Cupcake Queens Read online

  “Hi,” she said, a smile forming on her face.

  I pawed my hair out of my eyes with the back of my hand and offered a shaky smile back while I tried to figure out how long she had been standing there.

  Finally, I decided to ask.

  “How long have you been here?” My voice was quavery and didn’t match the tune of the song still playing in the background.

  “Long enough to know that you should come to karaoke with us sometime. I suck, but it’s fun.” Her smile didn’t falter even when she insulted her singing ability, but it made me nervous.

  Was that a friendly invitation? Offhand comment? Or…something that made sense out of the feeling of champagne bubbles in my stomach?

  “So, direct me to what needs to be fixed.” She waved a hand and I realized I was still for too long.

  “Oh, um, see, I need to ask you something first.”

  Her only response was to raise a brow at me in waiting.

  “Can you give me an estimate before you start on the work, because if it’s too much I might need to have a little time to figure out how to pay for it.” Damn, that was rough. It was hard to even look at her while I fell all over my own words.

  “Don’t worry about it, Ceecee. I don’t like your landlord. Let’s just get you fixed up to find a way around him, huh?” She walked toward me. The limp from her knee brace was more apparent when she was weighed down with all that stuff.

  I bit my lip, trying to figure out if I should take this gift that she was giving me out of spite for him, or if I should turn her down. Because this was a lot for her to do for me. We barely knew each other, really. Would she do so much just because we both knew Olivia?

  She reached out a tentative hand and wiped a tear off my cheek that I wasn’t even aware had fallen. Her touch was light and soft even though her fingers were rough and calloused.

  “Please don’t cry,” she said.

  That was it. She didn’t tell me not to, tell me I didn’t have a reason, or even try and say she understood. She just asked me.

  I nodded and wiped my cheeks myself, blinking until I got control over my face again and smiled.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She gave me a soft smile and tiny bow of her head.

  “Okay, so this oven was heating up the other day, there was a pop, and some smoke came out. I don’t know what all you’ll have to do to fix it,” I said, leading her to the stupid old thing that decided to betray me.

  “No worries. You go back to singing and I’ll get to work.” She set down her bags and started checking it all out.

  I watched for a minute before I washed my hands and went back to what I was doing.

  Eventually, she pulled the big thing out from the wall in a move that made my arms sore just watching her do it. But she didn’t seem fazed by it at all.

  The only thing she had trouble with was getting up and down from the floor with her knee the way it was. Which reminded me, I didn’t actually know.

  “Hey, I hope this isn’t a crappy, intrusive question,” I said, but I knew it was, so I looked down at the dough I was working while I asked, “But, what happened to your knee? And how long will it be like that?”

  “Ah, well, it is intrusive, but everyone wants to know, so…” She set down the tool she was using that I couldn’t even name—although I had grown much more familiar with them in recent years.

  “I was a cheerleader, on scholarship, blew out my knee. It happens.” She waved a hand in the air.

  But it was there, in her eyes, that it was a lot more than something that just happened. At least it was to her.

  “Anyway, I came home, had surgery, more than once, work for my mom because I didn’t know what else to do, and hopefully in a few months my knee will be close to what it was before. Now, I’m here. Fixing the oven.” She smiled, but it was hollow before she went back to what she was doing.

  For some reason, even after the issues I had with cheerleaders in high school, and even after thinking the worst of her for suspecting she was one, her story made me like her more.

  “That sucks. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I would do if I lost this place. It’s the only thing I’ve ever planned on, the only thing I want to do,” I said and shrugged, hoping she understood what I meant. That I understood what she had lost was important to her.

  She sat on the floor and looked up at me for a while, her eyes softening and making her even more beautiful.

  I went back to work. If I stared at her much longer, I would be telling on myself. She was the only thing helping to keep the business going in a lot of ways. No matter how much I wanted her to touch my face again, I couldn’t risk it.

  Theresa

  Moments before, Ceecee’s movements were graceful and fluid with an economy of motion that showed just how at home she was in the kitchen. When she noticed me, they turned awkward and staccato.

  She had to pick up and put things down twice before she grabbed the thing she meant to and started to get back into the flow of her work.

  Maybe I was wrong, but I thought she was flustered. I thought I got her flustered.

  I smiled and went back to work myself.

  Hopefully, that meant I would manage to get her to come with me some time.

  Even if it wasn’t karaoke, I wanted to see her again. I wanted to touch her again.

  The screwdriver in my hand was suspended in air, not doing me any good.

  Come on, Theresa. Get it together.

  I went back to putting all my tools away so they weren’t scattered across the floor, and shoved myself back up to standing.

  Once I was upright, I put the heating element in the little bag I brought and slung it over my arm.

  In the process, I realized she was doing something different than the kinds of things I saw in her case before.

  “What are those?” I asked, stepping closer to her workstation, and pointing at the tray of small flower-shaped cups. No baking dish I had ever seen looked like them.

