The Cottage on the Corner (7 page)

“I hope so.”

“Well, if we're running too far behind, I can bring Zuzu to the store and we can buy a few packs of oatmeal cookies. Just put them on one of those fancy trays of yours and no one will be the wiser.”

“I'd rather die,” she muttered.

“No need to be dramatic.”

“I'm not being dramatic. I'm being honest. The PTA paid for home-baked cookies. That's what they're going to get.” She slapped two sticks of butter into the bowl, measured in sugar and vanilla. Thank God she was past the point of needing recipes.

“Take it from someone who knows. They're not going to care. Add a little fresh fruit into the mix, and they'll think they've died and gone to heaven.” He stuck his head into the refrigerator. “You have any fresh fruit in here? Strawberries? Grapes?”

“Probably.” But there was no way she was going to toss store-bought cookies onto the tray with the lemon bars, Russian tea cakes, and praline crunch cookies she'd spent hours baking. She certainly wasn't going to slap fruit in the center of the tray and call it good.

“Where's the tray? I'll start setting it up for you.”

“I appreciate that, Zim, but it might be better if you and Zuzu just waited in the other room.” She turned on the mixer and started creaming the butter, hoping that the noise would be enough to put a stop to the conversation.

She should have known better.

Zim moved closer, staring down into the bowl while she whipped the butter and sugar into a fluffy mound.

“You want me to get some other ingredients for you?”

“No.”

“You sure? Many hands make light work.”

“And too many cooks spoil the broth.”

“Are you saying that I'm bothering you?” He scowled, the lines in his face deepening.

“Not at all.” She added vanilla to the mix, cracked in two eggs. “It's just that I have a routine, a certain way of doing things. When I'm in a hurry—”

“I'm bothering you. That's exactly what you're saying.”

“No, I—”

“No need to pretend otherwise. Zuzu and I know when we're not wanted. Don't we, doll?” He lifted Zuzu. “We'll just go outside and play for a while.”

“Outside!” Zuzu squealed, clapping her hands excitedly.

“That would be great, Zim, but she doesn't have a coat. You can't keep her wrapped in a blanket while she's playing,” Charlotte pointed out, measuring a cup of flour into a small bowl.

“We'll find her something. You must have a spare coat around here.”

“She's too little to wear my coat.”

“We'll make it work. Won't we, Zuzu?”

“Yes!” Zuzu agreed.

“Even if you could find a coat that would work, she doesn't have shoes. Just those feety pajamas.” Charlotte measured out baking soda and baking powder and hoped it was the right amount. Usually she baked in peace, a little music playing in the background. She wasn't used to conversing and measuring ingredients. She'd probably end up with cementlike flavorless cookies. Maybe she
should
consider throwing fresh fruit on the tray.

“Do you need shoes, doll?” Zim asked Zuzu.

“No shoes,” she said.

“See?” Zim preened, his white hair standing up around his wrinkled face.

“She's barely past babyhood. How does she know what she needs?”

“She doesn't, but I'm as close to an expert as you've got, and I say she's going to be fine. Besides, I'm not bringing her far. Just out back. She'll love the baby swing you've got.”

“You mean the one hanging from that rusty old swing set?” The thing looked like it was about to collapse under the weight of time. She'd been meaning to take it down, but every time she thought about it, she imagined the children who had played there and she didn't have the heart to do it.

“It's not that rusty.”

“It's not that sturdy, either.”

“Sturdy enough for a twenty pounder.” Zim set his coffee cup into the sink. “Your coat closet is in the living room, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“Now don't fuss, Charlotte. You want the girl to be a wilting flower when she grows up?”

She didn't suppose that she did, but since Zuzu wasn't going to be her responsibility for more than a few hours, she didn't think it mattered.

She pressed her lips together and kept her thoughts to herself.

Facts were facts, after all.

And the fact was, she had about three hours of baking to do in two hours.

“Stay here for a minute, Zuzu.” Zim hurried from the room.

Charlotte eyed Zuzu, wondering if she planned to start screaming again.

Zuzu eyed her right back.

She'd been doing fine since Zim's arrival, but they'd spent the majority of the morning making deliveries. When they hadn't been doing that, Zim had been entertaining the little girl.

Charlotte had always wanted children. Now that she had a child standing in front of her, she realized that she had no idea what to do with one.

Fortunately Zim reappeared, Charlotte's old sweater in one hand and one of her old coats in the other. Somehow he managed to get Zuzu into both garments. “Here we go, doll! We're all set.”

