Honey Pie (Cupcake Club)

chapter 8


“Your ride is here, dear.”

Honey opened her bedroom door to a smiling Barbara Hughes. “Thank you. And thanks again for not minding that I took my meal up here this morning.”

Barbara’s tanned and age-spotted skin crinkled as she gave Honey a commiserating smile. “I’ve been married for more than forty years, happily so, but there are mornings when I don’t want to bear witness to canoodling newlyweds, either.”

From what Honey had seen of Mrs. Hughes around the young honeymooners who had checked in the evening before while Honey had been at the garage, it was pretty clear the senior B&B owner adored young love in all forms. But Honey appreciated her trying to make things easier for her single guest.

Barbara’s warm brown eyes twinkled a bit as she added, “You have a safe drive over the causeway. I hope you can get things straightened out okay.”

Barbara had chatted up Honey first thing that morning when she’d come down to grab coffee and some biscuits with gravy, which was when Honey learned it was already common knowledge that Bea Chantrell’s niece had come to claim her inheritance, only to find it leased out to the much beloved cupcake baker—who also happened to be the daughter of the very well respected island sheriff—and her equally adored television star, British pastry chef husband.

The realization of how much Lani and Baxter Dunne had come to mean to the islanders, as people and as respected business partners who’d helped boost the island’s flagging economy with their joint enterprises, cemented Honey’s decision that moving herself lock, stock, and carving tools to a wonderful new life on Sugarberry had been a nice dream, but not a particularly practical one. With the farm in Oregon still on the market, and not a single offer on the place as yet, her miserly budget didn’t extend to securing housing, leasing a new space, and funneling money into renovating it. Which left her with . . . a farm. And a barn to work in. All paid for . . . and empty. Just waiting for her to return.

“I just want to get it sorted out so things are all in order going forward” was all Honey said.

“Well, Miss Lani and Miss Kit are good folks. As is Morgan Westlake, though I’ll admit that came as a surprise to those of us who knew his mama. What she did to Birdie Wiggins, not to mention her dear, sweet little granddaughter Lilly, depriving them of a life together . . . well, I won’t tell tales out of school.”

No, of course not, Honey thought, stifling an amused smile.

Barbara reached out to pat Honey’s arm, but fortunately Honey had her empty plate and coffee cup in hand, so she neatly intercepted the movement without appearing rude. “Oh, thank you,” she said, handing over her dishes. “I was just going to take these downstairs. Breakfast was delicious. I’ve never had that kind of gravy before, but it was really good.”

Barbara beamed as she took the dishes, balancing the cup on top of the plate. “Scrapple gravy. My mama’s recipe. Won many a contest with it, she did.”

Honey smiled. “Not surprising. I’ll follow you down.” She shuffled them from the room, closing the door behind her. So far, except with Dylan, she’d been able to maneuver pretty well with the folks she’d met. Of course, Alva and Lani knew she’d inherited the Chantrell’s “special abilities,” but if Barbara knew, she hadn’t mentioned it.

Mrs. Hughes hadn’t known Bea all that well, as she’d explained to Honey that morning, being as Mr. Hughes had always taken his tailoring to Bea’s shop himself. Honey suspected Barbara well knew of the other “service” Bea had provided to many of the islanders, but the older woman didn’t bring it up, much less query Honey on whether she planned to carry on with the family tradition, for which Honey was eternally grateful. After her run in with Alva the day before, Honey found it hard to believe the topic hadn’t been covered by the island grapevine, as she’d imagine it would be among the juicier tidbits about the island’s newest resident. But maybe the property battle involving the Sugarberry’s pastry chefs had trumped that bit of business. At least for now. She didn’t care why the reprieve, but was just thankful for it.

Barbara set the breakfast dishes down on the small foyer entry table so she could open the front door for Honey. “Will you be coming straight back? I’m making cobbler today.” She leaned closer and added in a whisper, as if it were a secret of some importance, “Rhubarb. Another of my mama’s favorites. We’ll be serving it with iced tea and lemonade this afternoon.” She beamed. “We Southerners deal with this ungodly heat by being unbearably civilized. I hope you’ll be back in time to join us.”

Honey smiled. She really did like Barbara Hughes. “I hope so, too.”

Barbara stepped back from the open doorway so Honey could usher herself through. “And please feel free to invite your driver in as well.”

Honey didn’t note the merry twinkle in the older woman’s eyes right off as she’d been too busy thinking that inviting random taxi cab drivers in for tea was taking Southern hospitality to surprising extremes. So, she wasn’t at all prepared to step out onto the front porch . . . and spy Dylan’s pickup truck idling at the curb. Dylan was behind the wheel with a very happy Lolly in the open truck bed.

