Authors: Darlene Panzera
One reviewer stated, “Creative Cupcakes uses inferior ingredients, the cupcakes taste
several weeks’ old, and I saw a cockroach while waiting for the slow service girl
to fill my order.”
“This can’t be right!” Rachel showed the review to Andi and Kim.
“Each blog and review uses the same phrases,” Kim said, pointing out certain lines
here and there. “I bet the same person wrote all of them.”
Rachel scowled. “I bet it was Gaston.”
Andi agreed. “Look at the ad alongside the review, for Hollande’s French Pastry Parlor.”
Rachel scrolled down the page, and a full-screen image of Gaston Pierre Hollande came
into view. In his hands he held a book titled
How to Keep Your Bakery from Going Bankrupt.
“He wrote a book?” Andi demanded.
“On sale now for only thirty bucks,” Kim said, sounding like a commercial. “Who would
pay that much? Avoiding bankruptcy is as simple as
not
buying his book.”
A horn blasted from the street outside, and all three of them turned their heads,
rose from their seats at the table . . . and gasped.
“His face is on the side of the bus!” Andi exclaimed, her voice rising. She walked
closer to the window. “And on the billboard across the street.”
Kim joined her. “I see him on the side of that yellow taxi, the poster in the window
of the gas station, and on the flyers those people are handing out on the sidewalk.”
Rachel’s legs trembled as she stood up, walked across the shop, and opened the front
door. As she took in the new landscape, she thought it a miracle there wasn’t a sign
reading
WELCOME
TO THE
WORLD
OF
GASTON
.
How could they compete against such an aggressive promo campaign? She shut the door
on him and took a deep breath, her mind reeling. She should have continued her education
after high school. She should have gone to college for marketing or multimedia communications.
“Someday we’ll have a golden trophy like Gaston claims he has,” Andi said, her expression
tight. “A cupcake trophy with a great big number one on top. Creative Cupcakes will
win cupcake contests all over America.”
Rachel turned and snapped her fingers. “What are we waiting for? Let’s challenge him
to a cupcake contest, like
Cupcake Wars
on TV, and offer the winner a magnificent trophy. I doubt Gaston would be able to
resist, and we’ll settle once and for all who’s number one in this town.”
“Yes,” Andi agreed, her eyes wide. “But where?”
“The Astoria Sunday Market opens May twelfth, less than two weeks from now,” Kim offered.
“Bake outside?” Andi asked.
“We can run extension cords and bring tables, mixers, and portable convection ovens.”
Rachel took the newspaper from the counter and waved it in the air. “If Jake can get
the
Astoria Sun
to give us coverage, we may even pick up some sponsors.”
“Jake!” Andi rushed to the television Jake had set up in the corner. “He’s on in twenty
minutes. The local network is filming a segment on the newspaper and asked him for
an interview.”
“I can pay a visit to Hollande’s French Pastry Parlor, throw down the challenge, and
be back before Jake steals your undivided attention,” Rachel promised.
True to her word, she returned to the cupcake shop with five minutes to spare.
“Well?” Kim asked. “What did he say?”
Rachel imitated the way Gaston Pierre Hollande had rubbed his hands together. “He
can’t wait.”
M
IKE MET
R
ACHEL
at the cupcake shop at noon. He was dressed in jeans and a blue plaid short-sleeved
shirt over a white tee. His hair waved back from his face as if recently combed. And
the smile on his face made her eager to go out and have a little fun.
“See you later,” she called over her shoulder to Andi and Kim as she ditched the pink
apron she wore over her blue-and-white sundress. Grabbing a jacket to protect her
against the cool Oregon wind and her beach bag filled with necessities, she followed
Mike out the door.
“You look great,” he told her.
Tossing her red curls over her shoulder, she replied, “So do you.”
Typical first-date conversation. Rachel smiled. She loved the thrill of discovery
associated with first dates, but this one felt different. She’d been texting back
and forth with Mike so many times over the last twelve days she felt as if she already
knew him. There was an added intimacy to the usual words, and it threw her off guard.
He opened the door for her to climb into the Jeep and took a small bouquet of flowers
off the seat. “Do you know what today is?”
