Honey Pie (Cupcake Club)

chapter 2


Dylan had known she’d be some kind of trouble from the moment he’d read her name on the service order. Honey D’Amourvell. Sounded like very old, deep pockets Southern money. Or a stripper. Either way, she wasn’t something the fine citizens of Sugarberry—well, one particular citizen, anyway—needed to deal with. Then he’d gone out to look at the car: a powder blue ’72 Volkswagen Beetle.

Definitely not old money . . . unless it was eccentric old money.

So, he’d been assuming stripper, while looking over the initial list Dell had compiled of what needed to be done to get her junker up and running again. Vintage parts like she was going to need were going to take some tracking down. And likely cost a king’s ransom.

Given the condition the car had been in even before it had broken down and the equally ancient suitcase she’d lugged out of the car, he’d bet his own bottom dollar she didn’t have such a tidy sum. Maybe it was a sentimental junker and she had a sweet little hot rod stashed somewhere across the causeway on the mainland.

I could only be so lucky, he’d thought as he’d pushed through the door to the bench out back of the shop. He’d glanced up from the work order on the clipboard to tell Ms. D’Amourvell the sad and sorry news, only to have the words jam right up in his throat.

Honey was no stripper. Neither tall nor short, large or particularly small, she was just . . . well, average. She had brown hair that was probably about shoulder length, pulled back in a single ponytail, and didn’t wear any makeup that he could tell. Even in this heat, she’d covered herself pretty much head to toe. Definitely not a stripper.

But he hadn’t actually been thinking about that. He’d been caught off guard by what she was revealing, inadvertent though it had been.

The one truly memorable thing about Honey D’Amourvell was her eyes. Not so much because they were an interesting shade of green, although they were so light in color they were almost spooky. Probably just an effect created by the black horn rim glasses she wore. It was what was in those spooky eyes that had made him feel incredibly stupid for assuming anything based on a name. He, of all people, knew better.

She’d been staring across the back alley at the buildings that fronted the corner of the town square. Normally, the thought of the cupcake bakery brought a pleasant smile to his face. He wasn’t one for sweets, so had never been through the front door of either part of the establishment, but in the short time his garage had been in its new location, he’d done the neighborly thing, nodded when waved to, observed the comings and goings, had even jumped a dead battery for one of the cupcake ladies, and fixed a flat for another.

Small communities usually bred far more familiarity, but he wasn’t a chatty sort and didn’t much care to air his personal business. Several generations of the Ross family had contributed more than enough personal business to the community grapevine. The recent loss of the original garage buildings due to a fire down by the docks had stirred up the old gossip all over again. But the cupcake ladies didn’t pry—much—so he’d accepted the occasional baked treat and tolerated a little friendly chitchat.

Yesterday, however, thinking of them hadn’t brought an automatic smile to his face . . . because they surely hadn’t brought a smile to his newest customer’s face. Nor had they brought a frown. The look on her face had been . . . wistful.

Generally, Dylan stayed in the service bay and let Dell handle the people part of the business. The kid was a natural with any and all movable parts and could probably assemble an engine blindfolded, but he was equally good with the people side of things, which suited Dylan just fine. He could keep his focus on the work at hand. As he saw it, his job was to deliver reliable, dependable service, fixing what needed to be fixed for as reasonable a price as possible. It meant something to him that he’d kept afloat the family business that had been launched sixty-five years ago by his late grandfather and great-uncle, later joined by his father, then briefly by his older brother, and now operated solely by him.

He considered himself a rather observant man. Like any good mechanic, he put a lot of stock in the senses he’d been born with. Oftentimes he could decipher the problem with a car just by the sound it made, the feel of a certain vibration, or the smell it gave off. Observation skills also came in handy when judging his customers, figuring how best to deal with them. So it wasn’t altogether surprising that he’d noticed her look of unfettered yearning. What did surprise him was that he’d reacted so viscerally to it.

He prided himself on his powers of observation, yes, but they were second only to his ability to maintain his objectivity in any and all situations. He didn’t let things get personal, because . . . well, because he never let things get personal. And Miss Honey D’Amourvell was anything but personal to him. He’d never laid eyes on the woman before.

