Chapter Four --

 

By ten, I was almost feeling human again. My shoulder hurt like hell and it was hard to raise it up to my chest, but I had the Henslacker wedding on Saturday. That cake wasn’t going to bake itself. I tried to figure out how I was going to manage the decorations on that cake. We were supposed to have one hundred tiny honeybees on that cake, along with an assortment of fondant flowers. I had made the little bees last week and stored them. I hadn’t started the edible blossoms. Maybe I could substitute gumpaste flowers from a supplier. That meant I only had to bake the cake and cover it with the fondant. If we adjusted the pattern of the icing, Walter and I could still provide the Henslackers with a cake that wouldn’t disappoint. I turned on my laptop, and with my left index finger, tapped in an order for what I would need from Sugar Art. I doubled the number of flower sprays, thinking that if any broke, I still would have enough to be able to finish the cake without any gaping holes in the design. The leftover sprays could be used on someone else’s cake, so it wouldn’t be a loss for me. I paid extra for the expedited shipping, but it was worth it to know they would arrive within two days.

Tara and her mother had also ordered my celebration cookie bags as guest favors. We would need to bake and decorate ten dozen white chocolate-covered, wedding bell-shaped almond shortbread cookies. I was fairly confident that Walter and Darlene could prepare the dough and do the cutouts for that. Daisy was actually pretty adept with icing, despite her youth, so I would give her the opportunity as calligrapher on the project, as promised. With my injured arms, I might be able to manage the white chocolate bath for each cookie, but I didn’t think I was up to much more. At least we had a reasonable plan that I thought we could use, so I wrote down my notes, ingredients, and recipes, to share with the baking team.

Once that was done, I picked up the phone to call Mary Sue Therkauf, my insurance agent. She promised to get me fixed up with a rental, have the damaged van examined and appraised, and to arrange for the repairs to be made. About twenty minutes after I hung up, she phoned me back.

“The police will be in touch with you later today to get your statement. There were plenty of witnesses, who all said Daisy was not at fault. They still haven’t identified the driver. I heard you two really got hit hard.”

“You did?” I was surprised that news traveled that fast. Then again, this was Old Saybrook.

“You were lucky. According to what folks told the cops, that guy came out of nowhere, Cady. Several people said it almost looked like he was aiming at your van. Any disgruntled boyfriends lurking in the shadows? Customers who didn’t like the cake you baked?”

“Not to my knowledge,” I laughed nervously.

“Must have been a freak thing, then.”

“Must have been.”

Officer Renquist stopped by at eleven-thirty to ask me some questions and take down my statement. She wrote it out for me, since I was in no shape to do it myself, but insisted I sign the statement. Groaning at the effort, I complied.

“You were lucky,” she told me. “There were a lot of witnesses. We got a couple of descriptions of the driver and a partial license plate. We might get lucky and catch the guy.”

“Might?”

“The chances are decent. The funny thing is all the witnesses insist the driver seemed to hit the van deliberately. Do you have an ex with a grudge?”

“My ex is in Taos, with the new love interest. And before you ask, he dumped me.”

“Oh.” For a moment, I saw doubt in her serious brown eyes.

“No, it’s not like that. The torch was extinguished the moment the guy decided the grass was greener on the other side of the pasture. He’s just not worth it. I don’t want him back. She can have him.”

“I hear you,” said Officer Renquist, with a knowing nod and a wink. “Men. Can’t live with ‘em and can’t chain ‘em to the dog house when they’re bad. You just have to move on.”

“Who needs that kind of heartache at my age?” I asked her. “It’s just too much work for too little reward.”

“You got that right, sister,” she laughed. I escorted her to the front door and saw her out.

The phone rang at quarter to twelve. It was Carole, reporting in.

“We’re fine here, Cady. It’s been a decent morning. I’m calling to see if you plan to come in and if so, arrange for someone to pick you up.”

“I would like to come in,” I agreed. “I’m feeling a little better and I have to get ready for that wedding on Saturday.”

