Soaring (Magdalene #2)(12)
Author: Kristen Ashley

When Alyssa came by to drop off her items and she caught sight of some of the things I was letting go, I also sent Alyssa home with two boxes of free stuff she had to have. We had a good-natured fight over the fact I wouldn’t let her pay for any of it but she only gave in because she left three filled boxes that she intended to pick up on the big day and pay for, which she’d marked on the sides with a Sharpie, “Alyssa’s, touch and you’ll be hunted! Dig me?”

During this time, I let my children be.

* * * * *

Two days before the house sale, I texted the kids to remind them it was happening and again to invite them to come if they wanted.

* * * * *

They didn’t reply.

Chapter Three

Clean Palette

The evening before the house sale, I was in my kitchen, running on empty.

I was ready…mostly.

There were items all over the place with some stacked at the doors to put out in the front yard and on the deck. These items were arranged (and then rearranged, and in some cases re-rearranged) so they were displayed attractively. They all had price tags. There were signs directing folks to rooms with more stuff for sale.

And I was in the kitchen baking.

I’d found some cute plastic bags with happy designs on the sides at a craft store that I’d decided to put my snickerdoodles in and then tied them with big, bright extravagant bows. Same with my chocolate chip cookies. Also with peanut butter cookies with mini Reese’s cups shoved in. They were lying all over the countertop, on tiered plates (plates that were for sale) or on platters (also for sale).

They were all bagged, tagged and ready.

And I was currently working on my meringue-frosting-topped cupcakes with pastel flower sprinkles. Cupcakes that were delicious, but with that glossy dollop of white icing decorated with sprinkles, they were also kid magnets.

I’d sell out of those in fifteen minutes.

Guaranteed.

I’d made big vats of lemonade and iced tea I was going to put in my fancy crystal (for sale) and not-as-fancy-but-still-fancy glass (also for sale) drink dispensers. I had bottles of water chilling in the fridge in the garage with bags of ice in both my freezers that I was going to put into attractive buckets and also sell.

Now, it was eight o’clock and I’d been going nonstop since the day before—no, actually for the last week.

I’d dropped into bed the night before at midnight. But I needed to go to bed that night and I’d needed to do that two hours ago.

Instead, I was arranging glossy frosting blobs on cupcakes and I had a dozen more in the oven baking.

Those were the last ones.

Then I’d get a glass of wine, a shower and hit my bed.

If after that last dozen I had all that in me.

On this thought, my doorbell rang and for once, I didn’t exult in the beautiful chimes.

No, I fought the urge to throttle whatever late-arriving mom of a budding boxer who was going to dump a load of crap that I had to tag and arrange after eight o’clock the night prior to the big day that we’d advertised I was opening my doors at seven in the morning.

I dropped the spoon in the bowl and made my way to the door, seeing through the shadowed panes there was more than one body out there and one of them was not a mom of a budding boxer, but the dad of one.

That figured and I should have known.

Men didn’t know any better.

I flipped the locks, opening the door arranging my features so they were pleasant, not murderous, and then completely arrested.

“Hey,” Mickey Donovan greeted, standing at my door looking unfairly attractive in a pair of faded jeans, a beat up chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up his sinewy forearms, another five o’clock shadow adorning his strong jaw.

He had two other beings with him, two beings I didn’t take in because first, Mickey was grinning, second, he looked unfairly attractive in his casual clothing, and third, he was holding a huge box filled with stuff I knew I would need to tag and arrange, which meant wine and shower were out. It was going to be tag, arrange and bed.

“Jesus, did heaven crash into your living room?”

I moved but only to blink.

“I’m sorry?” I asked.

“Amelia, darlin’, whatever you’re doin’ in there smells like it could only come from the hand of God.”

Wow.

That felt good. So good. Unusually good.

Abnormally good.

And it felt good because I loved to bake. I’d fallen in love with it all the way back in junior high school home economics class.

However, when I’d taken over my parents’ vast kitchen in order to enjoy my newfound hobby, my mother moved immediately to curtail these activities.

“We have staff to do that kind of thing, Amelia,” she’d rebuked. “Not to mention, a lady should do all in her power to shy away from sweets.”

Unfortunately, years later, when these tethers were severed and I might have been freed to bake at my leisure, more were tied because Conrad had felt the same.

“You’re gonna give me a gut, little bird,” he’d told me after the second time I’d baked him cookies. He’d then given me a meaningful look. “And you want to avoid getting one too.”

I thought, when the kids came, I could indulge, kids being kids and liking cookies and glossy, frosting-topped cupcakes with sprinkles.

But I’d been wrong. Conrad had acted like any sugar they consumed was akin to feeding our children poison.

In fact, he told me it was poison, “And should be avoided at all costs, pookie.”

Thus I’d been reduced to sneaking them cupcakes, cookies, pies and cakes when their dad was away at conferences.

Other than that, I’d buried that part of me.

And I had to admit, when I’d started baking hours ago, no matter how tired I was, I’d lost myself in it.

It was just that now the fatigue had settled deep, I wasn’t enjoying it as much.

Regardless, Mickey was right. The house smelled like a bakery. Sugary and sweet.

And heavenly.

Thus I decided right then I was going to bake again. For me. For the kids.

In fact, the next time they came maybe I’d get them to stay home and in my presence for more than five minutes, bribing them with cupcakes.

“Earth calling Amelia. You there, babe?”

I shook my head sharply and focused on Mickey, who was calling me, laughter in his deep voice, that and his saying my name with that laughter doing things to me I refused to feel.

“Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

“I bet it has,” he murmured, his eye on me dancing (something I refused to see). He hefted the box in his arms an inch. “Junior called, said the big day was tomorrow. You didn’t tell me.”