“He called this morning to let Frank—Mr. Hughes—know he was going to pick up that part for our old lawnmower when he was over in Savannah today,” Barbara explained, clearly happy with herself. “I knew you were headed that way and thought I could at least spare you taxi fare one way.”

A whole lot of things were going through Honey’s mind at the moment, but what came out of her mouth was “Dylan repairs lawnmowers?”

“Why, not as a usual thing, no. But Mortimer Smart, who runs our little appliance repair shop on the square? Well, he’s taken to being closed more than he’s open of late. He’s got the gout, you know. Poor dear. Dylan happened to be passing by when Frank was swearing up a storm at our ancient mower. I keep telling him to just get a new one, but he’s determined this one will outlive both of us. Men. Anyway, Dylan stopped by, took a look, and said he just needed some new thingamajig or other.”

“That was very nice of him,” Honey said, still wrestling with the fact that she hadn’t exactly gotten over yesterday’s . . . everything, and she really wasn’t prepared to sit in a truck cab next to the cause of most of it, quite yet. Maybe ever. But there was no way out of it that she could see. She wondered how Dylan felt about being corralled into providing ferry service. She couldn’t make out his expression, but she doubted he was happy about it, either—leaving Lolly as the only excited party in this endeavor.

“Well, folks may say about him what they want,” Barbara went on, “but the way I see it, just because there are some bad apples on a family tree doesn’t make the whole tree rotten to the core.”

Honey pulled herself from her thoughts. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Why, I have a second cousin on my mother’s side who was about as bad an apple as they come. Certainly on par with Mickey Ross, that good for nothing brother of Dylan’s. My lord, the trouble he put that family through. Lettin’ us all believe it was their daddy whuppin’ on Dylan all that time when all along, it was Mickey himself. Never did like the look of that boy, but I felt sorry for him just the same. Bless their souls. What with their mama runnin’ off the way she did, leavin’ Donny to care for them. Not that their daddy was a prize, of course. Leavin’ those boys to all but fend for themselves while he drank himself to death. I understand grieving a broken heart, but when you’ve got children to care for, you find a way to pull it together.”

Honey blinked, trying and failing to keep up with the flood of information. “Dylan has a brother?” She thought he’d said he was the only Ross left.

“Had. Died in prison. Was a better end for him than he deserved, I’ll tell you that much. I know it doesn’t sound very forgiving of me, and I like to think I’m a better person than that, but that boy . . .” She trailed off, shook her head. “Well, listen to me tellin’ tales, anyway.”

Honey was still staring out at the truck by the curb, as Mrs. Hughes’s words and the images Honey had seen the day before all collided together in a huge jumble. Add to that all the things Dylan had said and done, not the least of which was kissing Honey completely and utterly senseless, and she couldn’t have rightly said which way was up had anyone asked her at that exact moment—which was why she didn’t notice Barbara coming to stand beside her.

The older woman slid her hand through Honey’s arm and gave it a good, solid squeeze. “Don’t you listen to this old woman, now. You go and have yourself a good morning. I say you play your cards right, perhaps there might be a nice lunch in the day for you. Don’t let the dark looks and that serious air put you off. There’s a decent man in there, mark my words.”

Barbara’s reassurances had faded to a distant hum. Honey had already been sent spinning off into that other place of fragmented visions, snippets of words, overwhelming emotions as she not only observed glimpses of future events, but felt them as if they were happening to herself. Mrs. Hughes—Barbara—was running . . . somewhere. Honey felt her own heart pound in fear, her breath coming in short gasps. Where was she running? Not across a yard . . . Honey couldn’t see exactly. It was foggy, but there were docks, boats. Fishing boats, the big kind. The commercial kind. Barbara was screaming . . . something, or trying to, but she was too out of breath and it came out as a rasp. Her chest hurt, it squeezed so tightly. Frank? Frank!

Something had happened to Mr. Hughes. The skies were very dark. Wind was whipping. Raining . . . it was raining. Hard. And then Honey saw the boat. A . . . trawler or something like it. Big, with huge nets, and a loud, thrumming engine. Mr. Hughes—Frank—had gone out on one with his . . . grandson? Nephew? Someone . . . family? . . . owned the boat, or captained it. He’d been helping out. The storm had come on fast, too fast. They hadn’t beaten it in. Frank had been thrown hard against the holding tanks. Cleaning knife . . . no, some kind of big hook, used to pull in fish, embedded in his thigh. Lots of blood. Too much blood.

