm. That's a temptation, Charlotte. I'll admit it. I do love your lemon chiffon cake.”

She knew he did, but then, Zim loved everything she baked. He couldn't resist his early-morning visits, couldn't say no to her offers of gingerbread or cobbler or cookies. According to the blue-haired ladies at the diner, there were plenty of other people who couldn't resist. It seemed that men were particularly tempted by the stuff she made. Her double chocolate delight cupcakes were reported to make reluctant boyfriends and fiancés into husbands. One bite and they'd ask for the hand of the woman who'd delivered them.

Or so the story went.

The first time Charlotte heard it, she'd laughed. The second time wasn't quite as funny. When Ellie Mae Anderson bought some for her boyfriend of seven years, Charlotte had told the poor misguided woman that there was no way the cupcakes could make her Jim propose. Fifty-year-old Ellie had smiled sagely and paid for a half dozen. Two weeks later, she and Jim eloped to Las Vegas.

Next thing Charlotte knew, women were showing up on her doorstep at all hours of the day and night, begging for the cupcakes or the recipe. As if true love could be found in a chocolate confection.

She snorted and poured more coffee into Zim's mug. “I'll throw in a half dozen cookies, too,” she offered, sweetening the pot just a little. “Fresh baked. I'm making them for the PTA meeting at the elementary school this afternoon.”

“How about you just throw in a ride to the sheriff's department? You're making a delivery there, this morning, right?”

“Just my weekly delivery.” She'd already filled a platter with leftovers from the previous day's baking. She'd drop it off after she delivered to the historical society.

“Perfect. I'll come along. You just stay in the car with Zuzu,” he crowed, looking just a little too smug for Charlotte's comfort.

“Why do you need to go to the sheriff's department?” she prodded.

“A need to do my civic duty.”

“What civic duty?”

“Gertrude's growing weed in the greenhouse behind This-N-That,” he said matter-of-factly.

Charlotte nearly spewed coffee across the room. “What!?”

“Pot. Cannabis. Marijuana.”

“I know what weed is,” she cut in, glancing at Zuzu. She'd cleared off her plate and was walking around the kitchen, tracking bits of eggs across the tile floor. “I'm just not sure why you think Gertrude is growing it in the greenhouse.”

“What else would she be growing?”

“Vegetables? Herbs?”

“Then why does she keep the door locked?”

“I didn't know she did, and I'm surprised that you do. I thought the two of you had a truce.” They'd been feuding bitterly when Charlotte moved in, but they'd been getting along better in recent months, going bowling and to the movies like a couple of old friends.

“We do, but that doesn't mean I'm not keeping an eye on her. The Rileys—”

“Zim, don't. Okay?” She rubbed the back of her neck, hoping he'd let the matter drop. The last thing Tessa needed was to come home to the news that her greenhouse had been raided. “Tessa grows strawberries and blueberries in the greenhouse. She has tomato plants and green beans and an entire row of rose bushes that she uses to decorate the shop.”

“I'm not saying Tessa has anything to do with Gertrude's crimes. She's probably completely unaware what with how busy her life was before the wedding, but you mark my words, Gertrude is up to no good. I saw that Kenny Simpson hanging out there one day.”

“I don't think I've met him.” But she was sure she was about to hear every detail of his life.

“Used to live outside of town in that little trailer park off of ninety.”

“That doesn't make him a bad person.”

“He plays guitar in one of those seedy little bands. Goes to bars every weekend and exchanges music for drinks. He's a loser. Pure and simple.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about him.”

“I know his folks. They're good people. It's not their fault they birthed a bad apple.”

“Zim . . .” She shook her head and didn't bother continuing. Zim had already decided Gertrude and Kenny were in the pot-growing and selling business. No way would she be able to change his mind. “Fine. Come on the deliveries with me, but you can't spend more than ten minutes at the sheriff's department. I have to make a few dozen cookies for a PTA meeting, and I've got to bake those cakes this afternoon, too.”

“Lemon chiffon. My wife used to make it,” he said as he put his plate and coffee cup into the sink. “Come on, Zuzu. Let's clean you up a little before we go out. We wouldn't want the town to think Charlotte doesn't know how to take care of a child. You have extra clothes for her?” he asked as he lifted Zuzu.

“Max didn't bring any.”

“The man is an idiot,” Zim muttered. “We'll have to make do. Hopefully nobody will notice that she's wearing pajamas. You know how people in town are. They catch a glimpse of a child wearing pajamas out in public, and they assume the parents are inept.”

“We're not her parents,” Charlotte pointed out.

“Doesn't matter. She's been entrusted to our care. You have a comb in your bathroom? I can at least do the child's hair. Maybe if she looks cute enough, no one will notice what she's wearing.”

Charlotte didn't know how they would
not
notice. The footy pajamas had smiling cars and trucks all over them. They were faded and old. Zuzu hadn't been wearing a coat when Max dropped her off. Just the blanket. If she and Zim got her out of the vehicle there wasn't one person in Apple Valley who wouldn't notice that.

“A brush. There's probably a couple of ponytail holders on the counter,” she responded, but Zim was already walking out of the kitchen and she didn't know if he heard.

It didn't matter. He could brush Zuzu's hair. He could make cute little pigtails or curl the ends around her chubby cheeks. He could do a whole variety of things, but someone in town was going to see the poor kid. When that happened, there'd be all kinds of gossip and talk. More than likely there'd be a collection, too. Clothes and toys and all kinds of things that a little girl needed that Max might or might not have at his place. He wouldn't be happy. She didn't know him well, but she knew he wouldn't want charity.

Not Charlotte's business.

She'd agreed to babysit because Max had been desperate and because she was a pushover. Too nice for her own good. Brett had told her that dozens of times. He'd been more right than she'd known until after he'd died.

She'd been trying to change. Toughen up, close herself off to other people's demands, create a nice safe environment to grow and heal in.
No
was supposed to be her new favorite word. According to the author of
Building Brick Boundaries That Can't Be Busted,
Charlotte needed to practice saying it every day until saying
no
became more comfortable than saying
yes
. At that point, she would finally be free of her need to make others happy at the expense of her own needs and desires.

“No,” she muttered, glancing at the egg-stained afghan and floor.

“No,” she said again as she washed Zim's plate and mug. “No, no, no, no. NO!”

Yeah. She was getting pretty good at saying it.

When no one was around asking for anything.

Throw in a good-looking cop with heavenly eyes and sinfully sensual lips, and she forgot the word even existed.

“Loser,” she muttered as she grabbed the boxes of baked goods.

“What's that?” Zim asked as he carried Zuzu back into the kitchen. He'd scooped the child's hair into a ponytail that listed heavily to the left. Obviously, his hair-brushing skills weren't what they'd once been.