Poppy
My shock factor soared when I bought a hearse. People stared whenever I rolled down the road in Tallulah, especially after I added the fire decals. A not-so-subtle warning that I’m hell on wheels.
It’s easier to be shocking than likable, at least in my experience. So, instead of smiling at strangers and learning the “art” of small talk, I stomped through life with my combats boots, making as much noise as possible despite my small feet. I dressed in all black, my accessories heavy, loud, and plentiful.
Why? Because I want to make people feel. Shock, annoyance, curiosity, the emotion doesn’t matter as long as it’s strong. After all, emotions are the only thing separating us from the AI robots. I don’t always go for shock. Most of my sculptures are about losing my dad as a kid, the heartbreaking duality of grief and love. I put my softer feelings into my art and saved the rest for the world at large.
Unfortunately, I’ve struggled for inspiration lately, and all those soft feelings have knotted into a big ball of annoyance. My small studio, aka the shed in our backyard, was usually my sanctuary. Not so much anymore. The electric heater grated my nerves, the incessant hum an unrelenting reminder that only it was working.
I sure as hell wasn’t. The clay on my worktable looked the same as when I scooped it from the bucket a half hour ago. Normally, I saw a piece in my mind before I touched the clay. It felt like the sculpture was already inside, waiting for me to carve it out. For the past few weeks, the lump of clay has just been a lump.
I played with the zipper on my fleece-lined hoodie. Despite its persistence, the heater hadn’t quite squelched the chill. At least the zipper cut the monotonous hum. Up, down. Up, down. Until the sound added to my irritation.
I grabbed my clay knife and stabbed the lump. The handle sticking from the blob was the closest thing to art I’d created in weeks. I could call it Death to Inspiration. I gave the old lazy Susan I stole from Mom a solid spin and watched the knife whirl around. Nope, still not art.
Fuck it. No sense wasting time I didn’t have. I wiped the knife clean on a cloth and dumped the clay back into an airtight bucket, so it’d be ready to torture me another day. I switched off the heater and relished the silence a moment before I tromped across the brittle grass to the house, my breath forming angry little clouds with every step. The kitchen light cast a warm glow across the gray afternoon and my dark mood. Rowan darted past the window on her way to and from the pantry, preparing for her second baking sprint of the day. Fifteen minutes with an icing bag and my sister was just what I needed to feel better.
By the time I opened the back door, Rowan had already taken her place in the small corner between the stove and the sink. “Back already,” she called as she measured from one of the extracts lined up on the counter like a battalion awaiting her commands. She might as well have been using a pipet for how exact she measured.
“Cookies won’t ice themselves.” I unlaced my combat boots and put them on the waterproof mat Mom insisted everyone use. My Oscar the Grouch socks sneered up at me while I wiggled out of my hoodie. The kitchen felt like a sauna after the studio and smelled like brown sugar and bacon from whatever Rowan had in the oven. Mom’s old appliances barely got a rest these days. I ran cold, so I knew I’d be comfortable in a few minutes, but Rowan stood closer to the stove and looked in serious need of an iced beverage.
I washed my hands at the sink before I headed to the prep table to decorate the snowflake cookies Rowan baked earlier. Mom gifted us the large stainless-steel table for Christmas and let us put it in the space where the kitchen table used to be. I laid out decorating bags, piping tips, food coloring, edible glitter, pearl dust, and enough royal icing to drown my bad mood. When I had everything ready, I tucked my short hair behind my ears and got to work.
My love of all things shocking started with my hair. In the ten years since middle school, I’d worn it every color except my natural red. To be fair, that first dye job was less about shocking people and more an attempt to limit comparisons to my perfect older sister.
Rowan got straight A’s, never spent time in the principal’s office, and never, ever complained. So instead of repeating everything Rowan did, only three years after she did it and not as well, I made it obvious we were nothing alike. Despite my best efforts, my face could still unlock her phone.
The similarity stopped at the physical. I’m goth to her girlie. Blunt to her charming. Sarcastic to her sweet. I should have hated my sister on principle, but the bitch was too nice, too supportive, too Rowan to be anything but loveable. Which meant I was unlovable.
I guess my family loved me, but that’s hardwired in their DNA. A few friends tolerated me in small doses, but real love, the kind that changed a person for the better, wasn’t something I inspired. Just ask all my ex-boyfriends. I hold the dubious honor of being dumped by each and every person I’ve dated.