“Honey? Dear? Oh my, I shouldn’t have said those things. It wasn’t my place. Oh dear, are you okay?”

“That’s okay, Miss Barbara. I’ve got her.”

Dylan? Why was he on the boat? No, wait . . . not the boat.

“Hey sugar, time to come back. Come on now.” His voice was a low, deep purr in her ear, but she could barely hear him. Why didn’t he help Frank? There was so much blood.

The pressure on her arm lessened—someone’s hand?—then let her go.

“Honey.” Dylan spoke again, sharper, his voice still low, but clear. Like an order.

She blinked, and the images and all that blood faded away. The wind and the storm receded, but her heart still pounded. The air was warm. Hot, even. And very sunny. She blinked again, and realized she was standing on the front porch of the B&B. Even as she shook off the vestiges of the vision, and tried to quell her racing pulse, mortification made her face go hot. “Oh God.”

“Dear, are you okay? It’s this heat, I tell you.” Barbara fluttered around them, but Dylan shielded her from making any direct contact with Honey. “Why, you’re white as a sheet. Dylan, you have her sit down in the rocker on the porch there and I’m going to grab some water and some ice.”

“Thank you, Miss Barbara,” Dylan answered her. “That’s a good idea.”

“Thank goodness you were here and saw her starting to fade like that. There I am, going on and on, and not paying one whit of attention. Serves me right for talking like that. Poor dear, coming from the northwest, of course she isn’t used to this humidity.”

“Ice water?” Dylan prompted.

“Yes, yes, of course.” She bustled away and Honey heard the front screen door slap shut behind her.

Dylan shifted so he was directly in front of Honey, angling so he could look into her eyes. “You okay now, sugar?”

Honey blinked again and focused on Dylan’s face. “You keep trying to rescue me.”

“I’m no white knight, darlin’. Just didn’t want you collapsing in a heap on top of Miss Barbara. Then you’d have both gone down the porch steps.”

The more he talked, the easier it was for her to focus on him and let the vision slip entirely away. The aftereffects took a little longer, but she was far, far steadier than she’d been yesterday. Of course, for all the intensity of the vision itself, it hadn’t come close to dealing her the emotional blow the vision of Dylan almost dying in that fire had. Why that was, when she didn’t know Dylan any more than she did Barbara and Frank Hughes, she couldn’t have said. And thinking about it made her head ache.

As her panic settled, she realized there were more important things to deal with at the moment. “Has Mr. Hughes been in some kind of fishing accident recently? A serious one.”

“No,” Dylan said. “Come on, sit down. Miss Barbara will be out in a minute and you should get your bearings back before she does.”

“How did you realize what was happening?”

“I saw it up close and personal yesterday. It’s not something a man’s likely to forget.”

“And you could tell, all the way from the curb?”

“Man doesn’t forget that look,” he muttered under his breath. “You need to sit down or I’m going to have to help you, and we both could probably do without touching each other right now.”

That had her glancing sharply in his direction. She didn’t know if he meant because it might trigger one of her visions . . . or because of the kind of touching they’d been doing last night. Either way, she sat down. And her head began to ache in earnest. It was all too much.

One thing was clear. “We have to tell her,” Honey said. “Warn her.”

“Now why don’t we just wait on that, okay?”

“Just . . . find out if he’s gone fishing today. Please.” It looked like Dylan was going to shut her down again, so she spoke before he could. “I can’t head off to Savannah and not say something if it’s going to happen today. Do you understand that? I can’t do that and just let it happen. Not without at least saying something.”

He crouched down in front of her. “What, exactly, do you think is going to happen?”

“Don’t do that.” She frowned, hating that she felt stung by his gently spoken dismissal.

“Do what, sugar? I’m just tryin’ to sort things out and give you a few minutes to do the same before you go scarin’ the bejesus out of Miss Barbara.”

“I don’t think it’s going to happen, okay? I know it will.”

“Never been wrong?”

She held his gaze steadily. “About my visions? No. Never.”

Dylan blew out a long, steady breath. “Well. Okay then.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Okay then, what?”

“We’ll have to tell her. But you can’t go sayin’ something like that, looking all . . . like you do.”

Her frown turned to one of confusion, and she found herself lifting a hand, smoothing her hair, even as she smoothed the skirt she was wearing. “Looking like what?”

“Sugar, it’s not your hair or your clothes. It’s those eyes.”

She felt “those eyes” widen. “I can hardly help how my eyes look, but what’s wrong with them?”