So why that look on her face yanked a knot in his gut, he couldn’t have said. Likely, it had been his inability to figure that out that had him clearing his throat a bit too forcefully, and doling out the bad news to her a bit more gruffly than absolutely necessary. Mostly, he just wanted to get her taken care of and out of his shop so he could go back to being impersonal, private, and unaffected.

And yet, a day later, he still couldn’t get her off his mind. Pushing back the heavy hank of hair that insisted on falling forward and plastering itself to his sweaty forehead, he made a mental note to visit Ollie’s and get the barber to just shave his head. “Damn, it’s hot.”

He dropped one socket wrench into his tool box, grabbed another, then bent back over the VW’s ancient engine, which some German rocket scientist had decided to cram in the trunk . . . and found himself thinking about what she’d been wearing. Not stripper clothes, that’s for damn sure.

Not even particularly feminine ones, for that matter. She’d had on loose fitting Army green khakis that had been artfully decorated with stitching or patchwork and what looked like beads—he wasn’t much for crafts—along with well-worn, combat-worthy hiking books, and some kind of white gauzy blousy thing that looked more like mosquito netting with some elastic here and there. With the stitched-on beads and gauzy shirt, she was more artsy-gypsy than stripper . . . if gypsies wore horn rim glasses. Oddly enough, those had turned him on. Just a little. Something about mystical green eyes being framed with all that serious, no nonsense black.

“Of course, she’s also batshit crazy,” he muttered, glowering at the clamp he was trying to wrench loose.

So . . . why was he still thinking about her?

More to the point, why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? It wasn’t a surprise that he’d thought about her initially. It wasn’t every day—or any day—that someone freaked out all over the inside of his garage like she had. A woman like that was memorable. Just not for the right reasons.

But he hadn’t been thinking about that when he’d come in this morning to go over her engine after doing some research to track down the list of parts he was going to need, and he wasn’t thinking about it seven hours later as he stared at an engine that was more museum piece than part of a functioning form of transportation.

What he couldn’t stop thinking about—then and now—was that one moment when he’d first laid eyes on her. Despite all the crazy chick stuff that had happened later, that moment stuck with him. It had been that vulnerable look, and maybe that moment when she’d paused with her back to him, bracing herself on the open door of her car, when he’d noticed her hand wasn’t steady. And her shoulders were too rigidly held.

That raw yearning from earlier had echoed through his mind, and had him wondering what had made her react to him as she had. He’d tried to be a bit more . . . well, maybe compassionate wasn’t exactly the right word. Ultimately, he’d just wanted her the hell out of his shop. The only problems he was comfortable tackling were the ones that could be rolled into his service bay . . . then rolled right back out again.

But she’d looked . . . fragile . . . so he’d put on kid gloves as best he knew how and delivered her to the Hughes’s place then tried to turn his attention to the only aspect of her existence that he could let himself care about. Her ancient car. Because he definitely didn’t need crazy in his life.

He’d had about all of that he could take growing up. Mercifully, just the one son was left of Ross & Sons—him.

He was the only one he had to deal with on a regular basis, and fortunately, he wasn’t batshit crazy, which made life kind of nice for a change. Quiet, too. Maybe too quiet at times. But he’d take too quiet over the alternative every single minute of every day he had left on this earth and be damn grateful for it.

He channeled his frustration with himself into a little more elbow grease, determined to wrench the half-rotted hose and clamp loose or—

A wince-inducing squeal of metal on metal shrieked through the humid shop air, followed by a shrill snap . . . and the tinny sound of a piece of Honey D’Amourvell’s Jurassic-era engine pinging off parts of the motor before clattering to the cement floor under her car.

“Well, shit.” What the hell kind of name is Honey D’Amourvell for a woman who looks like she does, anyway? He grunted as he hunkered down and reached for the busted clamp.

So, she wasn’t a stripper, or old money, but that name conjured up all kinds of sultry, breathy Cat on a Hot Tin Roof type images. One that came packaged with a deep Southern drawl, a throaty laugh, and a smile that promised all kinds of heartache. The kind a man would willingly suffer through, just to get more of the rest.

The Honey who drove that godforsaken pile of rust was none of those things. What she was, already, was a pain in his ass.

He crawled half under the car to reach the snapped ring, giving in to the need to vent a few of the more colorful words in his vocabulary when it skittered just beyond his reach.

“My, my, it sounds like someone is having a challenging day.”