He rolled up the sweater sleeves and zipped up the coat. Fabric puddled at her feet and the shoulders of the coat slipped down her arms.

“Well,” Zim said with a frown, “it's not the best result, but we'll make it work.”

“Zim, I really don't think—”

“You just get those cookies done and let me worry about Zuzu.” He took Zuzu's hand, but the little girl tugged away when he tried to lead her to the back door.

“Where's my coat?” she asked, her little hands planted firmly on her hips.

“I think your . . .” Father? Max? “You forgot to put it on this morning.”

“Where's Mommy?” Zuzu responded.

Another question Charlotte didn't know how to answer.

She glanced at Zim. He didn't seem to have any bright ideas either.

“She'll be back soon, Zuzu,” Charlotte finally said, and hoped to God she was right. For the kid's sake. She deserved better than to be pawned off on two strangers.

“I want Mommy,” Zuzu insisted, her chin wobbling, her eyes filling with tears.

“Don't cry, doll,” Zim murmured, patting her on the head. “We're going to go have fun. Before you know it, your mommy will be back.”

He met Charlotte's eyes. Maybe looking for assurance that he was right.

Charlotte had no idea when Zuzu's mother would be back. She didn't know where the woman had gone or why she'd decided to leave her child with a man she hadn't seen in years. Even if Max
was
Zuzu's father, he was as much a stranger to Zuzu as Zim and Charlotte were.

“I'm sure she will be back soon, Zuzu,” she murmured even though she wasn't sure of anything except that the fact that she was behind on her schedule. Very, very behind and getting more behind every minute.

“Good. Great.” Zim nodded and scooped Zuzu into his arms. “Let's go get on the swing for a while. You like swings, right?”

“Yes,” Zuzu said, but she still looked like she might start crying again. She shot Charlotte a reproachful look as Zim opened the back door, then stuck her thumb in her mouth and turned away, her nose as high in the air as it could get.

She'd learned attitude early. It would probably serve her a lot better than Charlotte's easygoing nature had served
her
. Too bad
her
mom hadn't taught her to stick her nose in the air and leave in a huff. She might not have wasted so many years on Brett.

She looked down into the bowl of butter and sugar. Had she added vanilla? Was there baking powder in the dry ingredients?

She couldn't remember for sure, and she couldn't deliver flat cookies to the PTA. Great. Perfect. She dumped the bowl of dry ingredients and started over, carefully measuring everything, chopping dark chocolate, mixing it all together. Outside, Zuzu was giggling, the high-pitched sound drifting through the single-pane glass windows.

She was having fun, but she was freezing in the process.

Charlotte glanced out the window.

The swing set stood at the back edge of the fenced yard. Old and neglected, left for decades untouched by children or adults, it had two rusty metal swings and a plastic baby swing that must have been a later addition. Mary had willed the house to Charlotte. It had been a surprise. A nice one. Charlotte had heard stories about Mary's childhood home. She'd heard all about the summers that Mary had spent playing in the backyard and planting flower gardens in the shade of the old apple tree. Mary had moved to Billings with her husband, but had kept the family home as a rental property. Other children had used the swings in the years since Mary had lived there. The red paint had faded to dingy brown, but Zuzu didn't seem to mind. Zim had her wrapped in the coat, her little shoeless feet hanging out of the holes in the swing. Her cheeks were pink, her hair bouncing as Zim gently pushed the swing.

She was a cute kid. That was for sure.

She was also a loud kid.

Charlotte's head ached from a sleepless night and hours of toddler chatter. Throw Zim chatter in and she'd had just about all she could take for the day. What she wanted to do was nap, but she had to bake the cookies and make the delivery on time. Her reputation depended on it. In a town like Apple Valley, that was everything to small businesses.

Right now she was doing well, making money, shoving it all in savings. She almost had enough for a full year's rent on the storefront she'd been eyeing. Right on Main Street, close to Riley Park, it had been a soda shop in the fifties, a five-and-dime in the seventies, and a coffee shop in recent years. The current owner planned to retire to Florida as soon as he found someone to rent the property.

Charlotte wanted to be that person in a bad way. She wanted it so much that she'd almost signed the contract a month ago. If she'd had enough money for the first year's rent, she would have, but she'd learned the value of being prepared after Brett's death. Everything she'd thought was hers hadn't been, and if she hadn't had a good job, she'd have been forced to live in her car until she'd found one.

