Recipe for Love (5 page)

She reflected back to the day she’d handed her car payment money to her mother to
cover some of her grandfather’s medical bills. She’d thought she could live without
a car if she had to. Now she wasn’t so sure.

“How am I going to get home?” she said out loud to no one in particular.

An elderly man wearing the yellow vest of a festival worker pointed to the dozens
of school buses taking festivalgoers to various drop-offs around town.

Take a bus? She sighed. Better that than call Andi to come back out to get her. She
was probably already putting Mia to bed, and there was no one else she could call.
Her mother was never available. Kim had no car. Jake was away for the weekend. Guy
didn’t have his license due to a past DUI. And her cop friend, Ian Lockwell, was on
duty.

Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she headed toward a yellow school bus, climbed
the steps, and found a seat in the crowded reaches of the back.

She loved her red Mustang. It was a cool car, even if it was dented and she couldn’t
afford a new one. Red was vibrant and an eye-catcher.

But the payments had been steep for her tight budget. The truth was, she was better
off without the car. She’d felt guilty keeping it while her mother worked two jobs
to cover her grandfather’s medical bills. Now the matter was resolved for her.

She took her iPod from her purse, put on the connecting earbuds, and cranked up the
volume to muffle the loud, boastful chatter of the obnoxious fairgoers who had drunk
one too many samples of wine. They were having their own party, giggling, laughing,
shouting at the people walking down the sidewalk as the bus stopped to drop people
off at various locations. She hoped the bus would circle back into the heart of downtown
Astoria soon, but she knew she had to be patient. Each bus had an assigned route.
Rachel found it hard to keep her eyes open. She dozed off again and again only to
wake with a start.

“This is our last stop,” the driver said over the intercom. “Please make sure you
don’t leave any articles behind. Pick up any trash you might have and deposit it in
the garbage bag next to the exit.”

The bus slowed to a halt and let off a hiss like a giant sigh of relief as twenty-five
or more people stood up to get off, the noisy group that was having the party. Rachel
was glad to see them go, but as they stepped off the bus, she realized she was the
only one left. This couldn’t be the last stop. The driver had to have misspoken.

She glanced out the darkened window and saw the headlights from the bus illuminate
the sign for the remote Fort Stevens Campground out by the ocean. She couldn’t get
out here. Fort Stevens was in the middle of nowhere.

And she wasn’t much of a camper.

Chapter Four

You don’t love someone for their looks, or their clothes, or for their fancy car,
but because they sing a song only you can hear.

—Author unknown

R
ACHEL ROSE FROM
her seat and walked up the aisle toward the driver to admit her mistake. “I think
I boarded the wrong bus. I need to get back to West Astoria.”

The driver turned around and gave her a big smile. “Happens every year. This is the
Sturgeon bus,” he said, pointing to the sign above his head. “The Dungeness bus is
the one with the downtown route. On your way to the festival your driver should have
made you memorize
‘I am a crab
.’”

“I didn’t take the bus to the festival,” Rachel replied, “but I am feeling crabby.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping maybe you took the wrong bus on purpose.”

His voice was warm and friendly, his smile disarming. Even in the dim light she could
see he was handsome. If she weren’t so tired, he’d definitely be someone she’d flirt
with.

Instead, she frowned. “Why would I do that?”

“To see me,” he said with a grin.

Was he flirting with her? Well, in that case, maybe she wasn’t as tired as she thought.

“If I’d known you were this good-looking, I would have sat up front,” she teased.

“If you did, I would have been distracted with thoughts of our upcoming date.”

Upcoming date?
What date?
Was this his way of asking her out? Or did she meet him at a party several weeks
back and forget to write his name down on her calendar?

Rachel stared at him, taking in his husky build, dark hair, strong jaw, and dazzling
smile. She never would have forgotten to write down a date with him. She’d made the
mistake of boarding the wrong bus, but maybe he’d also made a mistake. Mistaken her
for someone else? She wouldn’t let that deter her. “I’d love to go on a date with
you. But right now I need to get home. I live at—”

“Two-three-three Franklin Avenue,” he finished for her.