Dylan closed his eyes briefly, found a calming breath from somewhere, stretched and snagged the damn busted part, then slowly crawled out, got to his feet and turned around. “Afternoon, Miz Alva. Pardon my language. What brings you around today? Problem with the Lincoln?”

Alva Liles was one of the oldest residents of the island, somewhere north of eighty, but with the sharp mind of someone half her age. She stood just inside the bay door, decked out in one of a seemingly endless array of skirt, blouse, and sweater ensembles she always wore—today in varying shades of blue—and always with that strand of pearls around her neck. She had to be sweltering in all those layers, but she looked, as always, fresh as a spring daisy. Probably something to do with the helmet of lacquered curls perched ever so precisely on top of her head that wouldn’t dare wilt, even in the heat. She was the tiniest thing, barely hitting five feet, even in her sensible, matronly pumps.

“Oh, goodness no,” she reassured him. “That car wouldn’t dare malfunction now that you’ve got her all tuned up and purring like a cat napping in a sunbeam.”

Despite his momentary frustration, he felt the corners of his mouth twitch. She was a character, Miss Alva was. He wiped his hands on the shop rag he’d tucked in his back pocket. “Then what brings you by? Now, if this is about the poker game, I’m flattered to be asked to buy in, but I haven’t changed my mind. I—”

“Now, now. I’m not here to strong arm you into playing in my Spring Fling tournament, even if we both know you could use a bit of socializing.”

His lips did curve a little then. She made him sound like a poorly trained dog who needed a turn at obedience school. He supposed she wasn’t far from wrong on that score, but he’d made it this far off the leash; he wasn’t about to strap one on now. “I appreciate the leniency.”

She lowered a perfectly penciled brow at the amusement in his tone, but spared him the lecture—which he also appreciated, because when Alva Liles put her mind to something, she usually prevailed.

“I dropped by because we had our little cupcake club yesterday and I still have a jelly roll left after we made our rounds of the hospital wards over in Savannah today. I thought you might enjoy something a little sweet, what with all this heat and you working right out in it. A bite of this and a pitcher of lemonade would be just the thing.” She beamed. “It’s cherry. Your favorite.”

He accepted the neatly plastic-wrapped bundle she handed to him. “Now, how do you know cherry is my favorite?”

She smiled and those faded blue eyes of hers twinkled. “Because when you taste my cherry jelly roll, it will be.”

He couldn’t help it; he smiled right back. “You’re probably right. I appreciate the thought. Good of you to stop by.”

He crossed the cement floor and ducked into his office long enough to pop the package on top of the microwave. When he reentered the service bay, she was looking under the hood of the Volkswagen. “Careful there, Miz Alva. Shouldn’t get too close.”

“I remember these cars,” she said, not budging, a wistful note in her voice. “I wanted one, but my dear, departed Harold thought they were impractical. His sister, June, had one when we were dating. It was 1949, or thereabouts. They were just becoming popular. We borrowed it once.” She glanced up at Dylan, that twinkle magnified now. “He was right. Couldn’t do a damn thing without that stick shift getting in the way.”

It was a good thing Dylan hadn’t given in to the growl in his stomach and pinched a bite of the jelly roll, because he’d have surely choked on it. “Well . . . I wouldn’t rightly know,” he somehow managed.

She continued to look over the car. “Which is why you need to get out and socialize more. A man your age, still single, looking like you do. You’re what, thirty now, thirty-one? It’s almost a crime, really, when you think about it.”

Completely at a loss for words, he forced himself to swallow and tried to decide the best way to get her to head on out. He tolerated her occasional attempts to talk him into attending this event or that one, but this hard press was a first, even for her. “I . . . appreciate the thought, but I’m fine. Just fine.”

She turned to him then, the twinkle replaced by a shrewd, direct gleam. “You’ve done your granddaddy proud, you have, Dylan Ross. I haven’t mentioned it, but I knew Tommy quite well. His brother, Dick, too. A bit of a rascal that one, always into this or that.”

