then pipe fresh frosting on in the morning. Even with those she’d still be behind with her freshly baked trademark flavors, no matter how early a start she got. She’d whipped up some of those frostings this evening, but everything else would have to be made fresh from scratch in the morning.
She should be in bed, sleeping. Not standing in the shop kitchen, experimenting with a pavlova roulade she didn’t need and couldn’t sell. But therapy was therapy, and she needed that, too.
Of course, she could be baking in her own little galley kitchen, where she’d at least have a bed close by. But her place hadn’t become home yet. It didn’t feel ... therapeutic, or haven-like. Yet. She spent all her time in the shop, happiest in the absolute haven of her first, very own professional kitchen ... so she hadn’t quite gotten around to doing much more than shoving in the stuff she’d shipped down from her tiny apartment in New York. It had hardly made a dent in her far more spacious, though still small, island cottage. At some point she needed to work on that, but beyond wondering how she could make the sandy soil into a vegetable garden the next spring, she hadn’t really given much thought to what she wanted to do. Most of her thoughts and all of her energy were spent on baking and developing her business.
Besides, this feels like home , she thought. Kitchens always had for her. Her earliest memories involved helping her mom make dinner in the little kitchen in their row house in D.C., and baking with her Grandma Winnie in her big country kitchen in Savannah. Growing up, kitchens were always warm, lively, happy environments, filled with the most heavenly scents, some of which she’d helped create with her very own hands. She’d loved everything about cooking, about baking, especially for others. The fulfillment, the innate joy of making something that brought such pleasure to those she loved had only deepened as time went on.
Lani smiled at the memories, knowing those were the kind of memories she wanted to make here, even as the thought of it made the ache in her heart bloom as she missed her mom all over again. Her mother would have loved Cakes By The Cup. Lani would have given anything to be able to bake with her right here. Grandma Winnie, too.
Char’s mixer abruptly stopped buzzing, jerking Lani from her thoughts. “So,” Charlotte said, “can’t you see that I might be right? I think he’s had feelings all along. Why not give him a chance to prove to you he means what he says? You’re understandably wary, but as you have that going in, you’ll be careful enough.”
Lani put the copper bowl down and leaned her hip against the stainless steel worktable. “And then what, Charlotte? What am I supposed to do? Have some sort of—fling—with him? I can’t do that.”
“Why on earth not? Last I checked you were both single, available, and now it seems, apparently willing. What’s to stop you?”
“The part of me he’s plucking at that’s not my head. The part that will get hurt.”
There was a pause and Lani braced for the mixer sound. Only it didn’t come.
“Right,” Charlotte said, at length. “You might have a point there.” The sound of a knife, rapidly cutting on a board came through the phone. “So ... it’s still that strong for you, is it?”
Lani didn’t answer. She was feeling foolish enough.
“When you saw him,” Charlotte asked, “right at the first, when you turned and saw him standing in your kitchen, your initial reaction ... what was it? That ball of dread? Or ... ?”
“Or,” Lani answered, then sighed.
“Oh, dear.”
“Why do you think I left New York? I mean, not entirely. I came here for my dad, but Char, we both know I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a big part of it.”
“You didn’t even see him much, once he started his television show.”
“Exactly. And nothing changed for me, nothing abated. It was like I couldn’t have a life because I was
She should be in bed, sleeping. Not standing in the shop kitchen, experimenting with a pavlova roulade she didn’t need and couldn’t sell. But therapy was therapy, and she needed that, too.
Of course, she could be baking in her own little galley kitchen, where she’d at least have a bed close by. But her place hadn’t become home yet. It didn’t feel ... therapeutic, or haven-like. Yet. She spent all her time in the shop, happiest in the absolute haven of her first, very own professional kitchen ... so she hadn’t quite gotten around to doing much more than shoving in the stuff she’d shipped down from her tiny apartment in New York. It had hardly made a dent in her far more spacious, though still small, island cottage. At some point she needed to work on that, but beyond wondering how she could make the sandy soil into a vegetable garden the next spring, she hadn’t really given much thought to what she wanted to do. Most of her thoughts and all of her energy were spent on baking and developing her business.
Besides, this feels like home , she thought. Kitchens always had for her. Her earliest memories involved helping her mom make dinner in the little kitchen in their row house in D.C., and baking with her Grandma Winnie in her big country kitchen in Savannah. Growing up, kitchens were always warm, lively, happy environments, filled with the most heavenly scents, some of which she’d helped create with her very own hands. She’d loved everything about cooking, about baking, especially for others. The fulfillment, the innate joy of making something that brought such pleasure to those she loved had only deepened as time went on.
Lani smiled at the memories, knowing those were the kind of memories she wanted to make here, even as the thought of it made the ache in her heart bloom as she missed her mom all over again. Her mother would have loved Cakes By The Cup. Lani would have given anything to be able to bake with her right here. Grandma Winnie, too.
Char’s mixer abruptly stopped buzzing, jerking Lani from her thoughts. “So,” Charlotte said, “can’t you see that I might be right? I think he’s had feelings all along. Why not give him a chance to prove to you he means what he says? You’re understandably wary, but as you have that going in, you’ll be careful enough.”
Lani put the copper bowl down and leaned her hip against the stainless steel worktable. “And then what, Charlotte? What am I supposed to do? Have some sort of—fling—with him? I can’t do that.”
“Why on earth not? Last I checked you were both single, available, and now it seems, apparently willing. What’s to stop you?”
“The part of me he’s plucking at that’s not my head. The part that will get hurt.”
There was a pause and Lani braced for the mixer sound. Only it didn’t come.
“Right,” Charlotte said, at length. “You might have a point there.” The sound of a knife, rapidly cutting on a board came through the phone. “So ... it’s still that strong for you, is it?”
Lani didn’t answer. She was feeling foolish enough.
“When you saw him,” Charlotte asked, “right at the first, when you turned and saw him standing in your kitchen, your initial reaction ... what was it? That ball of dread? Or ... ?”
“Or,” Lani answered, then sighed.
“Oh, dear.”
“Why do you think I left New York? I mean, not entirely. I came here for my dad, but Char, we both know I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a big part of it.”
“You didn’t even see him much, once he started his television show.”
“Exactly. And nothing changed for me, nothing abated. It was like I couldn’t have a life because I was
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