Rachel stiffened, fearing she may be alone in the middle of nowhere on an empty bus
with a stalker. “How did you know?”

“Maybe I read your mind. Some magicians are known to possess that talent.”

“
Mike?
”

He nodded. “I wondered how long it would take you to recognize me.”

Relief surged through every part of her body, and she shook her head. This was the
second time she’d thought the worst of him, and he’d surprised her. “I thought you
were a stalker. How am I supposed to recognize you without the mask?”

“My voice?”

“Your voice did sound familiar, but I’m really tired and had a terrible day.”

“Why don’t you sit up here and tell me about it while I drive? I have to take this
bus back to the school parking lot, but after that we can get my car, and I can take
you home.”

“Will you take me home, too?” The question came from behind them.

Rachel and Mike both turned their heads. An elderly woman, her white hair pulled back
into a bun, poked her head over Rachel’s shoulder. Rachel hadn’t noticed her when
she’d hurried up the aisle to approach the driver. The woman must have been hunched
down, asleep in her seat, from too much wine. She could smell liquor on the old woman’s
breath.

“I’ll call you a cab,” Mike assured her.

“I’m Bernice Richards,” she told them and pointed a finger at Rachel. “I saw you at
the festival. You sell cupcakes.”

“Yes,” Rachel replied. “We have a shop in town, Creative Cupcakes.”

Bernice’s eyes fluttered, and she leaned her head back against the seat. “Let me know
when we get there.”

Mike called the cab service on his cell phone, and when they arrived at the bus lot,
the yellow transport was waiting. Mike took the elderly woman’s arm and helped her
down the school bus steps so she wouldn’t fall. Then, pulling his wallet out of his
pocket, he paid the cabbie.

“That was sweet of you,” Rachel told him as the cab pulled away.

Mike grinned. “She reminds me of my grandma, sweet as can be, but always into the
cups on the weekends.”

“Don’t you think it’s odd she’s alone?”

“Lots of women come to these events and meet up in a group once they arrive. It’s
getting home that’s the tricky part.” He gave her a direct look. “Isn’t it?”

“I’m glad I found you,” Rachel said. “How did you get roped into working at the festival?”

Mike shrugged. “I heard they needed bus drivers, and since I have the qualified license
and I’m between jobs, I thought I’d help out for the weekend.”

He led her to his car, a black Grand Cherokee Jeep, and opened the door for her to
get in.

“First a magician, now a bus driver, and Andi says that you make miniature models
for movie sets. Seems you’re very versatile,” she teased. “What don’t you do, Mike?”

“I don’t stalk beautiful young women who happen to get on the wrong bus at the end
of the night.”

“Beautiful?” Rachel smiled on hearing that.

“And distraught. Like you need a hug more than anyone else in the whole world right
now.”

Rachel stared at him and nodded. Coming from another man, it would sound like a cheesy
pick-up line. But the way Mike looked at her, even in the dim light, made her believe
his compassion was real.

In any case, she didn’t protest when he wrapped his arms around her and drew her close.
His chest was warm. He made
her
feel warm, cocooned protectively in his embrace. And
secure
. Like her troubles didn’t matter.

She wished he’d never let go, but a moment later he pulled back and started the car.
She didn’t usually show her emotions, but kept them hidden beneath her party girl
smile. She must have slipped up tonight—maybe because she was so tired—for Mike to
have seen through her.

He didn’t ask what was wrong, but as Mike drove, Rachel found herself telling him
anyway.

“The booth at the festival cost $400 for the weekend, and we barely broke a hundred
bucks. No one wants cupcakes. All the people are interested in is eating crab and
filling their wineglasses with samples from the local vendors. We need money, Mike.
I need money. There are only two days left, and if I can’t make a profit, Andi and
Kim are going to hate me.”

“Why would they hate you?”