“Okay,” said Carole. “I’m sending someone over to pick you up.”

“Oh, but I don’t want to take anyone away from the shop,” I told her. “We’re usually really busy at noontime.”

“Not to worry. Daisy’s here, making coffee, Darlene’s handling the baked goods, and I’m on the cash register.”

“You can’t afford to lose Walter in the kitchen,” I insisted.

“I’m not sending Walter. One of the customers is going to pick you up. He’s been pitching in all morning.”

I couldn’t imagine which one of Cady’s Cakes regulars that might be. I was about to ask when Carole cut me off.

“Oops! Customers. Got to go. See you when you get here!” she called out cheerfully as she hung up on me.

I decided to get dressed, not wanting to be caught unaware by my volunteer driver. I slipped on a pair of my black exercise leggings, knowing they were easy to pull on and off. Even if they were cropped just below the knee, they were functional and I needed that more than I needed to look like a million bucks. I threw on an oversized black-and-red striped top over the leggings, cinched it at the waist with a black belt, and then added a pair of red ankle socks rolled down at the top and a pair of my chef clogs. All that I needed was my hair in braids and I could pass for Pippi Longstocking. Either that or some deranged “Glee” wannabe.

Once I was presentable, I grabbed up my pocketbook, my tablet, and my house keys and put them on the coffee table in the living room, ready to go. As I waited, I dug my makeup bag out of my purse and took a seat at the kitchen counter. I pulled out my compact mirror and propped it against the side of my antique cookie jar, so I wouldn’t have to hold it. Reaching into the bag, I found my eye shadow and flipped it open. I picked up the little stick with the foam pad and leaned in towards my makeshift makeup table. Carefully swiping my eyelids with color as I followed my progress in the tiny mirror, I then sat up and looked for my eyeliner. I started to follow the shape of my lower lid. That’s when the doorbell rang. With the speed of Mrs. Wiggins in an old Carol Burnett skit, I crossed the room to greet my driver.

“Morning.” It was the gnome with the green eyes. He had traded in his oversized raincoat for a down vest, which he wore over a black turtleneck, a fisherman’s sweater, and a pair of faded jeans. On his feet, he wore a pair of black hiking boots. Looking at him, I couldn’t help thinking that he was the real-life version of the outdoor man in Ralph Lauren ads.

“You! What are you doing here?” Even I heard the accusatory note in my voice and flinched.

“Does that mean you’re happy to see me?” he wanted to know, one eyebrow lifted in curiosity.

“I’m sorry. I was expecting someone else.” Anyone else. Even Mrs. Pritchard, Old Saybrook’s most notorious driver. She never went faster than twenty-five miles an hour, even on Route 9. The cops gave up pulling her over with warnings about traveling too slowly.

“Disappointed?” He tilted his head, watching me with intense eyes that burned slow and hot, giving off steady heat.

“No,” I insisted, suddenly feeling shy. I reached for a more gracious tone. “No. I was waiting for my ride to the shop. What are you doing here?”

“I’m your ride to the shop,” he announced matter-of-factly, with what seemed to be some healthy measure of satisfaction.

“Oh.” I was stunned.

“You have a mark on your face,” he told me, striding across the living room and taking a tissue from the box on the end table. “Let me get that.”

“That’s not necessary. I can do it.” Leaning over the mirror again, I could see the black line, but when I started to raise my right hand to wipe it away, the pain was excruciating.

“Ready to say ‘uncle’ yet?” He stood three feet from me, tissue waving like a white flag. “I promise not to bite your head off.”

“I always do my own makeup,” I tried to explain.

“Well, if you want makeup done right, you’ll have to accept my help. Either that, or go without.”

Without makeup? The thought was impalpable. But turning over my eyeliner to a stranger was equally daunting.

“Pretend I’m a surgeon and I’m going to fix you up,” he told me. Reluctantly, I handed him the crayon. He gently drew the lines above and below my lids before handing it back and picking up the mirror to show me his handiwork. “How’s that? Okay? Now what?”

