Honey Pie (Cupcake Club) - By Donna Kauffman Page 0,23
new neighbors. Not that she wanted to kick them out.
“Listen, I don’t know what will happen,” Honey said, not wanting to think abut the shop she’d finally let herself envision, only to lose it before it even began. “Obviously, I need to talk to Bea’s lawyers. I didn’t come here to make trouble. I came here—”
“To make yourself a home,” Lani finished, and it was only because she was smiling so sincerely, without an ounce of pity in her voice or on her face, that Honey took it as the kind gesture it was intended to be. “I know something about that, too. A lot of something, actually. As does my husband, and a few of my closest friends. Trust me, you couldn’t be surrounded by more understanding people. We know what you’re going through.” She grinned again. “Well, the starting over part, anyway. As for the rest . . . you just tell us what you’re comfortable with and what makes you uncomfortable, and we’ll work around it.”
She said it so simply. As if that was all there was to it. But . . . it wasn’t that simple. Couldn’t be. Honey knew otherwise. Didn’t she?
“Okay, so maybe Franco won’t.” Lani laughed and rolled her eyes. “Oh my god, he’ll love you. But he’s a bit like a big, untamed French poodle, so we’ll have to work on him.”
“Franco?”
“One of the cupcake crew. You’ll love him, trust me. A better friend and a more staunch ally, you couldn’t hope to have. Plus he’s very tall and can reach the high things. Win-win, really. So, I’m sorry, I don’t remember. What kind of art? It’s sculpting or something, right?”
Honey felt . . . dazed. She sat there, trying to keep up and regroup at the same time, wanting to step away from her own spinning head and thundering heart long enough to take stock of this moment, of what was happening, so she could understand how things could simultaneously be so horribly wrong, and yet feel almost magically right.
“Oh,” she said, when she saw Lani’s expectant face and realized she’d lost the thread of the conversation. “Yes, I work with clay; I’m also a wood carver. Not a serious one. I mean, I’m serious about my work, but my eye lends itself more to the whimsical than the thought-provoking. As a kid, I learned to whittle from my dad and started making little fantasy creatures and woodland critters.” My own circle of friends, she thought. “My mom would tuck them here and there in her gardens and around the property. Then I discovered clay and . . . well, it kind of mushroomed, as my dad loved to say, into a business.”
“I’m sorry to say I’ve never checked out your catalog, but I will now. Do you have somewhere to stay? Oh, right, you were here yesterday if you saw us at bake club—and your car’s in the shop. Wow, welcome to Sugarberry, huh?”
“It’s been . . . memorable.” Despite all the incredible things that had happened in the past hour, the first thing that came to mind when Honey thought of memorable welcomes was Dylan Ross. And his hands on her arms. And his grin when he told her a little crazy was a good thing. And that he didn’t plan on touching her again.
And how much she really wished he would. And that she could let him.
“So, where are you staying now?”
Honey snapped out of thoughts she had no business thinking about. “At the Hughes’s place. My car is going to take a while. Barbara—Mrs. Hughes, lent me her bicycle to use. Is it always this hot in the spring?”
“No, this is unusual, even for the South. Listen, why don’t we do this? Let me get someone to cover the shop tomorrow morning, and I can take you over the causeway to get the papers and whatever copies you need from the county, and then we can come back over here and see Morgan—our lawyer and Kit’s significant other as it happens. Kit is the manager next door. At least we can get that part settled. I don’t know what to tell you about your plans and about the shop itself. I’m pretty sure my lease is valid and—”
“You’re right. I need to get up to speed on, well, on a lot of things, it seems. I appreciate your willingness to drive me, but please don’t go to the trouble. I can get a cab and—to be honest,”