“Because I’m the one who signed up for the festival, and instead of being Creative
Cupcakes’ ‘stupendous’ promotion manager, I’m feeling just plain
stupid
. Somehow I’ve got to come up with a way to sell more cupcakes.”

“My brother has a booth at the festival this weekend, too. I used to work for him
several years ago at his winery. He says first you need a good product.”

Rachel nodded. “We have that. Our cupcakes are delicious.”

“By themselves they might be delicious, but how do they taste after people have had
several different glasses of wine?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I never thought about it.”

“Certain flavors of wine bring out a better taste in certain foods. One wine might
go better with chocolate, while another might go better with vanilla. The key is to
have customers taste the right combination so they’ll think it’s delicious enough
to buy.”

“If we served wine with the cupcakes, we could control what the customers taste before
they sample our cupcakes, but all we have is cake.”

“If I talk to my brother, he might be willing to sell some of his wine at your booth.
Then you would have the right flavors, and he would have wine to sell in two locations.”

“It’s all about creative networking,” she said, her heart beating faster. “Maybe Creative
Cupcakes has a chance after all.”

Mike shot her a sideways glance. “How are you serving the cupcakes?”

“On a napkin or small paper plate.”

“What if you served them on something else, something unique? Something that ties
in with the festival?”

“Like a . . . a wineglass?” As soon as the words left her mouth, Rachel sat up straighter
and took a deep breath. “We could serve them in a wineglass with a plastic spoon.
But where would we get the glasses?”

“You could buy cheap plastic ones from the store, but a real glass would give the
people a souvenir to take home, and they’d be willing to pay more for it. My brother
and I used to buy from a glassblower on Commercial Street who sells wineglasses. You
could ask if she’d be willing to cut you a deal if you buy in bulk.”

Rachel slumped. “Put out more money?”

“What if you bring back what you don’t sell? The glass shop owner might even want
to come to the festival with you. You could sell your cupcakes, and she could sell
the glasses to put them in. Except I’m not sure if people would want to carry the
glasses around all day. Do you have a bag or something they could use to carry the
glass home?”

“I saw a couple of people wearing a triangular fabric wineglass holder tied around
their neck with a ribbon. The stem of the glass goes through a hole, and the cup part
of the glass hangs in the material like a sling, allowing the customers to keep their
hands free.”

“Could you buy them from one of the other vendors?” he suggested.

“They are so simple that Andi, Kim, and I could make them.”

“Do you know how to sew?”

Rachel laughed. “I do!”

She’d had to mend many of her own clothes in the past when her best outfits got a
hole and she couldn’t afford to buy new. Her mother had an old Singer sewing machine
handed down to her from her mother.

“This is a great idea,” Rachel said. “Thanks, Mike. You really are magnificent.”

“You came up with most of the ‘stupendous’ ideas,” he told her, his voice filled with
amusement.

“But you helped me think.”

“Sometimes two minds are better than one.”

Or two hearts.

Mike parked his car in front of her house, turned off the engine, and opened his door
to get out.

“What are you doing?” Rachel called over to him as she gathered her purse.

“Opening the door for you,” he said coming around to her side, “and walking you up
to the house.”

No one had opened a car door for her in a long time. In fact, she couldn’t
ever
remember a guy opening a car door for her. These days a gesture like that was seen
only in movies.

He took her hand, and she smiled at him. “Thank you again for driving me home. I don’t
know what I would have done if the bus driver was a cranky old man who left me out
at Fort Stevens overnight.”

“You would have survived. It’s very warm for the end of April, and I think you’re
a survivor, Rachel.”

She stared into his eyes, stunned by his insight. She
was
a survivor. All her life she’d had to do what she needed to make ends meet, make
friends, and continue on.

“I’ll see you Wednesday night at six for our dinner date?” she asked.

His mouth curved into a grin. “What if I pick you up earlier, and we go back out toward
Fort Stevens to spend the day at the beach?”

Rachel laughed. “Perfect. If we happen to get lost, at least I won’t be alone.”

Chapter Five

Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much.