The Right Move Page 2

  It got to the point where grandma and I would frequent the bakery so often that we developed a routine time and date to walk in and eye the latest features of the day with wild eyed cravings.

  Yes, Friday morning’s once a week were our guaranteed stop in times and I began to look forward to not only the delicious treats, but also the bonding and quality time to share with grandma and friends.

  As I approach the front of the store where a trendy bright sign reads ‘Sweets Bakery’ with a cupcake and a chef’s hat in between the words, nostalgia makes me recoil for a brief moment.

  I hesitate, needing a few moments to compose myself before going inside. It’s been three weeks since my last visit and at that time, I had grandma with me, our elbows interlocked, no knowledge at all of what the future would quickly bring.

  I know I will have some explaining to do to my friends inside, and the thought of rehashing grandma’s death burdens me with overwhelming sorrow.

  However, the intoxicating scent of butter, sugar and flour is alluring, appealing and can’t keep me away. I’m too close to the finish line and besides, grandma would want me to move on and be happy.

  She would also want me to enjoy a tasty cupcake in her honor. Perhaps I’ll even order a little box of lemon bars to feast on out by the duck pond while thinking about how those were two of her favorite things.

  Anything I can do to welcome joy back into my life, I need to embrace.

  It all starts with a cupcake.

  Taking a deep breath, I take a timid step inside the shop. The delicious smell of cake hits me immediately as the door chimes a friendly and familiar tone, alerting the staff of a new customer entering inside.

  There are a handful of patrons inside, some of which are ogling at the lovely treats behind the glass, some of them are eating at the charming black iron barista stools set up by the front windows.

  I smile as a young mother hands a cookie to her red cheeked toddler and takes a sip of a nice hot cup of coffee. Sweets Bakery imports their coffee from Africa, and it’s the best I’ve ever had.

  Here I am, its Friday morning and my one true goal of the day is to keep the tradition with grandma alive. That’s when I hear the familiar, chatty and zesty voice of Keesha behind me.

  “Well look who it is? Olivia, is that really you, or am I just dreaming?”

  I have smile as wide as the Nile River when I spin around to greet the spunky teenage barista, always full of flavor in her own right, a personality that’s full of ambition and rubs off on anyone who is lucky enough to be in the same room.

  “Hi Keesha.” I hold out my arms to reel her in for a huge and long overdue bear hug.

  Keesha is wearing a sparkly pink shirt and trendy, designer jeans under her “Sweets Bakery” apron.

  Her hair is in braids with several tendrils of pink and blue strands protruding through. She’s wearing contacts that make her eyes shine with a piercing blue, a trait that is not common for an African-American girl like herself, but she looks simply stunning. She’s short, sassy and a spitfire of popularity that keeps customers returning left and right to the bakery.

  Keesha is the first to break away from the hug, and I stand there as she dissects me with her glance, really scrutinizing me and giving me a once over.

  “You look great Keesha,” I tell her. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

  “Girl, it has been too long!” Keesha bats her hand at me and squeezes me while jumping up and down. “Where on earth have you been? We thought you moved away or something!”

  Keesha loves to talk, gossip and talk about clothes, fashion and boys. She shows the world how a sixteen-year-old girl should act, paving the way for others who just so happen to have the luxury of crossing her path. She’s the oldest of four, and the only girl in her family. She’s like the mother bear to her younger brothers, the little bear cubs who she looks out for no matter what.

  Keesha has to be one of my most favorite people on the planet, and her spunky drive and cute fashion sense always have me in awe of how a teenager can be so well put together.

  “It’s great to see you too,” Keesha beams and then immediately and instinctively casts her eyes next to me. Her face falls with confusion and her eyebrows furrow with disappointment. “Where’s grandma?”

  Ah, even Keesha had called her by that affectionate name, she wouldn’t hear of it any other way. Keesha is the type to be comfortable around anyone and everyone. She has a natural ability to be good with people and standing behind the counter as a barista is the perfect job for her.