She hesitated. “Wednesday, May first.”
“May Day.” He placed the ribbon-tied stems in her hands. “These are May Day flowers.”
Rachel breathed in the deep fragrance of the tiny pink and white petals as she and
Mike got in the car and he started the engine.
“In some parts of the United States,” Mike said, driving toward their coastal destination,
“a person sometimes fills a small basket with flowers or treats and leaves them on
another person’s doorstep. Then the giver knocks on the door and runs away.”
“I never heard of this tradition. Why does the giver run away?” Rachel asked.
“So the person who receives the flowers can try to chase after and catch the fleeing
giver.”
“And if they do?”
“A kiss is exchanged.” Mike turned his head, gave her a quick glance, and grinned.
Warning bells rang in her head as she grinned back, and her pulse kicked up a notch.
Her suspicions had been right.
This wasn’t going to be an ordinary first date.
A
T LOW TIDE,
the wide expanse of sand near Fort Stevens State Park seemed to stretch to eternity.
The scene reminded Rachel of one of Kim’s paintings of a pale dirt road that narrowed
until it traveled off the page, leaving its destination to the beholder.
Mike took her hand, and the wind propelled them forward. The crashing waves of the
Pacific Ocean lay on one side, the rolling dunes topped with tuffs of billowing green
sea grass lay on the other. Tucked in between, the beach was a haven for seabirds
and seclusion.
Mike lifted his camera and took a picture of the iron whalebone remains of the
Peter Iredale
shipwreck. “Back in 1906 this ship had four masts, was 285 feet long, and weighed
2,075 tons, too heavy to pull out of the sand when it ran ashore. Now it stays here
stuck on the beach, a reminder of all the thousands of other vessels in the Graveyard
of the Pacific.”
“My grandfather told me twenty-seven crewmembers and two stowaways were rescued,”
Rachel said, thinking of the many times he’d brought her to this spot. “I always dreamed
what it would have been like to be one of those stowaways.”
“Hollywood is filming a movie about the shipwreck, and the two stowaways are the main
characters,” Mike told her. “Maybe you should audition for the part.”
Rachel ran into the rusted bow and stuck her head through one of the many window-like
openings in the metal framework. “Rachel Donovan, actress extraordinaire, playing
the part of a
stupendously
charming stowaway living an enchanted life at sea.”
Mike snapped a picture of her and then lowered the camera and let it hang from the
strap around his neck. “Your life hasn’t been enchanting as Rachel living in Astoria?”
She stiffened. “Why do you say that?”
Mike walked closer and looked straight into her eyes. “Something in your voice sounded
like you might be unhappy.”
“Me, unhappy? I’m never unhappy.” Rachel looked away, studied the round bolts in the
metal framework around her, and turned back to meet his gaze once again. “Truth?”
Mike smiled. “Always.”
“Instead of enchanted, sometimes I feel like my life is a shipwreck.”
“With only the necessary bolts and framework holding you together?”
Rachel nodded. “How do you know?”
“Aaah, the illusion is always so much more fascinating than the real story, isn’t
it?” he asked, but the humor in his voice didn’t reach his eyes. “When I was young
my family was dealt a series of sudden deaths, and I found the best way to cope was
to perform magic tricks to lighten the mood. Thus I donned the mask and became Mike
the Magnificent.”
Rachel turned around and rested her back on the edge of the ship. “You found it’s
easier to hide behind a mask?”
“We all wear masks, whether we see them or not, don’t we?” His gaze locked on to hers.
“But I’ve learned opening up to others and being myself is more fun than magic tricks.”
Rachel disagreed. She thought his magic tricks were enchanting. But she didn’t argue.
Instead, she admitted, “My family . . . isn’t all there either.”
Mike moved forward, sandwiching her between his husky body and the hull. He brushed
a finger along her cheek and gave her a deep, penetrating look.
“I’ll show you my real face if you show me yours,” he said, his voice barely audible
against the churning clap of another wave.
Rachel shoved the meaning of his words aside. All she wanted to do at that moment
was kiss him. As he built a sand castle of the original
Peter Iredale
showing his expertise in creating precision models for movie sets, all she wanted
to do was kiss him. And after they ate a picnic lunch on the sand dunes, all she wanted
to do was kiss him.
