Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie (18 page)

Good Lord,
she thought,
I've won the sexual lottery.
She sent up every prayer of thanks she knew and a few she improvised right on the spot. She smiled, too, despite being shaky with need. “Well, my vote would be—”

“Yoo-hoo!” A wavery, high pitched voice cut through the dank humidity and the thick fog of lust like a pickax into a block of ice. “I saw your truck out front, I hope you don't—oh my!”

Honey instinctively started to jerk away, but Dylan's hands went right back to her waist, pinning her in place. “Blouse,” he whispered, then let her go and turned to face their visitor, mercifully blocking Honey from view.

“Well, hey there,” he said, all relaxed Southern drawl as if they hadn't been one breath away from mating like wild animals. “Can I help you with somethin' there, Miss Alva?”

“W
ell, I stopped by the Hughes's place to see how Honey's meeting went, and Barbara said you'd been kind enough to give her a ride in.” Alva fidgeted with her ever-present pearls as she did a slow turn to take in the place, all while carefully not meeting Dylan's gaze.

Nor did she make any other comment regarding the scene she'd walked in on. Considering Alva Liles was a shoot-from-the-hip pistol on the best of days, that was something of a surprise, but Dylan was simply thankful for the unexpected blessing.

“I hope everything was resolved,” she went on. “Our Miss Lani has simply been beside herself with worry about how things got so mixed up in the first place. I told her it would all work itself out, but, of course, she won't feel right until it has. When I saw your truck parked out front, I had to stop in and see for myself how it went. For Miss Lani's sake, of course.”

“Of course,” Dylan echoed, more concerned at the moment about the state of his body, or certain parts of it anyway, and hoping Alva continued avoiding his gaze—and the rest of him—until it finished switching gears from how tantalizingly close he'd been to discovering whether Honey's nipples were as sweet as her namesake . . . to matching wits with the wily octogenarian who always had an agenda he rarely caught on to until it was too late.

All he knew at the moment was that his body wasn't any happier than his mind was with the sudden change in
his
agenda.

“My, my,” Alva went on, taking in the dimly lit, musty interior. “I can't recall the last time I set foot in here.” She sighed in remembrance. “I still miss the old bookstore. A shame no one ever took it on when Beaumont finally gave up.” She turned slowly, staring up at the second floor balcony level. “Imagine my surprise when Morgan mentioned you were the one who'd bought the place,” she went on.

Dylan's heart stuttered.
She is a pistol. Fully loaded at all times, despite the deceptive packaging.
He really needed to keep that in mind.

“I hope you're not going to gut it and turn it into a garage,” Alva said. “Seems a shame to lose all the lovely molding, all that beautiful custom carpentry with those built in shelves. The wrought iron balcony railing and stairs.” She sighed. “Hard to find anyone who cares about such things these days.”

Honey frowned and stepped out from behind him. “So . . . that's why you had keys to the place.”

Dylan closed his eyes just briefly, then glanced over at her. “I was getting to that part.”

“Well, there you are,” Alva said, beaming as if Honey had just stepped in from another room, when all three of them knew better.

Honey seemed happy to play along with the charade. “Hello again, Alva. Thank you for stopping by Barbara's and asking after me. I'm still working out details, but it was a productive day.”

Dylan silently applauded her for not giving Alva specifics. If Lani Dunne was as broken up by the events of the past few days as Miss Alva claimed, she could discuss the situation with Honey directly.

“Well, dear, that's good news then. I was helping out Miss Lani today and she mentioned that if our paths crossed, I should pass along that she'd love for you to stop on by and have a chat with her. She's talked with Morgan and they've got some kind of documentation for you that might help sort all this out from their end.” She waved her hands in a fluttering motion. “I'm hopeless with all the legalese, but I'm thinking it will ease your mind and hers. She was planning to stop by Miss Barbara's herself after work, but when I saw the truck . . .” Alva trailed off and somehow managed to pull off an innocent little shrug.

All three of them knew her visit was no accident. The garage was the only open business on the old channel road, and since the locals parked in the alley out back, the only way she could have spied Dylan's truck in front was if she'd been . . . well . . . spying.

“I'll be sure to do that,” Honey replied sincerely enough. “Thank you.”