Dylan said nothing, as that was about as kindly as she could have put it. And far more than the man deserved. “I appreciate that, too. Thanks again for—”

“And I know your Daddy would have been, too.” She sighed, fluttered a hand near her heart. “God rest his soul.” Her voice had wavered a bit, but her gaze did not, which had his own eyes narrowing slightly; she clearly wasn’t done yet. “Now, I know it’s not my place to say such things, but just because your mama wasn’t there to help your poor daddy with his troubles, and your brother . . . lost his way, does not mean you have to hide—”

Dylan’s scowl shut down that particular line of conversation. He couldn’t quite believe she’d gone there.

“I’ve said too much.” But Alva didn’t look all that remorseful.

Nor, he noted, did she give him that pitying look so many of the older islanders did. He hated that look.

“I meant it kindly,” she told him, a smile back in her voice. “I’ve always marveled at how well you’ve done for yourself. We can’t choose the family we’re born to, and all you’ve done is give yours a good name. I know it had to be heartbreaking when the shop your granddaddy started up burned to the ground in that fire, but you seem to be settling in over here. This row of old buildings hasn’t seen any use in as long as I can remember. Maybe now that you’re in here, others will follow your lead and spruce up the rest of the strip. I heard someone bought the space right next door.” She let the sentence dangle, but he didn’t pick up the bait.

He was still trying to process everything else she’d said. Besides, it was no one’s business but his own that he’d been the one who had bought up the adjoining building. Insurance had paid out better than anticipated on the old place and he’d had to reinvest it somehow. Way he saw it, if folks suddenly did take an interest in revitalizing the remaining buildings that fronted the channel, he could sell it at a tidy profit to whomever would annoy him the least.

“It’s good to be a bit closer to the center of things,” Alva was saying. “Not tucked away down there by the fishing docks, but here in the heart of town. More social, don’t you think? I’d think it’d be better for business. Better for you, too.”

He’d come to stand beside her, ostensibly to find some way to escort her out that didn’t require bodily removing her, but before he could figure out exactly how to go about that, she reached over and squeezed his arm, then patted his hand. “Oh, don’t look so stormy. I’m not asking you out on a date. But you should think about it. Dating, I mean. I’m not the only single woman on Sugarberry.”

He’d stepped into the Twilight Zone. There was no other explanation. She’d gone past flummoxing him, even pissing him off, to just, well . . . flustering him. Rallying his thoughts, he somehow found the wherewithal to force a smile. “And here I thought you were seeing Hank Shearin.”

If he wasn’t mistaken, her cheeks warmed right up, even under her carefully applied rouge. “Now, don’t you go believing everything you hear. But it’s good to know you’re keeping up with the goings on around town. Shows you’ve got some interest. That’s a good thing.” She patted again. “Now, cultivate it.”

“I’m an auto mechanic. One step away from a bartender. I hear things whether I want to or not.”

“Well, it’s still a place to start.” She patted his hand one last time, then slid her arm free. “You’re not so brooding and quiet as you try and make us believe. I mean, look at the two of us, having ourselves a nice little chat. See? It wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

He’d rather eat fire ants. He’d also sorely underestimated his placement on Miss Alva’s to-do list. He’d have to put a stop to that before it went any further, but at the moment, he couldn’t come up with a solid game plan, other than to send her on her merry way as soon as possible.

“Thanks again for the jelly roll,” he said by way of responding. “I should get back to work.”

She turned her attention back to the Volkswagen. “I don’t recognize this one from anyone on the island.”

“Not a local. Just someone passing through, having a bit of bad luck.”

“Not so bad as all that if she found you.” Alva looked through the side windows, then glanced at the license plate. “Oregon. Long way to be passing through. Looks like she’s got a goodly part of her worldly possessions with her, too.”

“How do you know it belongs to a woman?” Dylan asked, bemused despite himself.

“Not too many men I know would drive a powder blue Beetle Bug. Although, they say they’re a bit odd up there in the northwest, so, who knows.”

Odd, Dylan thought. That’s one way to put it.

“Only ever knew one person from Oregon. Newcomer. Beavis Chantrell.” Alva smiled fondly. “She was certainly a colorful one, so perhaps there’s something to it. You know, she used to do costumes in Hollywood for some of the big movie stars? Then she left there and designed for the show girls in those big, fancy Vegas reviews. Came out here with a fella, some young slick. Card shark if you ask me. Never did trust him. Pretty sure he cheated the time or two we played poker, though I couldn’t catch him red-handed at it.