I eased into a rhythm while I worked. The muscles in my neck, then shoulders, relaxed as I squeezed all my frustration into the piping bag. I tried out different icing colors and designs before settling on one I liked.
“Have you made your New Year’s resolutions yet?” Rowan asked.
“I don’t believe in them,” I said, putting the finishing touches on the snowflake I wanted to copy for the rest.
Rowan wiped her arm across her forehead and joined me at the table. “Resolutions can be helpful.”
“You want to change? Do it. Why wait until the weather’s crappy and the sun sets before dinner?” I held out the cookie and admired how the pearl dust made it shimmer like a real snowflake. I preferred the dust’s subtle sparkle to the edible glitter I’d tried on another cookie.
“Wow, that looks incredible,” Rowan said, leaning over my shoulder.
My chest warmed at her compliment, but I shrugged and put the cookie on a wire rack to dry. “So, what are your resolutions?” I asked as Rowan cracked open the window over the sink.
The cold breeze made goosebumps rise on my arms, but I didn’t say anything. I could always put my hoodie back on. Rowan was down to a pair of shorts and a tank top and still flushed.
“To find a place for Red Blossoms Bakery since we can’t keep operating out of Mom’s kitchen. And to marry Cal, of course.”
My sister got that dopey, lovestruck look she’d been sporting for half a year, and I mimed gagging. Truth was, I couldn’t wait for the wedding.
Talk about inspiring a love that changes a person. Rowan had turned our fuckboy neighbor Cal into a doting fiancé in less than four months and grew her own backbone in the process. Metaphorically speaking. Her real back was still shot from an accident that happened last summer, which was how she got tangled with Dr. Caleb Cardoso in the first place.
Caring and unquestionably hot, Cal was a perfect match for my sweet sister. Which unfortunately meant Cal’s best friends had become regular fixtures in my life. Aiden O’Malley was an ass of epic proportions. I’d rather let my hair grow out my natural color than date him. But I’d had a full-blown crush on Theo Makris long before Rowan and Cal got together.
Nope. I wasn’t thinking about Theo. I was icing cookies. Lots and lots of cute, identical snowflakes. I laid out a dozen and iced the same portion white before switching to a bag of silver to add details, keeping them all the same. As usual, the simple repetition relaxed me enough for my mind to wander.
There was nothing cookie cutter about Theo. Tall, chiseled, and covered in tattoos and piercings, he looked exactly like every other bad boy I’d ever dated, but unlike my exes, the badness stopped at his spiky exterior. He’s thoughtful, kind, and unbelievably talented. In other words, a damn unicorn of a man.
We’d grown close when I took his art class last winter, months before Rowan moved back to town after her first marriage ended in spectacular fashion. I’d hinted to Theo I’d be down for more. I’d outright flirted. I’d done everything except straddle him, but I’ve been frozen in the friend zone for over a year.
The holidays were brutal. Cal only has his parents, and Theo only has Cal’s family, so of course, Mom insisted we all celebrate together. I suffered through Thanksgiving turkey dinner, Christmas pancake brunch, and New Year’s Eve apps where I received a one-arm bro hug from Theo at midnight. A lady has limits. Even me. So I’d set a secret New Year’s resolution: Stop lusting after Theo Makris.
Step one: Try not to think about him. (Clearly, that was going to take some work.)
Step two: Spend less time with him. I figured I could limit my Theo intake to a couple times a week, in the context where he belonged: teaching art classes.
“Do you think our price point is too low for those cookies?” Rowan asked, without turning from the dough she was kneading. “They seem time intensive.”
They were only time intensive with all the details I’d added, and right now the repetitive work was exactly what I wanted. “I doubt anyone would pay more than we’re already charging for sugar cookies, no matter how pretty they are.”
“They would for custom orders,” she said, turning to face me. She got that look in her eyes that meant she’d be researching the hell out of custom cookies later. I knew without researching they’d fit within her twenty-page business plan because who wouldn’t pay more for something uniquely theirs?
“Are there cookies?” my brother Chris asked, bounding into the kitchen and grabbing one of my perfectly iced snowflakes. My kid brother could demolish a dozen baked goods in ten minutes flat.
“Were you listening at the door like a creeper?” I slapped his hand when he reached for a second cookie on the rack and pointed to my pile of castoffs.
