It's Raining Cupcakes (8 page)

I made a batch of tarts, writing the ingredients down on a recipe card as I went along.

They tasted
so
good! In a word, amazing.

I paced the kitchen floor as I finished the tart, my thoughts and feelings chasing each other round and round, like a puppy chasing his tail.

After a good thirty minutes, I figured out, it really came down to one question: Make myself happy or make my mother happy?

I had to choose. Simple as that.

Except there wasn't anything even close to simple about it.

I
thought about calling Grandma and asking her for advice. But I'd already asked her that day when I first told her and Mom about the contest. She'd told me to follow my heart. She'd said I had a good heart. A good heart?

A girl with a good heart would set her own feelings aside, I thought. That was the good thing to do. The
right thing to do. Even if it was the sad thing to do. Sad to me, anyway. Submitting a cupcake recipe would make Mom happy. I needed to do it for her.

With that, I made up my mind. For good this time. I dumped the rest of the tarts into the garbage can, hoping I hadn't just dumped my chances to go to New York City right along with them.

Then I got back to work, wishing and hoping I could come up with a fantastically amazing cupcake recipe. I still had chocolate on the brain, and I was thinking about Sophie coming home the next day and wondering what recipe she would make, when I remembered talking about s'mores. Chocolaty marshmallow perfection, Sophie had called them. Well, what if I put that chocolaty marshmallow perfection into a cupcake?

I stayed up into the wee hours of the morning mixing and baking, perfecting the recipe. When Mom came in late herself, I had her taste the latest batch. She smiled and said it was delicious. Then she said good night and headed to her room. I'll admit I had hoped for a bit more encouragement. More excitement. More something. But she was tired, and
I told myself it didn't matter, I had a recipe to enter (even if it wasn't the best chocolate jam tart recipe ever to be invented).

When I went to my room, I wrote the cupcake recipe on a card in my best handwriting, put it in an envelope, and stuck it in my desk drawer until I could get the mailing address from Sophie. Then I wrote in my passport book:

Maybe someday

I can live somewhere in England

and open a jam tart shop.

I wonder, would I long

to visit Willow then?

—IB

I fell into bed that night exhausted and slept late, which wasn't like me. Usually the morning traffic on the road in front of our building woke me, but I slept through it.

When I finally did wake up, my first thought was that Sophie would be home soon. The happiness in that thought was quickly replaced with a sickening
sadness when I had my second thought. I needed to tell Mom about Beatrice's Brownies.

After I threw on my robe, I went to my window, slid it open, and put my cheek against the screen. The blue sky and warm air told me it was going to be hot. Down below, two ladies stood at the corner, one of them pointing at the cupcake sign. They walked up to the building and peeked inside the window.

I knew Mom, without the gumption gene, wouldn't take the news about Beatrice's well. But I also believed, as I watched those ladies, our cupcake shop could be something special. I just needed to figure out how to convince my mother of that.

I found Dad sitting at the kitchen table, his hands hugging a cup of coffee and the Sunday paper laid out in front of him. On the front page it read
WILLOW WELCOMES BEATRICE'S BROWNIES
and below it was a big picture of the sign I'd seen yesterday.

“Dad?” I asked.

He jumped a little, startled to hear my voice.

“Hey, good morning, punkin.”

I pointed at the paper. “Did Mom see that?”

He shook his head. “She's in the bathroom. We
need to tell her when she comes out. It's important that she hear it from us.”

I sat down. “I saw them putting the sign up yesterday, on my way home from the library. I should have told her last night. But I just couldn't.”

He nodded. “I know. It's hard.” He took a drink of coffee. “At least it doesn't open until Labor Day weekend. That buys us some time. I mean, hopefully she'll see it's not the end of the world. We're just going to have to work a little harder, that's all.”

I gave him a funny look. Was he talking about my mother?

We sat there, waiting. “You hungry?” he asked me.

I shook my head. Then the phone rang.

I jumped up and grabbed the phone in the kitchen.

“Hello?”

“Isabel, it's Grandma. Did you hear the news?”

I sighed. “Yeah. Dad and I are here, waiting to tell Mom.”

“Tell me what?” I heard Mom's voice from behind me.

“I'll be right over,” Grandma said.

“Okay. Bye, Grandma.”

I hung up and walked back over to the table.

I looked at Dad. He looked at me. I think about then we were both wishing for a miracle. Like suddenly the president of the United States would declare brownies unfit to eat and brownie shops everywhere would be forced to close. Or a big rock band would swing through town, see our shop, and write a song about it. It'd shoot to number one and our shop would be famous. They'd put me in their music video. And insist I come on tour with them. And . . .

“Tell me what, Isabel?” Mom said again.

Dad walked over and put his arm around Mom. “Honey, I don't know how to say this, so I'm just going to come right out with it. Beatrice's Brownies is opening a store near here. It made the front page of the newspaper today.”

I watched as her cherry-pink cheeks turned the color of buttercream.