But darn it, all Mike did was continue to romance her with his sweet talk, sweeter
smile, and sweet yet disturbing way of looking right into her soul. He was so sweet,
maybe she’d name a cupcake after him
after
she tasted his kiss. She only hoped the anticipation wouldn’t be followed by a letdown.
She had more than enough of those on her plate.
T
HEIR FIRST DATE
included a mouth-watering dinner at the new surf-and-turf restaurant located in the
old Bumble Bee Hanthorn Cannery on pier 39. Then Mike drove her home, opened the car
door for her to get out, and walked her to the front door. He held her hand, and she
turned to face him, certain she’d finally get a kiss.
“Today was fun,” he said. His lips twitched into a half grin as he held her gaze.
“I had a good time,” Rachel replied and tilted her head ever so slightly upward. Ready.
Oh so ready.
“See you tomorrow?” he asked.
Rachel hesitated. If she saw him tomorrow, their two-date relationship would be over
too soon. “How about next week?”
A flicker of mixed emotions crossed Mike’s face, but it came and left so fast, she
couldn’t tell if he was disappointed, delighted, or undecided. She leaned closer,
parted her lips, and squeezed his hand. In return, Mike pulled his fingers from hers
and stepped away.
“Until next week then,” he said, his eyes searching hers.
Wasn’t he going to kiss her? Why wouldn’t he kiss her? She thought they got along
great. Didn’t he feel the same way? Maybe she should have agreed to see him tomorrow.
Maybe then he would have taken her in his arms and kissed her.
Rachel’s stomach tightened.
I can’t believe this.
“I might be free tomorrow,” she said, digging her toes into the tips of her shoes.
“Call me.”
“I will,” Mike promised and turned to leave.
Ready to burst like a baked potato left in the oven too long, she closed the door
and heaved a sigh. Her grandfather and his visiting nurse sat in the living room.
“By golly, will you look at that red hair!” he exclaimed. “I knew a girl with red
hair once. Can’t remember her name.”
“Rachel?” the nurse prompted.
“No, not Rachel.” He frowned. “Someone else.”
The doorbell rang, and Rachel reopened the door, hoping Mike had come back. Maybe
he decided he couldn’t leave without giving her a kiss after all.
But no one was there. She looked around the driveway and neighboring yards. Then she
looked down and noticed the basket of pink and white flowers on the front step, the
same type of May Day flowers Mike had given her earlier when he told her the legend
of . . .
She gasped, realizing Mike hadn’t kissed her because he wanted to give her a choice.
If she wanted a kiss, she’d chase after him. If not, she’d leave the door closed.
She sprang down the steps and rounded the corner of the house. He wasn’t hard to catch.
Mike spun around and laughed, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I didn’t think you
were coming.”
Her heart pounded. “I couldn’t resist.”
“See if you can resist this,” he said, and with a grin, he leaned his mouth down to
hers.
Love is always open arms. If you close your arms about love, you will find that you
are left holding only yourself.
—Leo Buscaglia
L
ATE THE NEXT
day Rachel stood beside Mike on the sidewalk in front of the parked Cupcake Mobile.
Kim had finished painting a giant pink frosted chocolate cupcake on the side of the
vehicle with three swords and their borrowed
Three Musketeers
logo, “All for one, one for all!”
Andi stood opposite them, her hands on her hips. “Rachel, it was your idea to get
the truck.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think I’d be the one who would have to drive it.”
Kim balked. “Don’t look at me; I doubt my feet would even reach the pedals.”
“Well
I’m
not the only one who’s going to drive this thing,” Andi argued. “What we need is
a delivery boy.”
Mike grinned. “I could drive.”
Rachel gave a start and turned her head toward him. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been between jobs the last few months, taking on different paying gigs to float
me until the next big paycheck,” Mike told them. “I’d be happy to drive the truck
and deliver cupcakes to your clients.”
“W-work for us?” she stammered.
Andi clapped. “Oh, Mike, that would be great.”
“Super great,” Kim echoed and nudged Rachel with her elbow. “Don’t you think so, Rachel?”