Chris shrugged. With his dark hair and massive height, he looked so much like our dad, I sometimes wondered if he’d gotten any genes from our mother. “I was in the dining room trying to calm down Mom.”
Rowan shot a worried glance at the dining room door. “Maybe I should make her some tea.”
“Better yet, pour some rum in a teacup,” I said. “There’s a bottle under the sink.”
Rowan scrunched her forehead. “What’s it doing under the sink?”
“You’d have to ask Mom,” I said, laying out another row of plain cookies. “The rest of the liquor is there too, but rum looks the most like tea.”
Chris laughed and grabbed the snowflake with edible glitter. “I wondered where she stashed it.”
Rowan put her hands on her hips in a perfect imitation of our mother. “Christopher Stevens, did Mom catch you drinking?”
My sixteen-year-old brother wasn’t a saint, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d never take alcohol from Mom. He’d been old enough to remember the punishment I got seven years ago when I snuck into the liquor cabinet my junior year of high school. It’d taken two toothbrushes, but the kitchen and bathrooms had never been so clean.
“If I wanted to drink, I’d just ask Aiden to buy me beer.”
Rowan fisted her hands at her sides.
I glared at Chris. “He said if, Rowan.” He got the message and nodded. “Mom hosted Bible study last week.”
“Ah,” Rowan said, and her shoulders visibly relaxed.
Chris pressed his lips together and did his best not to laugh. “Bible study” was what Mom and her friends called their weekly gatherings where they’d read a Psalm and spend the rest of the evening drinking wine, discussing romance novels, and watching reality TV before stumbling home. If my sister didn’t spend all her nights down the street at Cal’s house, she’d know the booze was under the sink because Mom was hiding it from herself as part of her Whole 30 challenge. It was still best to change the subject.
“If I must make a New Year’s resolution, I guess I could curse less, especially in public and in front of Mom,” I said. “Try to be more ladylike. I also second finding a space for the bakery.”
Chris looked around the cramped kitchen and nodded. Three ten-inch rounds cooled by the sink. The island held dozens of cupcakes waiting to be filled, then frosted. Rowan only had her small corner of counter space to make the rest of the desserts we needed before tomorrow’s deliveries. Not to mention, the health inspector had looked a little flustered during our initial inspection last fall. We cleaned the kitchen to exacting standards, but it was still a private home.
“Well, I might as well resolve to kick ass on the SATs,” Chris said. He sauntered to the cabinet under the sink, pushed aside the Drano, and grabbed a bottle of Captain Morgan.
Rowan took the bottle from him and poured a couple shots into a teacup then pushed through the swinging door to the dining room.
I slapped Chris’s hand with a flat-edge frosting knife when he reached for one of my identical iced cookies after he’d taken down all the castoffs. “Stop that.”
“Please, Pop,” he said, giving me those annoying puppy dog brown eyes.
I shoved an uniced cookie at him as Rowan returned with the teacup. She threw it back and swallowed.
“Dr. Evers should have given her a Xanax,” Rowan said, adding the cup to the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. “I can’t stand seeing her so upset.”
Mom had maintained a fear of all things medical since Dad died. I couldn’t blame her. I’m terrified of needles after watching all those IVs shoved in Dad’s arms, but Mom’s fear was next level. She broke into a cold sweat any time she entered a doctor’s office, which was why Dr. Evers started making house calls for her. When Rowan was in the hospital last year after getting hit by a Segway—true story—she waited to tell us until after she’d been released. That’s how much my sister hated seeing our mom upset.
Chris gave Rowan’s shoulders a squeeze. “Just stay back here, Ann. I got Mom.”
Rowan’s eyes looked a little misty as she watched him push through the door.
“That rum must be hitting you fast,” I said.
She shook her head. “He isn’t a little boy anymore.”
“Hasn’t been for a while.”
“I’m so glad I’m here for his last years of high school.”
“Me too,” I said, feeling my own throat tighten. Damn it. There was no reason for me to get choked up. A year ago, Rowan lived with her shitty soon-to-be-ex-husband in DC and worked at a boring finance company while I suffered through shifts as a barista at my friend Lauren’s café and bookshop, Karma. Now my sister was back in Peace Falls, and we’d launched our dream business together. Sure, she’d practically moved in with Cal, and Chris was now a high school football star who had little time for his sisters, but I liked having time alone. Really.
I cleared my throat and my mind and fell into a rhythm with the piping.