Brett had been a bastard, but his kids had deserved better than a long drawn-out court battle over the property he'd left to them and their mother.

His other wife.

Thinking about it still made her blood run cold.

Charlotte had relinquished the house, the property, the money that Brett had been hiding away in a secret account. She'd also given up the pots and pans and linens and everything else that they'd received as wedding gifts.

She'd left all of it behind.

She wished she could have left the memories behind too. Most days, she didn't think about all the years she'd wasted with Brett, but seeing Zuzu . . .

Yeah. That was hard.

She'd wanted children more than she'd wanted anything.

Maybe after she got a little more settled, got her life a little more together, she'd adopt.

At the rate she was going, she'd be ninety by then.

She sighed and took the cookies from the oven. Golden brown and studded with dark chocolate, they were perfect.

She might not have had the marriage she'd thought, she might not be living the life she'd dreamed of, but she could make a perfect cookie.

That had to count for something.

They walked out of the house with five minutes to spare. A miracle, considering how far behind Charlotte had been.

“You put Zuzu in her car seat, and I'll put these in the back. If we hurry, we'll be there in plenty of time to set up the table before the PTA meeting.” She slid two trays of cookies into the station wagon.

“We have to set up a table?” Zim grumbled as he put Zuzu in her car seat. “I thought we were just bringing the cookies.”

“It will only take a minute. If you can just watch Zuzu—”

“Haven't I been watching her all day?”

“Yes, and I appreciate it. Once we're done with this delivery, you can go home and . . .”

What did Zim do in the evening?

Watch TV?

Read?

“You're not going to feed me dinner?” Zim set gnarled hands on his narrow hips and glared.

“You're acting like Zuzu,” she pointed out as she headed back to the house. “But I'll feed you dinner anyway.”

“What are we going to have?” he called.

She didn't know so she ignored the question and walked inside. The living room was trashed, a fort made of blankets and dining room chairs taking up all the floor space. There wasn't a cushion left on the couch or love seat. They were probably in the fort, but she didn't have time to look.

She grabbed the box she'd packed with paper plates, napkins, and a tablecloth and took the old teapot she'd filled with flowers she'd purchased the previous day. White and yellow daisies. A little baby's breath. Nothing fancy, but the PTA would appreciate the presentation as much as they appreciated the cookies. That mattered when it came to building her business.

She stepped back outside, her arms full, a clock ticking in her head. Or maybe it was the headache pounding behind her eyes that she was hearing. She should have grabbed some aspirin while baking, but she'd been too busy trying to finish the order.

A car pulled up to the curb as she hurried down the porch steps. Dark blue and boxy looking, it wasn't old enough to be cool and wasn't new enough to be nice. Charlotte was sure she'd seen it around town. Probably someone wanting to place an order. She didn't have time, but she could at least get a phone number. She put the box in the back of the station wagon and handed Zim the teapot. “Can you hold these? I don't want the water to spill.”

“Sure.” He glanced at the car. “What's Daisy doing here?”

“Daisy?”

“Forester. That's her car.” He gestured as he got into the seat beside Zuzu. “You'd better tell her you're too busy to talk. That woman knows how to gab.”

“I hadn't noticed.” She didn't have time to visit the library. She barely had time to read. When she did, she usually spent her time perusing old cookbooks. She also had a stash of romance novels hidden in a box under her bed, but there was no way she was going to admit it.

“I noticed. I also noticed that time is ticking away, and we're still sitting in your driveway. I'm getting kind of hungry waiting, so I hope you're planning something I like for dinner. Meatloaf maybe. Mashed potatoes. Carrots.” He slammed his door.

Seconds later, Daisy got out of her car, her long black skirt brushing winter-dry grass, her black tennis shoes peeking out as she walked.

“Hi, Charlotte!” she called. “It looks like you're on the way out.”

“I'm making a delivery.”

“I won't keep you then.” She stepped behind the station wagon, positioning herself about two feet from the fender.

“Thanks.” Charlotte opened her door in some vain hope that Daisy really
didn't
plan to keep her.

“Is that Zim in your car?” Daisy asked, obviously not as anxious to leave as Charlotte was to have her go.

“Yes. He's helping with this delivery. Which I have to make in just a couple of minutes.”

“Then I'll get out of your way.”

Please do.
The words were on the tip of her tongue, but Daisy continued before she could say them. “First, though, I was wondering if I could place an order.”

