Chapter Fourteen

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

From the Kitchen of Verbena Fullbright

If you want a good rise and even layers on your cake, be sure to preheat the oven at least half an hour before baking. And don't even dare think about opening that oven door while the cake is baking. Nothing will sink a cake faster than fluctuating temperatures. All good things are worth the wait.

Tessa Jane

"Good heavens," my mama exclaimed, flipping the sign on the barn's take-out window to CLOSED early Saturday afternoon. Our last customer had just driven off, a Strawberry Stardust cake and a dozen cupcakes safely secured in the passenger seat. "I'm worn out."

With all three of the Sugarbirds off work—Delilah had come down with a stomach bug on Wednesday—my mama had volunteered to help with the shop, and ended up shocking us all with how seamlessly she'd eased into working retail.

"Now you know why we take Sunday and Monday off. To recover." Aunt Bean smiled as she parked herself on a stool to reconcile the cash register.

Mama laughed and pressed her hands to her lower back as if it ached. "Makes perfect sense now."

Out the window, I saw Addie walking down the long driveway headed toward the street, carrying the SORRY, SOLD OUT sandwich board, moseying along. I didn't blame her for taking her sweet time. It had been a long week.

I wasn't sure I'd ever worked harder, which was saying something, since I was used to working twelve-hour shifts for days on end. All I wanted to do for the next two days was put my feet up and play with kittens.

But unfortunately I wouldn't have much time to relax. Tomorrow and Monday, I'd be baking and decorating cookies. Another dozen for Miss Ernie, but also a paying order from Pinky for her granddaughter's first birthday party, done in wild animal designs. Giraffes, elephants, monkeys, lions. I was excited to get started, already imagining what the finished cookies would look like.

"You keep working as hard as you did today, Henrie," Aunt Bean said, "and I'm going to have to make you an official Sugarbird."

Mama had been all smiles today, effortlessly upselling the cupcakes at the take-out window like she'd been doing it all her life. She grinned. "After the fun I had today, I might be tempted to take that offer. Tell me what else needs to be done. Are there cakes to bake?"

Aunt Bean shook her head. "Not tonight. All we need to do is clean up and restock. But don't you need to get going?"

She had a meeting with Graham Doby—the reporter writing an article about my granddaddy.

I didn't want her to go. After meeting with Mr. Stubblefield earlier this week, she was in the frame of mind to throw Granddaddy under the proverbial bus.

Although Mr. Stubblefield promised to go over the trust with a fine-tooth comb to look for loopholes, he informed Mama that because Gigi hadn't put her wishes about the stipends into writing, there wasn't likely anything that could be done. As it was, Granddaddy had full discretion over the funds—to give and revoke as he saw fit.

At the news I felt terribly for Mama, who would've made good use of the money, but I felt even worse for Gigi and her misplaced faith in Granddaddy. She'd had such high hopes that the inheritance would bring out the good in him. Instead it had brought out the worst.

Mama looked at her watch. "I suppose I should go freshen up, though I'm thinking of trading out my regular perfume for vanilla extract. The scent is divine."

"Aunt Bean makes it herself," I said, reminding her. "With bourbon instead of vodka."

"Don't go sounding like it's a big deal," Aunt Bean said. "It's easy as pie. Just takes time. The longer the beans steep, the better the flavor."

I started clearing the workbenches. "Don't let her downplay it. I'm convinced there's a secret ingredient. Unicorn tears, maybe."

Aunt Bean edged off the stool, and while leaning heavily on her walking stick she made her way to the dark corner where she stored the extract on deep shelving, out of the sunlight. I watched her, worried that she seemed to be moving slower and slower these days.

Bean pulled an amber bottle down from the shelf, checked the date on its tag, and carried it over to my mama. In a loud whisper, she said, "They're dragon's tears. Don't tell anyone."

I could only shake my head and smile.

Mama accepted the bottle, hugging it to her chest. "This is the nicest gift I've received in quite some time. Thank you."

She gave Aunt Bean a kiss on her cheek, then kissed mine as well. "I'll see y'all later."

Not a minute after she left, the door swung open again and Addie stuck her head inside. "Ty Underwood's on his way up the driveway, a load of lumber hanging off the bed of his truck. I'm going to put up the dogs and watch the ducks so they don't get loose while he gets set up."

With that, she was gone again.

"I plumb forgot Ty was coming by to work on the quack shack." Aunt Bean tapped her walking stick two times as she glanced around. "Let's break for lunch and finish up here later. I'm near to famished and the mess will keep."

With a good bit of surprise, I realized I wasn't dreading Ty's visit. I'd come a long way since that day at the Market Street bakery, nearly two weeks ago.

In fact, I was seeing a lot of things with a little more clarity, a little more light, since then. What had happened with Carson, while still painful, was beginning to feel like a blessing in disguise. Addie and I had formed a tenuous friendship. I was starting to wonder if I could make a living as a cookie artist. And there was hope that mine and Addie's inheritance could be used to help the Starling Society. Being here in Starlight was doing exactly what I wished for—leading me out of the darkness.