“When does your class start?” Rowan asked, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. She knew I liked Theo, and being the perfect sister, she’d done everything in her power to encourage him to make a move. I felt a little sorry for Aiden. In the past few months, Rowan had planned countless romantic outings for Cal, herself, Theo, and me, leaving him out.
“Thursday.”
“Are you looking forward to it?” she asked cautiously. “The class.”
“Of course. It’s art,” I said and glared at her.
Rowan took the hint and started washing dishes.
When I finished the cookies, I got to work on a three-layer cake for Cal. I needed the crumb coat to set overnight before I covered it in fondant. Rowan had whipped up a chai buttercream that smelled so good my mouth watered.
“What time do you need the fondant tomorrow?” Rowan asked as she dumped sugar into her massive mixer to start the rest of the frosting I needed for the cupcakes. Most men would be in the doghouse for gifting their fiancée a kitchen appliance for their first Christmas, but Rowan had squealed when she unwrapped the box. I completely understood. Having the right tools meant everything. Though all the new art supplies my family gifted me had done nothing to kick me out of my slump.
“Noon should do. I want to finish early so I can spend some time in the studio.” Probably staring at the same lump of clay.
“Sounds good. What are you thinking for the top?”
“A model of Skye, obviously, with a banner in her mouth saying something cheesy like ‘Congrats Dad.’” Cal’s ten-year-old Weimaraner had more personality than three dogs, making her the best topper for my future-brother-in-law’s celebratory cake. All my other ideas involved resistance bands, since he’s a physical therapist, or bank loans, since he’d needed them to buy the practice from his retiring boss. Neither seemed festive.
Rowan scrunched her nose. “I’ve never heard him refer to himself as her dad.”
“Oh come on, Rowan, that man treats his dog better than most parents treat their kids.”
“He does, doesn’t he?” she said, looking extra dopy. “He’s going to make a wonderful father someday, but I’m not sure you should call him Dad on the cake.”
“How about something like ‘Now you can bring me to work cause you own the joint.’”
Rowan laughed. “That’s perfect. I know you’ll make it look amazing. You always do.”
I ignored the compliment and got to work with the buttercream. I saw the cake clearly in my mind. Skye was a high-energy dog who tended to get in a bit of trouble. I’d make an exam table out of Rice Krispies Treats and modeling chocolate and write the message on edible paper that looked like the thin tissue stuff medical offices use to keep things sort of clean between patients. Cal would love it. I’d add some details in florescent pink as a nod to Cal’s receptionist, Cammie, who loved obnoxiously bright colors. Not to mention, giving my future brother-in-law a cake covered in pink flowers and butterflies would make my week. Maybe I’d throw in a unicorn or two.
“I’ve been thinking,” Rowan said. “We should cross train. I can teach you a few simple recipes, and you can teach me some basic piping. Nothing as complicated as those cookies or the custom cakes, but enough I could limp along for a few days if necessary.”
I frowned. I hated baking. Toss in a little too much of something and everything went to shit. Leave something in the oven a couple minutes too long and, at best, you throw away all the work you just did. At worst, you need the fire extinguisher. Don’t ask.
It’s not that I was afraid of mistakes. I made them all the time when sculpting or decorating cakes and cookies. Worst case, I had to reform the clay or modeling chocolate or toss a cookie, and sometimes “errors” led to something wonderful. Something fresh and unexpected. I adored those moments of forced creativity. They felt like a gift every time. I’m sure things like that happened in baking, but I’d yet to experience it.
“I suppose you’re right. You’re going on your honeymoon soon, and I could accidentally mow over a squirrel in the yard and contract the bubonic plague.”
Rowan’s mouth fell open. “Your mind is a scary place. Is that even possible?”
“Google it.”
Rowan held up her hands. “I believe you. We’ll start with fondant tomorrow. It’s super easy.”
“Sure it is.”
“So, since you won’t talk about Theo, want to share what you’re working on in the studio?”
“No.”
Rowan smiled and turned on the mixer. It wasn’t odd for me to keep my work to myself until I’d finished. It was odd for me not to be working on anything. I usually had a few pieces in progress simultaneously. But what with getting Red Blossoms Bakery started and actually having a social life now that my sister was back in town, I’d finished all the pieces I’d started without beginning new ones. Hopefully, the class would inspire more than fantasies about a certain tattooed teacher.