“If you call me this afternoon—”

“Not a big one.” Daisy offered a brittle smile and tucked a strand of mousy brown hair behind her ear. “Just a couple of the double chocolate delights.”

Great. Not again.

“I don't make them any longer, Daisy.”

“Why not?”

“I don't have time to go into it.” Even if she did, she wouldn't bother. No matter how many times she explained that the cupcakes really didn't contain a magical potion designed to make every man who tasted them propose, she couldn't convince the women of Apple Valley. “But I'd be happy to bake a few chocolate cupcakes. Or a couple of my Boston cream. Have you had those?”

“I'm not interested in anything else.” Daisy frowned. “If you don't have time to bake them, I can do it myself. Just give me the recipe.”

“I don't give out recipes.” Especially not for those particular cupcakes. The last thing she needed was a line of unhappy female customers outside her house.

“That's just mean, Charlotte! Everyone knows those cupcakes . . .” She glanced at the car, probably looking to see if Zim was listening. “I really need a double chocolate delight. Just one.”

“I'm sorry, Daisy.” She really kind of was, because poor Daisy looked like she was about to cry. “How about you give me a call tomorrow, and we'll discuss other options. Right now I have to leave.”

She got into the station wagon and closed the door, hoping beyond all hope that Daisy moved out of the way so she could leave.

She stood right where she'd been, her feet firmly planted, her oversized wool coat bagging around her narrow frame.

“What's that crazy lady doing?” Zim huffed.

Making Charlotte's life miserable. That's what.

“Crazy lady!” Zuzu repeated as Zim rolled down his window and stuck his head out.

“Daisy! What are you doing back there? We've got places to go!”

“Fine!” Daisy stalked away.

Charlotte was fairly certain she was mumbling under her breath as she went. Seconds later, the boxy little car peeled away from the curb, leaving a cloud of gray exhaust in its wake.

“Let's boogie, Charlotte!” Zim demanded.

She put the car in reverse, started to back out of the driveway.

“I have to go potty!” Zuzu shouted.

“Can't it wait?”

“You're talking to a three-year-old,” Zim retorted. “If you think she has the kind of bladder control it takes to wait, you just go on ahead and drive to the school.”

Charlotte didn't want to be late.

She didn't want to have a pee-soaked car, either.

“Fine.” She slammed on the brake, turned off the ignition, then got back out of the car.

She unhooked Zuzu's car seat and lifted her.

“Better hurry, Charlotte. Girls her age can't wait long,” Zim called as she ran back to the house.

Hurry?

That's all she'd done all day, but no matter how much she hurried, she couldn't seem to catch up.

Or catch a break.

Not that she'd ever caught one in her life.

It seemed like she'd spent twenty-eight years trying to get somewhere. The problem was, she hadn't quite figured out where that was or what she was supposed to do once she got there. For a while, she'd thought Brett was the where and the what.

He hadn't been.

Maybe Apple Valley was. Maybe the little bakery on Main Street was. Or maybe in another year or two she'd move on, find another place and another thing.

Right now all she wanted to do was get Zuzu into the bathroom, get her out, and get going.

Because she
was
going to get the blasted cookies to the PTA meeting on time, come hell, high water, or potty-trained toddlers!

 

 

Giving traffic tickets to crying women wasn't exactly how Max liked to spend his days. Especially when those crying women were red-faced, red-eyed, and sobbing.

“Calm down, Daisy,” he said as he took the librarian's license and registration. “Being pulled over isn't the end of the world.”

“I've”—hiccup—“never”—sob—“been . . . pulled over”—hiccup—“before.” She dug through the glove compartment and took out a small package of tissues.

“There's a first time for everything, and apparently this is it.” He didn't bother running her license plate. He knew her as well as he knew anyone in town. She wasn't wanted, didn't have a record, had never been in any kind of trouble with the law.

“I know, but I just don't”—sob—“speed.”

“You were going forty-five in a twenty-five-mile-an-hour zone. That's dangerous, Daisy. Especially with all the houses around. What if a little kid ran out into the street? You wouldn't have time to stop.” He took out his ticket pad. He didn't plan to write her more than a warning, but at the sight of the pad and his pen, she wailed so loudly, a few starlings flew from a nearby tree.

“I'm a failure. That's why Jerry won't propose!” she cried, her face blotchy and red from tears.

“He won't propose because you deserve someone better,” Max said truthfully.