  I flick my eyes to the dark wooden floor and stare at my feet, investigating a piece of grass that’s stuck to my shoelace. It takes me a moment to work up the courage to meet Keesha’s gaze because this is it, I have to confess of grandma’s passing now as it becomes the feature of conversation, the elephant in the room.

  When I don’t answer with a hasty retort, Keesha becomes suspiciously concerned. She narrows her eyes on me and grips my arm with her purple, sparkly finger nails. “Why are you alone?” She whispers as if she’s talking using verbal expletives that she doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

  “Well…” I trail off.

  “What is it?” she coaxes me along.

  “Grandma passed away…about a week ago…that’s why we haven’t…I haven’t…been back to the bakery.”

  Keesha’s face collapses under the stress of my news and she holds me close to her short body. “Girl, I am so sorry to hear that,” she says in a muffled tone as she squeezes herself into my shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” I chuckle. “I’m working on it, I’m doing okay.”

  At that moment, Alexa Sharp walks out from the kitchen and sees Keesha hugging me. Alexa is the owner of Sweets Bakery. She is beautiful, exotic and is genuinely kind to everyone she meets.

  Her long, wavy dark hair is a perfect feature to accentuate her lovely mocha colored skin. She’s wearing beautiful make-up that gives her a sexy glow and today I notice that she’s going for the smoky eye look.

  She is wearing a floral print long dress, her attire of choice that molds to her curvy body perfectly. Her apron is messy, caked with flour and all the trimmings that come with being a successful and renowned baker in a small, rural town.

  “Hi Livi!” She greets me with a warm and welcoming wave of her hand, but frowns when she notices how passionately Keesha is clinging onto me. “Where’s grandma?” She raises an eyebrow.

  “Grandma died!” Keesha wails. “Can you believe it? Poor, sweet Livi.” Keesha clucks her tongue as if she pities me, but in a loving sort of way.

  “It’s true,” I nod as Keesha moves away to allow her boss through for a turn of the rounds of hugs we are giving out.

  “I’m so sorry.” Alexa rubs my back and she smells like cupcakes, an inviting scent that warms me from the inside out.

  We unlock arms and take a step back. I give her a smile etched in gratitude. “Thanks. I thought I’d stop by to say hello and maybe…you know…keep the tradition alive.”

  “Of course!” Alexa says, her eyes crinkling as if she’s willing to do anything she can to make my day brighter. “I’m sad to hear of grandma’s passing, but I know she would want you to have a cupcake.” Alexa’s wink sparkles and shines, making me giggle.

  “Oh, I’m almost certain of that fact,” I agree with a nod. Grandma didn’t mess around when it came to sweets.

  “Come on over here girl,” she nods to the counter with a tuft of her chin in that direction as Keesha rushes back behind the register to greet and provide service to another customer.

  “I just made a batch of your favorite’s this morning,” Alexa playfully taunts and points to the most beautiful arrangement of carrot cake cupcakes sitting on a platter.

  “Cream cheese frosting?” I ask in a high voice.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Alexa grins mischievously and reaches over the counter to hand me one. “These are popular in the spring. Go on, enjoy yourself girl, you deserve the best while
you’re grieving.”

  I take the cupcake and peel the silver liner away, exposing the huge chunks of nuts and raisins inside of the cake part. I never liked normal carrot cake before, not until I tried one of Alexa’s made with her special recipe. Turns out they can taste delicious, and not like cardboard.

  “Wow,” I laugh. “This looks amazing.”

  “It’s on the house,” Alexa says. “As a matter of fact, why don’t you take a few to go?”

  Her gesture is so sweet I can practically feel my grandma smiling in the afterlife. I touch my hand to my heart. “Really?” I tear up, touched by Alexa’s profoundly kind offer.

  Alexa winks and packs me a to-go box filled with cupcakes.

  “Thank you,” I mumble through a mouthful of delicious cake. The explosion of flavor is everything I needed and more.

  “Darling, it’s my pleasure,” she smiles. “Anything to help a friend through a hard time.”