I smiled at Aunt Bean. "Sounds good to me."

Tipping her head, she studied me as if sensing a shift, then grinned with a devilish glint in her eyes. "It's such a nice day, we should eat outside. I'll ask Ty to join us. Come along, peanut."

I narrowed my gaze at her retreating back as she speedily headed for the door. It didn't escape my notice that she could rush when she wanted to. Like when she knew I was going to accuse of her something. Like matchmaking.

Ty and me? It was laughable.

But suddenly, I didn't find it so funny.

I didn't take the time to dissect why as I followed her.

Ty's truck was backed up to the gate, and a gentle breeze blew as Aunt Bean veered off toward the backyard. I headed for the front porch, finding utter chaos when I opened the door to the house. The dogs were in the kitchen, on hind legs at the back door, tails wagging, barking up a storm as they watched Ty in the backyard. My mama was sitting on the bottom step of the staircase, holding an angry, writhing duck—Ethel—while Addie chased Lucy around the living room. Miney and Moe were on the back of the couch, their ears flattened, their backs arched. The kittens, thank goodness, were safe in a pet playpen in the corner of the room, sleeping through the commotion.

"The ducks followed the dogs straight into the house," Addie said loudly, to be heard over the barking and quacking.

Mama's eyes were wide with panic as she stood and thrust Ethel at me, then stared at her hands with something akin to horror. "I'm late! Bye!"

The door slammed behind her as she ran out of the house faster than I'd ever seen her move before in my life.

"Aha!" Addie said, scooping Lucy into her arms, being careful of her wings. "Gotcha!" Lucy pecked her arm. "Hey, that's not nice!"

Aunt Bean stepped up to the back door, took in the mayhem with a widening gaze, then turned right around again.

Addie and I looked at each other, then started laughing as we struggled to hold on to the ducks. Finally, I motioned for her to follow me to the powder room, where we turned the ducks loose. When Ty finished unloading, we'd take them back outside.

Once we washed up, Addie started pulling sandwich fixins from the fridge, which redirected the dogs' attention, pulling them away from the back door. They stopped their barking and started licking their lips as they followed her around the kitchen. I patted Miney and Moe then checked on the kittens. My little one was peering up at me. She mewed and I picked her up, holding her to my chest. She pushed herself against my body and started rubbing her cheek against my shirt. She was a cuddler, whereas Addie's kitty seemed to be more of a climber.

I saw Aunt Bean peek through the back door again to see if the coast was clear before coming inside. Ty followed her, practically filling the whole doorway. His gaze landed on me, and he gave me a nod of greeting before turning his attention to the dogs who'd veered off from Addie long enough to get pats.

Bean headed for the powder room. "I'm going to freshen u—"

"No!" Addie and I shouted.

"The ducks are in there," Addie added. "You'll have to go upstairs."

Bean laughed as she climbed the steps. "Lordy mercy. It's been a day. The gate's closed so you can let them out now."

"I'll get them," I volunteered.

Ty stepped forward. "I can help."

I was happy to note I had no compulsion to argue that I could do it on my own. Then over Ty's shoulder, I saw Addie waggle her eyebrows and felt my arms itching as hives formed.

"But first, may I?" Ty asked, and it took me a second to realize he was gesturing to the kitten.

I handed her over, and our hands tangled up for a moment. I told myself I felt nothing in the touch. Certainly no skin-tingling sparks.

He held her against his broad chest as he walked her back to the playpen. "What's her name?"

"I haven't given her one yet. I'm having trouble coming up with one that fits." I scratched my arm and watched carefully how gently he rubbed under her chin. "She's just such a love bug I want the name to be perfect."

He carefully lowered her into the playpen, then pushed a crinkle ball in front of her. She batted it and he said, "Seems to me Lovebug is the perfect name. You can call her Bug for short, and then you'll always think of me. You know, if you end up keeping her." He straightened and gave me a grin, a full thousand-watt smile. His eyes twinkled.

As my heart jumped around, I mustered up my best scowl. "That name doesn't fit her at all."

"You'll come around," he said, walking toward the powder room, his laughter trailing playfully behind him.

And for some reason, in that moment, I believed him.

"So, you and Ty?" Addie said later on as she dragged a box across the attic floor. "Is it my imagination, or is something there?"

It was late afternoon, and sunlight spilled in from two small square windows, one set into the gable at the front of the house, and a matching one at the back.

Our luck had run out when it came to avoiding Aunt Bean's big inventory plans.

Addie and I had been in the attic for an hour and had barely made a dent in sorting—and we definitely hadn't discussed the itemization of it all. I could hardly allow myself to think about Aunt Bean's estate planning. And why she was adamant about completing it as soon as possible.

I thought about dodging Addie's question, but decided to answer as honestly as I could. "I don't know what's happening. I thought he didn't like me."

I used Aunt Bean's iPad to snap a photo of a plate with a cabbage rose pattern, then wrapped it back up and tucked it back into its box. I added a short description to the inventory spreadsheet she'd created just for this purpose.