“I was so happy when she stayed after he moved on, opened up her little shop. We were fortunate to keep her, we were.” Alva sighed. “My Harold’s suits never fit so well as when Bea took her hand to them. And the things she could do to spruce up an old hat, I tell you. You could always count on her to let you know if there was trouble brewin’, too. I miss her.”

Dylan knew Miss Bea had lived on Sugarberry close to twenty years, before passing away last winter. Of course, anything less than a few generations of island occupancy labeled a person a newcomer. Bea had been a bit of an odd duck, but a beloved one, near as he could tell. He hadn’t known her personally, mechanics not being in much need of tailoring shops, and she’d pedaled a bicycle around the island, never owned a car. Of course he’d heard about her being a bit . . . unusual, always knowing things she shouldn’t be knowing. Everybody knew about it. Folks would go to her, trying to find out about their futures. Far as he knew, she wasn’t any kind of fortune teller, or certainly had never advertised herself as one, but it didn’t keep folks from talking or seeking out her advice from time to time.

He supposed he had a soft spot for the misfits of the world, though she seemed to have made her way better than most. Still, he’d been sorry to hear it when she’d suffered a mild stroke a little over a year before. He knew it had left her unable to run her shop. Last he’d heard, she’d moved to a senior care center over on the mainland, where she’d remained until her passing.

The shop had sat empty until the cupcake crew had taken over the space to add on to their existing business. The island had been buzzing about the grand opening of the new place for months. Some were happy about it and the increased interest it might bring to the island, some were grousing that increased traffic and tourists were not something Sugarberry should be courting, that it was doing just fine on its own. Of course, that was the same argument the old-timers had made about almost every new business establishment, probably even back when Tommy and Dick Ross had opened their auto repair business.

Dylan took advantage of Alva’s hand on his arm and steered her toward the open bay door at the rear of the shop, where she’d come in. She’d probably headed over straight from the cupcake bakery, jelly roll in hand. An excuse to pry and nudge, he saw now. He really was going to have to nip that in the bud.

“Well, looks like we have another newcomer from Oregon,” Alva was saying. “Hope she’s as delightful as the last one.”

“I didn’t get the feeling she was here to stay.” But that look on Honey’s face, in her eyes, as she’d looked across the alley, jumped to Dylan’s mind again.

“Well,” Alva said, clearly dismayed not to get more gossip out of him. “I’m glad you were here to help out. If you change your mind about the poker game, we always have a seat for a handsome, eligible man.” The twinkle had come right back in her eyes.

“Thanks again for the jelly roll” was all he said. “Careful now, crossing the alley.”

“And a gentleman, too,” she said, then waved before making her way across the alley to the rear door of Cakes by the Cup.

He watched until she waved once more before slipping into the back entrance. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until he let it out in one heavy huff as the door slapped shut behind her. What the hell had that been all about? And how was he going to shut it down?

The phone ringing in the office snapped his attention back to business. He stalked over and snatched the cordless from where it was mounted to the wall, and listened as the parts shop in Savannah gave him the bad news. “Thanks,” he said, before hanging up. “For nothing,” he added darkly.

First Miss Alva and her nosey fruit roll, and now he had to deal with the fruitcake. And tell her it was going to be a week, at minimum, before her car was ready. He also had to give her the full repair estimate. He couldn’t imagine either of those things would come as good news.

He turned toward the office, intent on grabbing the clipboard with her service order and cell phone number on it, but was once again brought to a complete and utter stop by the woman herself. Honey D’Amourvell was presently pedaling down the alley toward the rear entrance to his shop on an old townie bicycle with a white basket attached between the front handles. But it wasn’t the vintage bike, or even the mode of transportation, that had caught his attention. Plenty of island residents favored bicycles over cars. It was the woman. Yesterday it had been combat boots, khakis, and a no nonsense ponytail.

Today she wore flat white sandals, a sunny yellow, short-sleeved shirt, and a flowy, billowy skirt patterned with bright spring flowers. Her hair was down, streaming behind her. It was longer than it had looked up in that ponytail. Thicker, too. But what nailed it for him, was all that flouncy femininity paired with those super serious, dark rimmed glasses. There was absolutely nothing remotely sexy about them . . . and yet, his body stirred.

She rolled in behind the shop, then braked a little harder than was necessary when she saw him just inside the bay door, standing in the shadows. Watching her.