  Chapter 3

  To me, there’s nothing more gratifying in this sweet world than to be elbow deep in grease, dirt and sweat, laboring away until the glorifying process is over, and I stare victory in the face with a completed project for a customer.

  Today, like any other day is no exception to that rule.

  I’m a simple man, really. My mama tells me that I need to do something more … respectful … (her words, not mine), with the trust fund money from my dear old Pop. That was my grandfather who passed away and basically left me every dime he had in his will.

  My argument to that? Well it’s modest, just like me. I tell her all the time that I don’t need the bells and whistles. I have plenty to keep me occupied right here, in the back of the motorcycle shop I own in the heart of Mable Falls, Texas. Piles of money in the bank doesn’t change that. It didn’t change me, which is probably why Pop left it to me.

  Mix 95.9 blasts tunes from yesterday and today in the background…their catchy lingo chimes through my ears. If the rest of the employees didn’t like it so much, I’d probably change the channel, but at least they play an occasional good song. The sound of drills, a lug wrench tightening against a metal screw, and engines cranking is the real music to my ears though, and I live for this lifestyle each and every day.

  I’m the owner of Lone Star Cycles, a beloved motorcycle shop I purchased from the previous owner, Jon MacFarland, when he was so deep in debt he couldn’t afford to keep the place open any longer. I’d already worked here since I was in high school by then, and buying the place just felt right. It got to stay open, and I got to keep my job, even if it is a job many people consider below themselves.

  I don’t care much for the spotlight, and frankly the idea of sitting behind a desk all day while punching numbers into a keyboard until my eyes glaze over is not exactly my idea of entertainment. To me, I’d much rather be where the action is, in the back of the shop with Chris, my most prized and valuable mechanic.

  Chris has tattoo sleeves up and down both arms and across his neck. I’m talking, the really colorful kind that you could just get lost inside the artistic elements, studying the hidden pictures for days and still not finding everything.

  He wears his short, black hair slicked back every day, and you can always find him chewing gum. Hell, I’d be surprised if the dude doesn’t go to sleep chewing gum.

  On first impression, he might give off a remotely intimidating vibe with his dark features, but he’s a shrimp and I tease him about it all the time. I don’t think the guy is over five foot seven to be honest. In reality, he wouldn’t hurt a fly and he’s the most loyal friend and employee I have.

  Standing up, I wipe the sweat off my brow and pull off my work gloves one finger at a time. Chris eyes me from across the room and in between the frame of a bike he’s working on.

  “Taking a break, boss?” he inquires with a slight Hispanic accent.

  Chris is originally from Mexico, just across the border. He’s been in Texas for twenty of his twenty-eight years though, and considers himself a true, native Texan. I don’t care, as long as he’s here helping me take apart bikes and putting them back together until they are bright, shiny and gorgeous, I don’t care what his back story is.

  I nod, assessing my progress so far and glance around the shop. “Yeah, just a little water break is all,” I tell him and toss my gloves on my workshop bench. I heave a bolstering sigh, knowing that I’m going to finish this project today that I’ve been working on for weeks now.

  Walking through the garage to the front of the shop, I greet a few customers who know me by name. Most are returning clients and I thank them for their continual business before moving on. I pass through an enclave and into the little retail part of the shop that’s open for customers to buy accessories and DIY parts for their motorcycles.

  From this angle of the store, I have a perfect view of my cousin Alexa’s bakery right across the street. Lone Star Cycles has been here on Main Street since I can remember, but Alexa only opened up her store a couple of years ago.

  I smile, delighting in the refreshing contentment of knowing that Alexa is undoubtedly behind those friendly glass entrance doors to the bakery, in the kitchen and whipping up some tasty treats to spread her love with the world. The girl is talented, and I know she’s going to go far in her venture.

  Maybe the whole world hasn’t had her cupcakes yet, but at least the general area of loyal Mable Fall’s patrons have been so lucky. It’s much more liberating to stare out the window and see Sweets Bakery than the boarded-up windows with a spray painted sign splashed across them that read ‘Vacant’ before Alexa came along with the mindset to bring people together, binding with a universal love of cake.