Addie sat on her haunches, pulled open a box, and looked inside. "I suspect Aunt Bean's talk with Ty made him take a hard look in the mirror. He obviously didn't like what he saw."

"Maybe so," I said, thinking the starlight might've played a role as well. "I'd be happy if we could be friends."

I counted it a bright side that I had healed enough to even be open to the possibility.

"Only friends?" she asked, eyebrow raised.

In my mind, I kept seeing that twinkle in his eyes. But then, I recalled all the times he'd been rude. "I think it's best that way. The change in him was so abrupt I don't quite trust it."

"I get that. But sometimes we catch a glimpse of ourselves through someone else's eyes and it's a bit of a rude awakening. It creates a great big need to do everything possible to make up for any terrible, no-good behavior." She sat, pulling her knees to her chest. "It's a snap-to kind of moment. Shape up or ship out. Turn over a new leaf. Make a fresh start."

For each of the last three sentences, she'd used a different voice, varying from high and playful to low and droll, and I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. Her talent was truly extraordinary. And I was thrilled she was finally talking more, speaking in whole paragraphs instead of single sentences.

She laughed. "My brain is too tired to think of any other idioms that fit."

"It's been a long week."

"The longest."

As I studied her, all curled into herself, tucked up protectively, I suddenly noted that despite her laughter, she was uncomfortable with the conversation. With a start, I realized it wasn't just Ty she'd been talking about taking a hard look in the mirror.

She was also talking about herself .

She was all but confessing what had happened with her, with us , even though she'd already apologized. She was laying her heart bare, opening up like this.

Wait. Was that why she'd used the voices? To lighten the conversation, steering us away from the dark and back into the light?

"What?" she asked, tipping her head. "Do I have cobwebs in my hair?"

I stared as if seeing her for the first time, seeing the real her.

How long had she been doing it? Using this coping mechanism? I tried to remember when she'd first started doing impressions. Or giving her toys their own voices—creating characters. Or mimicking sounds to change the mood in a room, like the time Aunt Bean had burned dinner and was working herself into a fine tizzy. Addie, about twelve or thirteen at that point, had started whooping like some sort of air-raid siren, a dead-on imitation. The sound had dissolved the tension instantly.

She'd dissolved the tension.

Looking back, I realized she'd been using her voice as a distraction for as long as I could remember. She'd been avoiding heavy feelings, distancing emotion—especially negative emotions—since she was a tiny girl.

And as soon as I recognized it, my heart broke for her. Her mama had walked out. Our daddy died. She'd lost her best friend. Of course she wanted, needed , a distraction from the pain.

I longed to hug her, and just about laughed with happiness at the thought, because it was something the old me would want to do.

Her hands flew over her hair, over the tight bun. "Seriously, Tessa Jane, are there cobwebs?"

"No, you're good. I just got lost in a memory for a second."

"Thank goodness. Spiders. Ugh." She shuddered as if shaking off invisible bugs and pulled another box over to her. As she looked inside, she said, "Oh."

At her sad tone, I peeked in the box. It was full of old albums.

Our father's collection. He'd been a big fan of seventies and eighties rock—the music of his childhood. And because of his love of it, it then became the music of our childhoods.

I said, "I can hardly listen to Bob Dylan without tearing up."

"I once heard a Bruce Springsteen song in the grocery store and about fell to pieces. I had to abandon my buggy and make a run for it."

The album covers were worn, torn. The records had been well used and well loved. "He'd hate that these were up here, packed away."

Her green eyes were wet. "I'm not sure I can listen to them."

"Me either."

Grief was timeless. Limitless. Endless.

"Let's bring them downstairs at least," I said. "Baby steps."

She nodded.

I glanced around, wondering if any more of his belongings were up here. If so, I wasn't sure, emotionally, I could handle coming across them tonight. "I vote we call it a day, order in dinner, play with some kittens, and watch a movie with Aunt Bean."

"Seconded."

We quickly put the boxes we'd sorted in order, double-checked the spreadsheet, and stood up, stretching out the kinks and knots.

As we walked toward the stairs, above us came a series of thumps and loud scratching noises.

The starlings had landed on the rooftop.

Addie lowered her voice as if they could hear us and said, "I've never seen them hang around this long so close to the house."

"Me either."

We stood still for a moment, listening as the starlings shuffled about.

Addie shuddered again and started down the narrow staircase, the box of albums in hand. I followed, but at the top of the steps, I glanced over my shoulder when I heard the starlings cry out. There was a great rustling as they flew off, and I walked over to the square window that overlooked the backyard to see what had raised the alarm.

The starlings, silvery-black dots in the dusky sky, were headed toward the starlight crater—where I saw a light glittering in the distance, near the edge of the grassy bowl.

I squinted, trying to see better. The light, a pinpoint really, twinkled in the twilight.

'tis a spark

a twinkle

at daybreak

at first dark

a wink

a blink

"What was that about? Is anything out there?" Addie asked from the stairs.

"I'm not sure," I said, not mentioning the light.

And how it sparkled just like a diamond.