be happier if you’d quit trying to convince my customers that your desserts will get them great sex. I’m starting to feel like I should be wearing a purple pimp fedora to sell cookies.”
“A lot of them are asking for special treats, are they?”
“Way too many.” Lark rolled her eyes.
“New customers?” Heather asked, her voice muffled because her head was in the supply cupboard.
“Absolute strangers, people who’ve never come in before. Last week a busload from the ski resort stopped in. It’s crazy.” Lark took the stack of paper to-go cups from her aunt, waiting for the other woman to get to her feet before adding, “It’s like you took out an ad or something.”
She stopped talking when she saw the triumphant look flash across Heather’s face.
“What?”
“So my fun with baking is helping your business. Even better than an ad, I’ll bet.”
Sara dropped the cups on the counter so her hands were free to slap on her hips.
“You did that on purpose? Why?” She waved her hands in the air. “No, no. Don’t tell me why. Just tell me why you didn’t tell me in the first place.”
Heather frowned, blinked, then shook her head.
“What?”
Lark rubbed her hand over her hair as if the move would soothe her frazzled brain.
“You apparently put the word out that your baked goods were laced with an extra dose of come-do-me. You obviously did that to bring more business into the coffeehouse. Which I appreciate.” Didn’t she? Lark scrunched up her nose, then decided to mentally debate the merits of higher sales versus the irritation of having a slew of people asking if caffeine would dull the sexual buzz. “I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me what you were doing, though.”
“You’d have told me to stop,” Heather said matter-of-factly as she took over putting the to-go cups in their place.
“Of course I’d have told you to stop.” Unable to stand still, Lark turned to pace, then realized that there was no room behind the counter. “We sell coffee. Not happy hard-ons.”
“Here, refill the straws,” Heather suggested, handing over a box.
Lark dumped them in the glass jar by the self-serve station, then, box in hand, started pacing. It wasn’t until her second turn that she realized her aunt had sent her out here so she could walk through her thoughts.
“Why?” she asked, stopping midstride to turn to face Heather.
“You’re not happy here,” her aunt said quietly. “As much as I want to keep you here with me, I know it’s not your place.”
Lips trembling, eyes burning, Lark stared at the wall of mugs until she was sure she wouldn’t break down.
“It was Mom’s place,” she finally said.
“Yes, for as long as it would have lasted.” Heather waved her hand to indicate time flying by. “Raine was a butterfly. She’d landed here and might have stayed for a while. But before here she was in Seattle. Before that in San Francisco. Before that...well, you know all of those befores because you were still living with her.”
“Itchy feet,” Lark murmured. Because her own feet were feeling a little shaky, she dropped into a chair. “I went to fourteen different schools before applying to the Academy of Arts.”
“Proudest day of Raine’s life was when you graduated with those degrees in Fine Art and Ceramics. She used to say she was glad to see all those years of making mud pies to serve with your porcelain tea set were put to good use,” Heather said, her tone making it clear that she’d been just as proud. Then her features shifted from fond to stern. “So you know that your mother would want you to still be putting it to good use.”
Lark had to swallow twice to get the words past the lump in her throat. But finally, she said, “And selling baked goods with sexual properties is going to do that?”
“Well, it can’t hurt,” Heather said, tapping the display case. “And if that doesn’t do it, I’ll step it up. I found some lovely silicone bakeware in the shapes of busty breasts and well-endowed penises.”
“Oh God.” Lark dropped her head into her hands. “I’m going to need a fur-lined trench coat to go with the pimp hat.”
HEATHER’S WORDS WERE still playing through Lark’s mind when she closed the coffeehouse at six. She’d been obsessing over their conversation, replaying it in her mind for the past few hours. But she still didn’t know how she felt about it.
It was sweet of her aunt to try to help out. And the increase in customers had definitely impacted the bottom line. But that didn’t mean that Raine would have wanted Lark back in San Francisco, hobnobbing with the artsy crowds, throwing clay for a living and attending gallery galas to celebrate her latest ceramics show.
As she cleaned the coffee and tea machines, she tried to imagine herself living that life again. But she couldn’t see it. In part because her circle of friends there not only included her ex-boyfriend, his new wife and, of course, the three good friends who’d just had to send Lark pictorial proof of Eric’s infidelity.
More, because she didn’t feel as if she fit in that life any longer. But Heather was right—she didn’t really fit here, either. She felt like a square peg wandering around a world of round holes.
But fit or not, she was stuck in this round hole for however long it took to climb out of the financial hole she was in. Or, since there was no way she was selling the coffeehouse to Paul to tear down, maybe she could find a buyer who would pay what it was worth and keep her mom’s dream alive. Lark moved on to wiping down tables, her shoulders drooping a little as she tried to imagine where she’d go, what she’d do.
But her imagination wouldn’t cooperate.
Because underneath it all was the simple fact that when she left The Magic Beans, when she moved away from Little Lake, she’d be saying goodbye to her mom. Again.
And she wasn’t ready for that.
She was wiping down the last table when she heard a tapping on the glass.
“Sara,” she exclaimed as she unlocked and opened the door. She was surprised to see her since the younger woman knew the coffeehouse closed early during the week. “Did we have plans that I forgot about? Or are you jonesing for an after-hours caffeine fix?”
“Neither. I’m here about the apartment. The one upstairs next to yours. You said I could put something in it this week, remember?” Sara’s words were as upbeat and bouncy as her movements as she danced into the coffeehouse.
“Yeah, sure,” Lark said, exchanging her sponge for the broom. The second floor housed two fully furnished apartments. Lark had taken one for herself when her mom died. The other was usually rented out, but the