“Mom, it's really not that big of a deal. I mean, okay, yeah, it's Beatrice's Brownies. But the excitement will wear off, and people will realize that a
cute cupcake shop is way better than a stupid chain brownie store.”

Her shoulders slumped, and one hand reached up to her heart, as if her hand pressed there could keep it from beating too fast. “Beatrice's Brownies? Here in Willow?”

Both Dad and I nodded. He handed her the newspaper. “It's going to be all right, though, Caroline. I was telling Isabel, we just have to work a little harder.”

She stared at the picture in the paper. “Work a little harder? Are you kidding? We could work day and night for months and never come close to getting the kind of business they're going to get. And once you have a box of scrumptious brownies, you think you're going to stop and get a box of cupcakes, too? Of course you're not. Which means we're doomed. Doomed before we even had a chance.” She threw the paper on the table and stomped down the hall to her room.

After her door shut, I asked Dad, “What do we do now?”

He got up and grabbed his clipboard off the
kitchen counter. “I don't know. I'll be back later. I need some air.”

As he walked toward the door, I wanted to tell him to go in there and be a cheerleader. He was giving up too easily. He needed to give her his best rah-rah-rah! But my dad's not like that. He's never been like that. Give him a fraction to reduce or a project to work on, and he's all over it. But words of encouragement? Not his thing. I thought about making him a list.

1. Use a soft, calm voice.

2. Smile, but not too much, or it looks fake.

3. General phrases like “Try not to worry” or “It'll be okay” are good.

4. And specific words that will make her smile and feel good about herself and her cupcakes are even better. What those specific words might be, I don't know, since I'm not good at that kind of thing.

I started to get up and go in there myself, and try to find the right words. But something told me she wouldn't listen to me. Because I'd had my doubts. I had told her a Laundromat would be better than a cupcake shop. Easier than a cupcake shop. And knowing her, she'd probably remind me of that.

I sat there, staring at the picture on the front page, wishing it would disappear, so maybe, just once, Mom could be happy. And maybe, just once, all of us could be happy.

Right then, it seemed about as impossible as me flying across the world and seeing the Great Wall of China.

G
randma came over, all dressed up in an emerald green dress along with little white gloves and a white hat with a feather. She marched down the hall and told Mom she had five minutes to get ready because they were going out.

“I think the best thing to do today is get her out of here and get her mind off cupcakes for a while. Let her stew for too long, and she'll be ready to give up for sure. Wouldn't you agree, Izzy?”

I nodded. Grandma always seemed to have the right answer.

“Do you want to go with us, honey?”

“Sophie's coming home today. She's been gone three whole weeks. I can't wait to see her. Is that all right?”

“Of course. I know this is hard for you, too. You should go see your friend and have a ducky good time. Tomorrow we'll regroup. Make a plan. And we must never, never, never give in. That's what Winston Churchill said, Isabel. He was a wise man. We would do well to follow his advice. Your grandpa met one of his relatives, you know. I can't quite remember her name. But, oh, your grandfather was tickled pink about meeting one of Churchill's relatives, that's for sure.”

“Never give in,” I said. “Okay. I'll try.”

She shook her finger at me and smiled. “Never, never,
never
give in. That's three nevers. Got it?”

“Got it.”

She hugged me. “It'll be okay, my darlin' Izzy. You'll see.”

The phone rang, so I ran to get it, hoping it was Sophie.

“Chickarita!” she shouted in my ear. “I'm home!”

I squealed. “Yay! Can I come over?”

“Yeah. Just be prepared. Suitcases and dirty clothes are everywhere! They might put you to work doing laundry or something. On second thought, I'll wait for you out front. Hurry, before they suck me into the bottomless pit of chores to be done.”

I laughed. “Okay. I'll be right there. I have so much to tell you!”

“Oh, good. Hey, wanna go to the Blue Moon? I'm craving some fries big-time. Plus, that way, Hayden can't barge in and interrupt us with stories of how aliens are here on earth, living among us, ready to snatch us at any given moment and take us back to their planet for research.”

“I'm on my way. Bye.”

After I hung up, Grandma said, “I presume she's home?”

“Yep. I'm going over there and we're going out to lunch. Tell Mom where I'm at?”

She nodded. “I'll be sure to tell her. And I'll leave your dad a note. Have fun!”

I flew out the door and down the stairs, then grabbed my bike from the storage closet underneath the stairs.

Just then, a pretty woman in shorts and a T-shirt with long black hair walked up to the door, carrying a suitcase and wheeling one case behind her.

I quickly put the kickstand down and went and opened the door for her.

“Thanks,” she said, walking in and dropping everything in front of her. “You must be one of the new neighbors.” She stuck her hand out. “I'm Lana. I live in the third apartment upstairs.”

I took her hand and shook it. Gently but firmly, like my grandpa had taught me when I was three years old. “Oh, hi. I'm Isabel. I wondered when you'd be back. Stan said you were on a trip?”

She nodded. “I'm just getting back from staying with my family in Hawaii. That's where I'm originally from.”

“Oh, cool,” I said. “Which island?”

“The Big Island.”