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“If you can keep Temple down by the cove for an hour tomorrow afternoon, I’ll make sure there’s a loaf of fresh bread hiding behind the plants on the porch when you get back.”
He considered. “She’ll smell it the minute she walks in the house.”
“I’ll burn some candles. Bake with the windows open. Squirt a little air freshener. What do you care?”
“You think you can do it?”
“I know I can.”
“Deal. Fresh bread whenever I want it, and you keep the room.” He turned on his heel and headed down to the water.
Only after he’d disappeared did she begin to have second thoughts. No one knew better than she did how seriously Panda took his work. Would he really leave Temple alone on the second floor all night just for a great mattress? She couldn’t imagine it.
The more she thought about it, the more she became convinced that Panda’s threats had nothing to do with getting h
is bedroom back and everything to do with making her give up her bread. Apparently she wasn’t the only one suffering from a lack of food. She stomped into the house.
He’d set her up, and she’d fallen for it.
HE SURFACED, THEN DIVED UNDER again. When was he going to apologize for what he’d said to Lucy that night? As if he didn’t have enough other things haunting him, those words had turned into a verbal ear-worm he couldn’t shake off. You weren’t that good anyway. He needed to apologize, but he could already feel himself letting down his guard, and if he apologized, things might get cozy between them. He didn’t want that. Be the best at what you’re good at.
He began swimming back toward the dock. He was hungry, damn it, and he hated being Temple’s keeper. That’s why he felt like he was off his game—losing focus, the old itch to get drunk clawing away at him. Lucy’s bread would set things right again. With something decent in his stomach, he’d be able to stay on top of this job that felt like it would never end. More important, he’d do a better job managing the girl with the fake dragon tattoo.
Hunger. That was his problem.
WHETHER SHE’D BEEN SET UP or not, Lucy still had baking to do. After she’d finished eating a free-range egg the next morning, along with a slice of omega-3 spelt and flax bread that tasted like beach sand, Panda let her into the pantry to fetch what she needed. “Don’t think I haven’t seen through your little ploy, Patrick,” she said as she came out.
“As usual, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He bypassed the beach sand bread for a package of tiny fat-free whole-grain tortillas, thought better of it, and set the tortillas aside for more coffee, which he carried upstairs.
While he and Temple were occupied with their morning workout in the new gym, Lucy mixed and kneaded. When the dough finally turned elastic under her hands, she set it in an oiled bowl, covered it with a clean dish towel, and hid it on the top cupboard shelf to rise.
She wanted to buy some plants in town for the porch, purchases that were too cumbersome for a backpack, so she sneaked upstairs into the bedroom Panda had chosen and swiped his keys. As she walked to his car, Temple came hurrying out. Her face was flushed from her workout, and sweat stains blotted her gray knit top. She wore no makeup, but with her almond eyes and strong bones, she didn’t need much. “Would you pick up a few things for me in town?” she said. “I forgot nail clippers, and I need some polish remover. And if the new Women’s Health is out, would you get that, too?”
“Sure.”
Temple handed over the moist twenty-dollar bill she’d curled in her palm. “I assume there’s some kind of bakery or coffeehouse?” Her hushed voice still managed to sound imperious.
“The Painted Frog.”
“Get a chocolate muffin for me.” A straightforward demand. “Or an iced brownie if they look good. Something sweet to keep me from feeling so deprived.” She was obnoxiously haughty, insufferably arrogant, and so very sad. “Deprivation is the enemy of serious weight loss.”
It wasn’t Lucy’s job to be chief of the diet police, so she tucked the bill in her pocket. She happened to agree about deprivation. Although she’d never been a slave to sweets herself, now that sugary treats were off limits, she couldn’t seem to think about much else.
Panda’s SUV still had a new-car smell. As she left the house, she found herself glancing at the glove box. She waved at Bree when she passed the farm stand, took another quick look at the glove box, and ordered herself not to snoop.
The Painted Frog’s pastries sat in the glass display case like fanciful hats. Four varieties of muffins with puffy, sugar-crusted tops; glistening lemon bars perched on white doilies; fancifully frosted cupcakes nestled in frilly papers. She chose a dense, but not overly large, chocolate muffin for Temple, then decided on a turtle brownie topped with toasted pecans and chewy caramel for herself. She’d never been much of a doughnut eater, but she suddenly had to have a Bavarian cream. At the last minute, she added half a dozen of the Painted Frog’s oversize chocolate chip cookies for Bree and Toby.
She finished the rest of her shopping, eating the brownie and doughnut between stops, then made a quick trip to Dogs ’N’ Malts for fries. Who knew how long it would be before she could sneak away to eat again?
Toby was overjoyed with the cookies, and Bree was embarrassingly touched. Lucy picked up her honey and drove toward the house. But before she got there, the car, as if it had a will of its own, pulled over to the side of the road.
She stared at the glove box. What would Ted do in this situation? Her perfect ex-fiancé never did anything even remotely sneaky, so she conjured up Meg instead and flipped open the latch.
She half expected to see a loaded gun or, at the very least, a box of condoms and an abandoned red thong. Instead she found an owner’s manual, a tire pressure gauge, and an Illinois vehicle registration made out to one Patrick Shade, resident of Cook County, with an address on Chicago’s Lake Shore Drive.
She carried her new plants to the porch and entered her bedroom through the sliding doors, then hid the sack with the Evil Queen’s muffin under her bathroom sink. Temple could figure out for herself how to get her contraband. After giving the bread a quick second knead, she shaped the loaves, set them in a pair of pans for a final rise, and tucked them back in the cupboard. Then she went down to the dock and took out the kayak. Panda wouldn’t let Temple on the water by herself, and a second kayak had been delivered.
When she got back, Temple and Panda were sitting at the monstrously oversize kitchen table eating a lunch that couldn’t have been all that much better than a colon cleanse. Their matching dinner plates held sparse portions from the frozen meal containers sitting on the counter. Panda pushed a morsel of dry salmon around with his fork. A lemon wedge floated in the glass of water Temple lifted to her lips. She dabbed the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin she’d unearthed from somewhere. “I think it’s important for food to look appealing,” she said.