“They’re damn spooky at the best of times, but at the moment, they look downright—”

“Stop.” She lifted a hand. “I get it. So, fine then. You tell her. Tell her that Frank can’t go fishing with his nephew or grandson—”

“Nephew? You mean John John?”

“Does John John run a fishing trawler? Or captain one?”

“Owns and captains, yes.”

“Then yes. John John is going to hit an unexpected storm, and Frank is going to end up with a huge gaffing hook in his thigh . . . unless we stop him from going.”

Dylan held her gaze for a long moment. “Okay.”

“That’s it? Okay?”

Dylan scowled. “What is it you want from me? You get mad if I don’t want to help, and now you’re pissed that I do?”

“I wasn’t—I’m not mad. I just—I want to make sure you understand how serious this is. A moment ago, I felt like you were coddling me. You do believe me, right?”

“I do.”

“Just like that?”

Dylan sighed, and Honey knew she was trying his patience, but she wanted so badly to trust him, and it was such a new idea to her, that she could trust someone other than family. She needed to make sure it was well placed.

“Sugar, after yesterday, it seems clear to me that whatever it is you’ve got, you’ve got. I don’t waste time wondering why something is what it is. Someone brings me something that’s obviously not working right, I don’t ask how it got that way—”

“You just fix it,” Honey finished. “Dylan . . . you can’t fix this. Fix me.”

He surprised her by smiling. “Who said I was tryin’?”

Barbara came bustling out the front door with a covered basket and two big drinks in capped bottles. “Well, you look a mite better. Got some color back in your cheeks. Gave me a good start, you did.” She turned to Dylan and handed over the stash. “I know Honey’s got an important appointment, so I filled up these drinks, one with ice water, one with lemonade. And a basket of some goodies to go with.” She turned to Honey. “You sure you’ll be all right to travel, dear?”

Honey nodded, touched by the trouble Barbara had gone to for her. “I’m fine.” She glanced up at Dylan and started to speak, only to have Dylan speak up first.

“Miss Barbara, how’s that nephew of yours doin’ with his trawler this season?”

Barbara looked momentarily surprised by the change of subject—or maybe it was just surprise that Dylan would willingly ask after someone’s family. Honey doubted that was something he did all that often. Or ever.

Barbara’s surprise changed swiftly to pleasure, as it was clear she welcomed the chance to talk up one of her favorite people. “Well, we had such a mild winter, things weren’t as bad off in the early season as they usually are, so it’s been going fine. Could do without this heat so early on, of course,” she added, then smiled, “but men have to complain about something or it wouldn’t feel right.”

Dylan nodded. “Mr. Hughes helping out like he did last season?”

“You know, his hip has been bothering him something fierce of late, but will he let that slow him down? Of course not.” Barbara harrumphed. “I’ve been trying to get him to see Doc Sievers about it, but he’s a stubborn one.”

“Probably good to keep him off the boat then, till he’s a bit steadier. Wouldn’t do John John any good to have him fall and hurt something when the boat takes a hard rock.”

“I’ve made that same argument till I’m blue in the face, trust me. Turns a deaf ear when he doesn’t want to hear something.”

Dylan nodded, paused, then said, “You want me to mention it to him when I bring the lawnmower part back? Maybe comin’ from someone other than—”

“A nagging wife?” Barbara laughed when Dylan’s neck got a little red. “Might as well call it like it is. And I’ll take any help I can get. Don’t be surprised though, if he acts like he hasn’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

Dylan nodded. “I won’t.” He tipped his head and lifted the basket. “Thanks for the supply rations. We should probably get on the road.”

“Happy to do it.” Barbara beamed and started to turn to help Honey up, but Dylan deftly shifted between the two as Honey stood on her own.

“You all have a safe trip, now. I’ll save some cobbler for you. Oh! I left water on to boil!”

“You best get to that then,” Dylan said, already following Honey down the steps.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hughes,” Honey called out.

The older woman merely tossed a quick wave over her head as she hustled back inside.

Honey turned to Dylan. “Thank you for doing that. I’m sure the last thing you want to be doing is talking to Mr. Hughes about his bum hip. But if we can keep him off that boat—”

Dylan glanced at her. “Don’t worry, all right?”

Honey met his gaze, her mouth curving in a dry smile. “Easy for you to say.”

He stowed the basket in a bin container in the bed of his truck, gave Lolly a head scratch, and opened the passenger door for Honey so she could climb inside.

He closed the door after she was settled, then surprised her by leaning in the open window. His smile was slow, sexy as all hell, and made her heart pound all over again . . . for entirely different reasons.

“Sugar . . . nothin’ about you is easy.”