That was all it took. The waterworks stopped, and Daisy straightened, her eyes flashing. “I'll have you know that Jerry is the best thing that's ever happened to me. Just last week he bought me a dozen roses for no reason at all.”

Max was sure there'd been a reason, but he'd said enough. “Sorry. I didn't mean to offend.”

“You just don't understand, Max. You like to play the field. You want a new woman every weekend, and the women you choose want a new man every day of the week.”

Ouch.

That hurt.

But it was only a slight exaggeration. Even if it hadn't been, he wouldn't have argued. He didn't much care what Daisy or anyone else thought of him.

“What's your point, Daisy?”

“Jerry and I are
exclusive
. We have been for years.”

Exclusive?
She
might have been, but Max didn't think Jerry was. That was another thing Max decided to keep to himself.

“Glad to hear it,” he murmured, trying his best to keep every bit of sarcasm out of his voice.

“We
are,
” she insisted even though he hadn't argued. “And Jerry is going to be
very
upset if I get a ticket. We planned on buying a brand-new high-definition TV. I'm not going to have the money if I have to pay for a ticket.”

“Maybe you should let him come up with the money,” he suggested.

“He would, but he had to quit his part-time job. He's finishing up his novel.”

“I'm sure he is.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” she asked with a scowl.

“Nothing important.” He ripped a ticket from his pad and handed it to her. “I'm not going to cite you, Daisy. This time. I'm issuing you a warning. If I catch you speeding through town again, you will be cited, though. Keep that in mind the next time you want to fly through town.”

“Just a warning?! Max, you're a lifesaver!” She smiled, and he was surprised at how pretty and young she looked. He'd pegged her for forty, but the smile made her look a decade younger.

“I'm giving you a break because I've never pulled you over before. I won't be as easy on you next time.” He handed back her ID and registration.

“I understand. Thanks!” She rolled up her window and pulled away, crawling down the street so slowly, he could have pulled her over for creating a hazard. There was no traffic, so he didn't. Besides, he had to stop by Charlotte's, check on Zuzu, and drop off the stuff he'd grabbed before he'd gone on the cattle round-up.

That had taken too much of his time.

Not to mention the fact that he now smelled like cow and was covered in dirt and grass stains. He kept another uniform at the office. He'd change when he got back. With any luck, the rest of the evening would be uneventful. Most days that wasn't what he wanted. He liked a little action. A couple of cases to keep him occupied. Right then, though, all he wanted was a quiet room and a little peace.

He pulled away from the curb, frowning as a station wagon passed going in the opposite direction. Not just any station wagon, either. Charlotte's beat-up 1969 Chevy was easy to recognize, the dull green paint and rusting body a dead giveaway. It chugged toward the town center, and he pulled in behind it.

She must be making a delivery. Wherever she was headed, he'd follow, give her the clothes, explain his schedule, and, of course, check on the kid. Zuzu would probably take one look at him and start screaming her head off. He seemed to have that effect on her. Apparently whatever charm he had when it came to women didn't work when it came to little girls.

Not a big surprise. Emma had been right. He wasn't a kid kind of person. As far as he could see, there wasn't a whole lot of use in having children. Sure, some people wanted to be parents. They claimed to have some innate need to procreate and produce a little mini-me or two.

Max wasn't one of those people. His parents had done a piss-poor job of raising him, and he damn sure didn't want to do the same to his own kid. Besides, he preferred freedom to responsibility. The way his life was, if he wanted to take a weekend trip to Seattle or book a flight to Los Angeles, he could do it without worrying about leaving anyone behind.

At least up until the previous night he'd been able to do that. He'd planned to take a couple of days off when Cade returned. Unless Morgan came back or he shipped the kid to Las Vegas to be with her, that wasn't going to happen.

Then again, he could take Zuzu to her mother, drop her off, spend a night or two enjoying the Las Vegas strip.

He liked that idea.

The station wagon turned into the parking lot of Apple Valley Elementary School. He followed it around to the delivery door at the back of the building. A few cars were scattered in the back lot, the playground and field beyond it empty. School was out for the weekend, the kids playing sports or participating in other wholesome activities. During his elementary school years, Max had been more into pilfering soap and shampoo from the corner 7-Eleven or snagging loose change from his mother's wallet so he could buy lunch at school than he was into reading textbooks or engaging in team sports. He hadn't had time to be a child. He'd been too busy trying to survive.