The doorbell rang as I finished crumb coating the cake.
“That’ll be Dr. Evers,” Rowan said, stealing a few cookies from the wire racks.
“Not those.” I squeezed the bag too hard and frosting shot across the worktable. “Son of a biscuit.”
Laughter carried from the front of the house. Dr. Evers had no doubt come prepared with jokes to loosen up Mom.
“Stingy much?” Rowan said, grabbing another cookie to put in a bakery box. Rowan had wanted red. I’d insisted on matte black. “How many doctors do you know make house calls?”
“I’m not denying the man deserves baked goods. But they’re vanilla. Dr. Evers is a chocoholic.” Plus, those cookies took a shit-ton of time to ice.
Rowan narrowed her eyes like she could read my mind. “And you know this because?”
“He always ordered mocha lattes at Karma with a brownie to go.”
Thankfully, someone other than me now filled the good doctor’s drink orders. As customers went, Dr. Evers was a peach, but I never wanted to serve him or anyone else another latte. It’d been four months since I took off my gag-worthy teal barista apron. I fought the urge to hug my sister every day I didn’t have to stand behind a counter and pretend to be pleasant.
Rowan looked into the box and frowned. “Shoot. I haven’t made the brownies yet.”
“Put six chocolate cupcakes in a medium box,” I said, filling the icing bag with the last of the chai buttercream while my sister selected the cupcakes. Rowan set the box on the table, and I quickly piped a swirl on each with a 1M Open Star Tip. Next, I grabbed a Hershey bar and shaved chocolate onto the frosting.
Rowan sighed. “Those look great, but I should have filled the middle with fudge or Nutella.
“Next time.” I closed the box and sealed it with a sticker covered in pretty red flowers and Red Blossoms Bakery in delicate script. Rowan had insisted. “I’ll take these to him.”
She blew out a breath and grabbed another dirty bowl. “Thanks.”
I went to the dining room, but Dr. Evers and Mom had settled in the living room with Chris.
“Ah,” Dr. Evers said, eyeing the box. “Just the person I wanted to see.”
I held out the box, assuming it had elicited his enthusiasm rather than me. “Chocolate cupcakes with chai buttercream frosting.”
A huge smile stretched across Dr. Evers’s face. “Thank you. I can’t wait to eat one.”
I hate to admit it, but I kind of missed seeing people’s reactions to being handed a treat. I needed to sneak Skye a bone. It’d have the same effect without the chit chat.
Dr. Evers placed the box on the coffee table and called my name as I started for the kitchen. “I looked at your file before I came over. You’re behind on your tetanus booster, Poppy.”
“If I cut myself with something old and rusty, you’ll be the first person I call,” I said, stepping toward the hall. Chris blocked the doorway with his stupid big football muscles. I shoved his chest. “Move.”
“Should I hold her down?” Chris asked.
I lowered my shoulder and ran into him. He let out a huff like I’d knocked the breath from his lungs, but wrapped his arms around me and picked me up. “It’ll be over before you know it, Pop.”
“Maybe you should put her on the sofa,” Mom said, wringing her hands. Her red hair had faded a bit since I last dyed it with henna, but otherwise, Rowan was her carbon copy.
“Mom,” I pleaded like a little kid. Rowan appeared like an angel of mercy. “They’re trying to give me a shot,” I yelled.
“Oh,” she said, twisting her hands just like Mom. “Is it something she needs?”
“No,” I said as Dr. Evers, Mom, and Chris said yes.
“You know how often she works with reclaimed metal,” Mom added. “She’s liable to cut herself at some point.”
“Better put her on the couch then,” Rowan said. “Last time she passed out.”
I take it back. I hated Rowan. I hated Dr. Evers, Chris, and Mom. I hated everyone. Well, maybe not Theo. He hadn’t done anything yet to piss me off. Frustrated me sexually, yes. But pissed me off, no.
Chris tossed me on the couch and sat on my legs while Mom and Rowan each held down an arm.
“Just close your eyes, Poppy,” Dr. Evers said in a soothing voice.
I should have listened. Instead, I watched Dr. Evers pull the instrument of death from his scrub pocket.
To their credit, Mom and Rowan were crying when I came to, and Chris looked like he wanted to puke. Dr. Evers had the decency to avoid eye contact with everyone.
“Fucking needles,” I said, burying my face in a couch cushion before the first tear escaped.
