Honey Pie (Cupcake Club) - By Donna Kauffman Page 0,72
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