Alva gave one last glance around the space and sighed again, though there was a different expression on her carefully powdered face, one he couldn't quite read. Dylan braced himself.

“Now, Beaumont Senior, my, my, he was the one, wasn't he?” Alva sighed again.

As did Dylan. In relief. Old flames and even older gossip he could handle.

“Knew it, too,” she went on. “Before your time, of course, but oh, he was a handsome devil, smooth as they come. A kind word for every customer, but especially the ladies. Always noticed if they'd done their hair up a different way, or had on a new perfume. Always had eyes for me, he did. Harold—my late husband,” she added for Honey's benefit, “never did trust me alone with him.” She smiled and a particularly delighted twinkle lit up her eyes and deepened the crinkles at the corner as she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “I'll admit I might have encouraged him, just a little, you know. Perfectly harmless, of course. But it never hurts to keep your beloved on his toes.”

Dylan found his lips twitching at that, and Honey was already smiling.

“I'll never understand how Beaumont Junior turned out to be such a prune. I knew Senior's wife Petula, God rest her soul, and, oh she was a delight.” Alva looked at Honey. “Senior might have been something of the island ladies man, but when he met Petula Schipps, that was it for him. A late in life romance and an even more surprising late in life baby, but a happier twosome you never saw.” Alva sighed one more time. “Such devoted, loving parents. Junior was the apple of their eye, he was. But then, I'm convinced some apples just blossom on the wrong tree.” She gave Dylan a slightly extended glance, and he noted the twinkle had shifted to a more decided gleam.

Once again, he'd let his guard down too soon. He'd been on the receiving end of that gleam and he knew it meant trouble. He had the jelly roll to prove it.

“I knew right from the start when he took on the place that his days were numbered. He wasn't a people person, never did seem to be comfortable in the role. Of course, his father's shoes were hard to fill, especially for someone as closed off as Junior was. Never married, that one. Still, it was a shame when he had to let the place go. I might not have been a fan of his stiff, overly formal manner, but you couldn't fault him on his love of books. Why, I used to think he was more comfortable with fictional characters than he was with people.” Her gaze found Dylan's again. “We all have our coping mechanisms, I suppose.”

“I suppose Beaumont Junior did the best he could under challenging circumstances,” Dylan said cordially enough, but with a steady gaze intended to quell further “innocent” commentary. “Thank you for stopping by,” he added, starting toward the front door in the hopes of herding her straight through it, only he wasn't quite fast enough.

“Oh my,” Alva gasped as if an idea had just occurred to her. The exaggerated lift of her perfectly penciled on eyebrows suggested otherwise. Never one to let things like a well established wily reputation slow her down, she clasped age spotted hands under the delicate fold of her dainty chin and gave them her best “sweet little old lady” routine. “Why, you're thinking of taking over this space for your little shop, aren't you?” she exclaimed, turning her attention squarely on Honey. The woman also knew how to pick her quarry.

It took significant will to tamp down a scowl and force a polite expression as he answered for Honey. “Well now, Miss Alva, I don't rightly know what I'll do with the space, but, as I said, I appreciate you stopping by now.” He gestured toward the door and took another step in a gentlemanly attempt to see her to the door, but she smoothly sidestepped him and kept her eyes on her new target.

“What a marvelous, marvelous idea!” Alva gushed, ignoring Dylan as she swept her gaze over the space again, then focused on Honey, eyes in full twinkle. “Such charm and unique style would be perfect for your little carved creations.”

“You know about my work?” Honey asked.

Alva made a token effort to look abashed. “Well, Bea was always going on and on about it, but I confess I didn't look you up until we met at the bakery when you first arrived. Quite the enterprise you've built. And such adorable little creatures. My, what an imagination you must have. Must come from the family gift, I suppose.”

Dylan was surprised they couldn't hear his teeth grinding, but Honey took it all in stride with a smile.

“Why, thank you. Yes, I learned wood carving from my dad when I was little, and taught myself how to work with clay,” Honey said, clearly intentionally misunderstanding which “gift” Alva was referring to. “I've always thought the world could do with a little more whimsy and I'm very, very thankful my customers agree with me.”

“Well, you'd have quite the space here. Daresay more than you would have in Bea's old place. You could have your work studio and shop all in one.” Alva sighed once again and pressed her still-clasped hands to her chest. “Oh, it would be so lovely to bring life to this old building. I know everyone would be thrilled. And it would build on what our Mr. Ross here has started, rejuvenating this sadly neglected stretch of town. Why, with two businesses here, perhaps others would be inclined to jump in.”