  “Those will be cupcakes for Carmen’s birthday party. I still need to figure out a special recipe to do for some of the order. I’m thinking something that has flavors of summer, or something tropical. But what I’m trying right now is chocolate cupcake with boiled meringue icing.” She finished pouring the mixture into the little cups and I was stuck there staring at the cupcakes.

  “You don’t do these regularly, do you?” I had to ask. Maybe I just wasn’t here for when she did it.

  “No,” she said with a laugh, stepping back and double-checking something about the pour she had just finished. “There are specialty stores in Seattle for that already, so I just focus on all the other baked goods.”

  But cupcakes would be really popular, especially unique ones like the one she was making that made my mouth water.

  “I think you would sell those all day. I mean…I would buy them,” I said.

  “You haven’t even tasted them.” She smiled and rolled her eyes at me as she popped them into one of the working ovens.

  “Right, but I’ve tasted your other treats. Loved those. And chocolate with meringue? Yes, please. Just think about doing some cupcakes. I think they would be a big hit.” I walked past her. I really did need to get to my appliance parts guy, because he was my best bet outside of ordering it. And none of us wanted me to wait around for an order.

  The front of the bakery was a mad house. Marcus was fast, but there were just too many people shoved in there together for him to be able to keep up.

  Okay, new plan.

  Get the part, grab a change of clothes, haul it back here, fix the oven, and then help Marcus.

  How hard could it be to do the work in the front?

  Sure, I had never dealt with anyone in a retail capacity, but it couldn’t be that bad.

  But making my way through the crowd was like negotiating with a nest of vipers, even though I was obviously not heading in the direction of the counter and wouldn’t be cutting in front of anyone waiting in line.


  People sneered and complained and bumped into me.

  What was wrong with everyone?

  Getting outside was a relief. And it was more than just the fresh air after wading through so many people’s different colognes.

  On the way back to the truck, I had to watch my steps on the cobblestones. At least this morning I was here early. It wasn’t nearly the hike from the other day.

  Once I was in the truck, I ticked off every single person looking for a parking space by getting out my phone and texting Olivia even though she probably wouldn’t get it until way after I was done for the day.

  How do you and Campbell handle dealing with the customers? The bakery customers are all being pushy.

  I always assumed it would be easy. Olivia had social anxiety, and she did it all the time.

  Maybe I was just a jerk.

  Turning into the delivery spot for the parts guy, the thought of me being especially bad with people wouldn’t leave my brain.

  By the time I opened the door to the overcrowded shop, I was grinding my teeth.

  “Who peed in your oatmeal?” Gaylen said. He was placing items on a shelf that looked like it was about to shatter under the weight.

  “Very funny. I was just thinking.” My face split into a grin the second I looked at him, no matter what it was doing before.

  He had that effect.

  And it didn’t hurt that Old Blue Eyes was playing over the speaker system.

  Gaylen always had the best music.

  “In that case, this is now a no thinking zone, my dear,” he said, smiling and heading over to me.

  He put a hand on my shoulder and all the stress of the last week fell away.

  No matter how old Gaylen got, he was still spry and smiling, always here when I just wanted to hide away.

  There was even a recliner in the back, surrounded by all manner of parts that smelled vaguely of metal and a dizzying array of fluids like oil and something sweet I assumed was from the perpetually half-broken air conditioner.

  All through high school I spent at least an hour a week in that recliner doing homework, just to get a break.

  “So, do you need the chair?” he asked, stepping back and letting go of my shoulder.

  “Not today, but I might when I’m done with this job.” I laughed and he nodded.

  “Okay, so what are we looking for?” He was already scanning the shelves. His system for storing things was known only to him.

  “This,” I said, pulling the heating element out of the bag.

  He whistled and adjusted his glasses to look at the plug-in a little closer.

  “Come on, I’m not sure if it’s still here, but I know I had one at some point.” He walked three rows of shelves over and lead me a little more than halfway along the shelf.

  Sure enough, there was a massive pile of heating elements wedged between three carburetors on one side and a stack of ice cube trays on the other.

  “Ice cube trays?” I asked, picking one up.

  “Believe it or not, those are hard to keep in stock. A lot of people don’t have ice makers, but not a lot of stores sell them like they used to.” He dug through the pile of elements, comparing a few to the one I held up for him and discarding each.

  Finally, he sighed and looked at me with a frown.

  “Sorry, kid. I can get it here by next Monday, though.” He patted my shoulder as he walked past me, not bothering to wait for me to tell him to go ahead and order it.

  He would order it. He probably knew the exact part number. And he for sure knew what kind of appliance it came from.

  I put the stupid broken element back in my bag and rubbed a hand over my face.

  This was exactly what I didn’t want to happen.

  Ceecee might be upset.

  Because I sure was.

  Ceecee

  I brought out another tray to Marcus and put it in the case.

  We only had one customer at the moment, which was good because I didn’t want to talk to anyone.