The short stop had her teetering dangerously and her sandals did little to steady her as they slid over the hot pavement. Without thinking, Dylan instinctively stepped into the sunlight, intent on steadying the bike to keep her from falling over, when her quick jerk back reminded him. Batshit crazy. Right.

Still, he wasn’t going to let her fall over. He put his hands firmly on the handlebars, taking care not to touch her, keeping the bike upright until she got her feet under her. “Careful, there, darlin’.”

“I’m fine. You just . . . startled me. I didn’t see you there.”

He scowled, when just moments before, watching her, all flowery clothes and serious glasses, he’d found himself wanting to smile. “The only thing I plan on touching is your car, okay?”

She met his gaze with her own. “I know. Really, it’s . . . not you. Or . . . or that. It’s just—” She broke off, and he could see frustration, and something else, warring in her expression. But she was right, he didn’t think either was directed at him so much as herself.

Problems, he thought. She had plenty of them, the least of which, apparently, was her piece of junk car. That was the only one he had any interest in fixing.

He lifted his hands off the handlebars, palms out. “You’re safe with me,” he said more dismissively than was perhaps necessary, thinking first nosey fruit roll, now fruity customer. Was it too much to ask for a man to just work in peace, without interruption? He turned to head back into the shop. She could follow him or not.

“I’m not safe with anyone,” she muttered, or that’s what he thought he heard, but when he looked back, she’d climbed off the bike and was propping it against the back of the building, next to the bench.

He went in and grabbed the clipboard with her service order on it, made a few notes from the phone conversation he’d had with the parts guy while they were still fresh in his mind, then headed back to the service bay, only to find the second woman of the day poking her nose under the hood of the Beetle. “Might want to be careful there.”

Honey straightened and turned to look at him. Despite what had just happened in the alley, she seemed steadier than the day before. He wasn’t sure if it was the brightly colored shirt or the bicycle ride over that had lent some color to her face, but she didn’t look as . . . well, as haunted as she had. She placed a protective hand on the side panel of the car. “Can she be fixed?”

He nodded. “But it’s going to take the better part of a week just to get the parts here. And it’s not going to come cheap.”

She merely nodded.

He’d expected more of a reaction than that. Shoulders slumping, disappointment in those still-spooky, pale green eyes of hers, something.

“So . . . how long until it’s done? And how much?”

“Ten days, give or take parts delivery.” He quoted her the price.

He saw her throat work, then her gaze shift toward the back bay door. He thought, for a second, she was contemplating taking off, but realized almost immediately she was looking once again at the bakery shops across the alley, on the corner.

“This was a mistake,” she said more to herself than to him.

Yep. She was trouble. And quite possibly in trouble.

He sighed. “Is there someone who can come get you? Were you . . . visiting somebody? Over on the mainland? Traveling?” He glanced at her tags and the packed contents of her car, then back at her.

“No. I mean, no, I’m on my own. I’m—I was . . .” Her chin dropped, just for a moment; then she briefly closed her eyes and seemed to gather herself up. When she lifted her gaze back to his, it was resolute and resigned. “I was planning to stay here. Move here, actually. I’m . . . not so sure now. But I guess I’ll be here at least until my car is done, so that’ll give me time to figure the rest out.”

“We can work something out with the cost, if—”

“Oh, no, that’s not it. I can take care of that.” He must have looked somewhat dubious, because she added, “I know the car isn’t much, but I haven’t needed much. And it’s . . . sentimental. It belonged to my Aunt Bea.”

He’d glanced back at his clipboard, intending to see where he might be able to cut a corner or two, but his gaze snapped back up at that name. “Bea Chantrell?”

Her entire face relaxed, and the smile that naturally followed transformed her features from wary and guarded, to open and . . . well, attractive. Very attractive.

“Yes. Did you know her?”

“Not personally, but it’s a small island. She was well liked here. Ran the little tailor—” He broke off . . . and looked across the alley at the buildings on the corner. Where her aunt’s shop had once been. And a brand new, about-to-open bakery business now stood. That raw, wistful look he’d seen on her face the day before took on a whole new meaning. He looked back at Honey. “Oh.”

Her smile shifted to one of dry humor, reaching those eyes of hers . . . and changing everything.

That did something to his insides, too.

“Right”—she held his gaze easily for the first time—“oh.”