She leaned closer, conspiratorial again. “And I don't have to tell you that with Miss Lani's and Baxter's joint cookbook effort about to launch, we're fast becoming something of a destination spot.”

She pulled back. “Not that I want to see us go commercial, heaven forbid. We pride ourselves on maintaining our small-town spirit and making the most of what we have. But a little growth would be security for our local economy, and Lord knows we could always do with a bit more of that.”

“I suppose it would,” Honey said at length.

Alva's face lit up again. “Does that mean I've got it right?”

“Well . . .”

“Now, if you don't want me to pass this along, you know you can trust your little secret with me.”

It took a Herculean effort on Dylan's part not to snort at that. He made some noise, however, because he caught Honey's sidelong glance from the corner of his eye. He wished like hell he knew what she was thinking right at that moment. He couldn't tell if Alva was helping or hurting his cause. Honey didn't seem particularly perturbed, but then she had her polite face on for Alva's benefit.

“Of course, if you ask me, I think you should shout it from the rooftops, straight off, get the word out, build anticipation,” Alva said. “Buzz, they call it. Now, with you being Bea's flesh and blood and all, you'll already have us supporting you, but it never hurts to advertise.” Her eyebrows climbed up again. “You know, I could probably help you with that! I run a little advice column in the local paper, you see—”

Dylan turned his barely suppressed choking sound into a polite cough, but there was only so much a man could swallow and he was well past his limit. Miss Alva's “advice” column was more or less a gossip column wherein she answered letters, ostensibly sent in by the locals, wanting her advice on things ranging from how to keep weevils out of their tomato plants to how to keep the mister entertained once the fire had died. Dylan had long suspected, however, that Miss Alva simply made up the letters as an excuse to spread the latest gossip, using whoever had the misfortune to be keeping the grapevine going at the time. Names changed, of course, to protect the not-so-innocent, which was ridiculous since everyone knew exactly who her anecdotal stories were about.

“—and I'd be more than happy to talk with Dwight at the Daily Islander about doing a little article on your new place. We could make it what they call a human interest story. Talk about your dear, departed aunt Bea, and how you came all the way across the country to honor her name and take up her entrepreneurial spirit, filling the void created by her absence. Maybe not with our tailoring needs, but certainly keeping our artistic needs met, as well as perhaps our more . . . shall we say spiritual ones?” Alva's thoughts clearly spun off along her new train of thought and then she clapped her hands together with surprising sharpness, making Dylan and Honey start.

“Why, you could even hold your own . . . what do they call them? Séances? Now, Bea never did such things, but she hardly had the space in her little shop, did she? Here, why, you could have groups in and—it works better in groups, doesn't it? I mean, I always see it done with everyone holding hands in a circle—”

“Alva—” Dylan began, intent on shutting this little tangent down before it gained even a fraction of a toehold.

Honey beat him to it, and with surprising directness. “Miss Alva, that's not something I do. Séances I mean. I think that's for contacting spirits in the afterlife. I know Bea used to help folks out with the benefit of her second sight, but as I mentioned at the bakery when we first met, that's not something I'm altogether comfortable with.”

“Well, dear,” Alva said, taking the disappointing news in stride, “perhaps once you get to know us better, you'll feel more comfortable. After all, if you know something that might be of help, it simply doesn't seem right not to share it, now does it?” She smiled, and Dylan shifted his weight. The gleaming twinkle was back. With a vengeance.

“Of course, I'll be happy to help introduce you around, put you at ease. And, it goes without saying that if you need any help delivering your . . . well, your news, so to speak, I can help there, too. Smooth things over, and all.”

Alva leaned in closer. “Not everyone wants to hear the difficult things, of course. Why, I mentioned in my last column that perhaps it would be wiser for men who like to spend every last minute of their spare time with a fishing rod in one hand and a beer in the other, to consider filling their hands with the ripe and neglected body parts of their lonely, devoted spouses, instead. And, wouldn't you know, Bucky Hibbener got his nose all out of joint. As if he's the only one on Sugarberry who fishes like he's in some kind of lifelong tournament.”