  All I wanted to do was check the clock and get back to work.

  “Ceecee, don’t look at the clock again. She will be here when she gets here,” Marcus said, passing by me with two boxes to take payment for them.

  He was right, but he was also too late.

  I saw the time. But it didn’t matter. There was too much to do and not enough minutes to do it in regardless of whether Theresa came back.

  Rushing back to the kitchen, my feet aching, I gave myself one second to close my eyes, breathe, feel sorry for myself, and allow the pain of too busy a day to wash through me.

  Then I shoved it all away again and focused on what I needed to do.

  A long time ago, Mom taught me how to give myself a space small enough that it wouldn’t take over my ability to keep going, but large enough that it wasn’t gnawing at me as much.

  Eventually, I was going to have to find a time to get to the laundromat, too.

  It was an errant thought, but it made continuing to work much harder, undoing the effects of Mom’s trick.

  After another twenty minutes of constant movement, I had the block of time I needed to be able to finish the cupcakes.

  Everything was cool now. I was out of time to mess with the flavors anymore, so chocolate with boiled meringue was going to be the special kind along with Key Lime. It wasn’t a new flavor for me, but it was light and bright like I wanted.

  I still wound up with four extras because I needed a taste test. And if I didn’t make one for Marcus he would kill me.

  Making the meringue had a rhythm to it. It was different than kneading the dough or even decorating the tops, but they were all part of the same dance class. The kind of class taught by the grownups of the family to the kids.

  I felt my mom every time I fell into those kinds of movements, found the steady beat at the heart of the kitchen, and allowed it to dictate how I made my way through something.

  Even when I changed the ingredients, I followed the steps she taught me when I was small.

  A long time ago, she used to have a song. It wasn’t singing so much as it was a low, thrumming harmony that she accompanied some of our moments in the kitchen with.

  The words didn’t matter. She changed them all the time.

  But I hummed the tune to myself as I finished the test batch for Olivia’s order.

  Something made with Mom’s song in it always turned out better than something missing that soul.

  And I wanted these to be good.

  From the front, a peal of wild laughter reminded me I couldn’t afford to take any more time with the cupcakes. They were done for now.

  I set them aside and started back into the too hurried, and too utilitarian portion of my work.

  On the days I had time to prep everything properly, got almost all the baking done in the morning, and had plenty of time in the kitchen to work on special things while Marcus ran the front, there was nowhere else I wanted to be.

  But on days like today—and all the ones staring back at me from the future—I wondered what it would feel like to bake in someone else’s kitchen.

  I wondered what it would be like to be able to just bake and let other people worry about the paperwork, the orders, dealing with customers, cleaning, worrying about the money, and all the planning.

  Nice work if you can get it.

  Even while I thought about it, though, part of me would be crumbs forever if I lost Mom’s bakery.

  The actual, visualized, thought of working in someone else’s kitchen, following someone else’s recipe, made my stomach want to rebel.

  No. I needed The Bake Place and it needed me.

  Mom was gone and the only thing I had left were memories and flavors.

  “Okay, focus,” I muttered out loud.

  “Having trouble focusing?” Theresa said from the doorway, her hands in her pockets, her tool belt gone, and no bags hanging off of her. Maybe it was being physically lighter that made her face seem more open.
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br />   “Yes. Too much happening, but don’t worry about that. What’s the word?”

  Please don’t ask me more about what I was thinking, I begged her in my mind.

  Not only was I unsure whether I was capable of explaining it, I wasn’t sure she would want to hear me yammer on. Part of me wondered if I wasn’t so far in my head because of her.

  “Okay.” She moved further into the room, taking a deep breath and making me bite my lip and cringe. “Do you want good or bad?”

  “That bad?” I asked, my voice coming out whinier than I wanted it to be, but her small smile was sympathetic.

  “Gaylen doesn’t have the part, and if he doesn’t, no one does. But he did know the part and was able to order it. It will be here in about a week.”

  “Crap.” I looked around the kitchen, but even this familiar place felt overwhelming at the moment. “That’s okay. I suspected it would happen.”

  I had to find a way to pay the overtime I needed to for Marcus to work every day of that with me.

  Theresa

  Poor Ceecee looked so different than she had when I walked in. I wanted to take it all back and tell her I would find the part.

  But there was no way someone else would have one for a stove so old. Only Gaylen collected parts that way.

  Well…Gaylen was the only one I knew, and therefore the only packrat parts guy that mattered. Anyone else would have to order it for me, too. And none of them would come find me when they got the part because they knew it was important.

  “I’m sorry. I really am.”

  She nodded, taking in a big breath, standing up straighter, and fixing a smile to her face like she was gluing it there.

  “Um,” I looked around and tried to think of some reason I should stay, and help in the front. But the look on her face told me I let her down. It was more than a delay, this was a huge problem.

  The clothes on my back, the ones I changed into to stay and help, suddenly made me itch. There was no way my presence was going to be a good thing. Not right now.