  Finally, I stretch my legs all the way to the offices where I find Travis, my manager, just where I expect him to be.

  “Hey Travis,” I nod politely and greet him with a slight wave.

  Travis leans back in his seat and expels a deep breath. “Oh, hey Mason, what brings you to my neck of the woods?”

  “Just taking a little break, that’s all.” I cast him a wink and he chuckles slightly, swiveling leisurely in his office chair.

  Travis is the forty-four-year-old son of Jon MacFarland, or, ‘Mac’ as he’s known around town. When Mac got too old to run things himself, I decided to nobly buy the place out from him, but still allow things to run much the same as he did when he was in his prime.

  That includes letting Travis crunch his beloved numbers behind the scenes. Travis is more of a people person than me, which is why he’s the better fit to stay manager. He’s wearing khaki dress pants and a button down collared white shirt that’s short sleeved.

  He clears his throat and asks me if there’s anything I need help with, to which I shake my head in a friendly manner and move on.

  I head back to my saving grace, my domain where I feel most alive. I chuckle to myself, thinking about my mama whose southern drawl forever chimes through my ears.

  “Mason, what are you doing trotting off to that motorcycle shop every day? You need to dream big son, get out there and embrace life. Travel, buy property, live a little on the edge.”

  My mama sings the same song and dance all the time, but I take it all in stride because I look forward to getting a weekly cherry or apple pie from her, depending on her mood at the time. Mama loves to bake too, much like Alexa. To them, comfort food and a full belly is the way to a man’s heart.

  I’ve already taken a sprinkling of mama’s advice and put it into action. I bought my own little slice of heaven on the lake where I enjoy panoramic, wall to wall window views of nature in its full glory. I’ve got a dock where a boat, two jet skis and the ultimate bar and outside kitchen awaits me when I go home each night. To me, that’s all I need in life.

  I love to go out on my dock and enjoy a cold brew every now and then, watching the sunset as I wind down and wrap up the day in peaceful serenity. My house might be huge, but all the houses on the lake are huge, and I had to buy one to get the lake access I wanted.


  Living small suits me just fine. I’ve been burned too many times by the outside world. Mama wants me to find a nice girl to settle down with, but I’m not interested in tackling the complexities of the female species right now, possibly ever again. All women seem to do is chew me up and spit me out.

  When I walk back into the garage, Chris is hard at work on the same bike where I left him, a welding mask over his face as sparks fly and a screeching sound fills the air as metal grinds on metal.

  I leave him to his tasks at hand. He can’t hear me anyway, not over his welding gear. I climb under the Harley I’m working on, near the finish line to complete the job and make her shine like a new penny. I grab some screws and a lug wrench to work on tightening the belts of the engine. I get to thinking about my past relationships, ultimately the culprit in my distrust of women in general.

  My first love ended in an epic failure. I really went out on an elaborate limb on that one. The girl got the big ring. I mean the rock on her finger would have put the iceberg that sank the Titanic to shame. That’s back when I was a little less conservative with my trust fund.

  The heat of that romance went a little off the beaten path, going up in a wildfire of flames soon after the engagement. As bitter and resentful as I was about that fiasco, at least I can say she told me the truth before it was too late, and we were tied down to the ‘I do’s’ of marriage life.

  The truth? Well she had told me she couldn’t love a Sharp, and given that was my birth right name, she couldn’t love me.

  What was wrong with a Sharp? I had asked her at the time. She had merely shrugged, looked at me as if I was a pity charity case and told me that I was better off a loner. In retrospect, maybe she was right all along, even though I still curse her to this day. Why the hell would she get involved with me, just to string me along?

  I take a deep breath as I concentrate on the engine of the Harley, running a hand through the unruly mop of brown, wavy hair on top of my head. I scratch my arm just above the sleeves of my tight white t-shirt that’s sweaty and in need of some tender care and fabric softener. I don’t know why I’m suddenly nostalgic, mentally reminiscing about the nightmare relationships that I’ve had that unfortunately still haunt me and shape some aspects of my untrusting personality in my current situation.