“Mascara.” I pointed to the tube on the counter. “I usually just do the tips. And I hate clumps.”

He carefully stroked the tips of the lashes, used a finger to blot a clump of black goo, and then used the brush to fluff them up, All said and done, he did a decent job on my eyes. I wouldn’t be a walking ad for a zombie when I got to the shop.

“Lipstick?”

“Lip gloss,” I corrected him. There was a tube of Maybelline Misty Pink in my makeup bag.

“I’ve always wanted to know the difference between lipstick and lip gloss,” he told me. I could see the tiny hairs on his masculine hand as he swiped my lips with the wand.

“I have no clue. I only know that my lips don’t get chapped when I use lip gloss. Shall we go?” I asked him, as he put the makeup back into its sack, put it in my pocketbook, and picked up the tablet and the keys. “Can you please put the tablet into the side pocket?”

“Handy. What about a coat?”

“Oh,” I groaned. Putting on the big shirt had been painful, and the thought of slipping my arms into a coat was almost more than I could bear.

“Where’s your closet?” he demanded. Spying a door to the left of the entry, he quickly opened it and began digging through the hanging items. He examined a couple of choices before pulling out an old swing coat in raspberry wool.

“How’s this? You can wear it as a cape, so you don’t have to put your arms through the sleeves.”

“But it’s pink!” I made a face.

“What’s more important, being color-coordinated or being comfortable?” When I hesitated to answer, he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “Okay. Suffer if you must.”

Three coats later, I settled on my tan microfiber parka, which he draped around my shoulders. I started towards the front door when I heard him address me in that rough tone again.

“You have your prescription?”

“What?” Turning, I looked at those fierce eyes, unsettled by what I saw.

“Your pills. Do you have them with you?”

“Oh, no. They’re in the bedroom.”

“I’ll get them.” Before I could protest, he had gone up the staircase, returning triumphantly a moment later, bottle in hand.

“How did you know I had a prescription?” I wondered.

“I was a medic, remember?” That rigid look came back to his face. “I used to have to give these to guys who were injured all the time. You don’t want to skip a dose. It’ll create problems for you. What are you supposed to take for the swelling?”

“Advil.”

“Where is that?” he asked.

“Powder room, on the sink.”

Once again he headed down the hall, reemerging a moment later with the bottle. Everything was tucked into my pocketbook, which he shouldered, and then he escorted me out of the condo, locking the door behind us.

“I don’t even know your name,” I told him.

“You can call me Doc.”

“Doc?”

“That’s my nickname.”

“What’s your real name?”

“I stopped using that a long time ago,” he acknowledged.

“Why?” That slipped out before I could stop myself. I heard him draw a breath before he answered.

“Dermot Ayotte.”

“Wow. That’s a mouthful,” I commiserated.

“I left that life behind when I went into the Army. Now I’m Doc. Any more questions?” The tone warned me off, so I dropped it. But it made me wonder who Doc really was and what he was like before the Army claimed him.

He led me across the parking lot of the Soundings to an old, beat-up green van. When he opened the door, I stuck my head in, wondering what I was getting myself into by accepting a ride from this stranger. There were two bucket seats up front and an empty cargo space in the back. I could see a couple of duffle bags, a sleeping bag, an inflatable twin mattress, and what looked like a tent sack. Doc was a camper. Even though the outside was showing wear and tear, the interior of the van was neat and tidy, the seats clean and uncluttered, the cup holders empty.

“Let me give you a hand up,” he insisted, as I studied the step I would have to navigate to climb in. Without warning, his hands took hold of my waist and I could feel his breath on my cheek. “Okay. Duck your head and step up. I’ve got you.”

Once I was in the van, he reached across me and pulled my seat belt into place, clicking the metal fastener into its receptacle. Then he carefully closed my door and disappeared momentarily. I waited, somewhat nervously. I wasn’t used to letting strangers take over my life like this. I hoped he was as careful with his driving as he was with his van. It didn’t really matter how friendly he was. I just wanted to get to the shop in one piece.