Engagement and Espionage (Solving for Pie: Cletus and Jenn Mysteries #1)(5)

“Here I am.” I stuffed my hands in my pants pockets.

She stopped about two feet away, unable to come closer without moving the Donner Bakery box to one side, and that would have been awkward. It was a big box. I contemplated the big box, which was both a literal barrier as well as a figurative representation of what separated us.

A second ticked by. I felt her eyes on me, but she said nothing, maybe because I was glaring at the box. I didn’t want to be the first to speak. I was too persnickety to be trusted to talk—see? I knew when to talk, when not to talk. Why couldn’t other folks learn?

But then I remembered Drew’s request, and relented. “Drew says ‘hi.’”

There. That’s done. Message conveyed.

“Oh.” The word was airy, like she was out of breath. If I’d just jogged a hallway in high heels, I would’ve been out of breath too.

Another second ticked by, then another, and that deep well of frustration began to rise, reaching my esophagus and higher, flooding my chest with suffocating disappointment. And maybe a little bit of resentment.

Dammit.

I wanted to sabotage her mother. I wanted to intervene and free up Jennifer’s time for nonwork pursuits. All it would take was a few well-timed phone calls to the right people and—abracadabra—the problem would be solved.

BUT I WON’T!

I wouldn’t intervene. Modifying or ending lifelong habits—habits that have served me well and have been efficient mechanisms for achieving ends and aims—in an effort to be respectful of my lady love’s autonomy was perhaps the most maddening endeavor of my existence.

I felt her shift closer, and the movement drew my attention to her sweet face, pointed chin, and gorgeous eyes.

“Please don’t be mad.” The hope in her features was now entirely eclipsed by guilt. “I am so sorry. I would’ve been on time, but Mr. Badcock sold all my eggs to somebody. He treated me like I was a person of suspicion, like he couldn’t trust me. Truth be told, he was downright hostile.”

What’s this? Hostile? A modicum of my frustration eased. I could do something about unwanted hostility from an egg farmer, that was actionable; whereas, forcing Jenn’s momma, Diane “Dragon Lady” Donner, to retract her claws of maniacal manipulation was not.

Stepping around the box, I came to her side, my hand automatically lifting to her back. “What did he say to you?”

Note to self, Richard Badcock, add to list: Maim for mistreatment of my Jenn.

“Nothing harsh.” She quickly shook her head, holding my gaze and allowing me to steer us down the hall, away from the entrance. “But I did have to convince him to sell me eggs again, and then he’ll only sell me eggs with advance notice and a deposit. And then, once that was settled, it turns out he did have a few dozen in his house, which he eventually gave me. But trekking up the hill and back down again took longer than I’d planned.”

I stopped in front of the door leading to the stage area of the old cafeteria and pulled out a key to unlock it, listening intently to her version of events while keeping an eye out for any passersby or hangers-on. I didn’t need folks following us or asking me how it was that I possessed a key.

“So when I got back to the bakery,” she went on, her words dripping with fatigue, “Momma was in tears, ’cause my daddy had just called. And you know he wants half the hotel and the bakery, even though my granddaddy made him sign an ironclad prenup. He was threatening her with that again.”

I grimaced, well aware of Kip Sylvester’s pattern of reprehensible behavior and what he was capable of. He’d popped up again this last week after being mostly gone for over a month, making all kinds of threats.

“When she stopped crying, there was still the custard to make, and only four dozen eggs. After some fretting and discussing the issue with Momma, I decided it was best to go to the store and pick up a few dozen eggs there—since Blair Tanner had already left, I was the only one to do it—and use half Badcock eggs and half store-bought to get the most out of the Badcock four dozen. I’ll need them later this week.”

“Did you make the custard?” I ushered her forward and shut the door to the backstage area, tired on her behalf. Maybe I could do the shopping for the bakery for her? Stop by all her local suppliers so she didn’t have to.

Which, now that I thought about it, why the heck was she running all over town picking up supplies? Shouldn’t someone else do that?

“Yes. I made the custard, it’s sitting in the fridge, used the last of my vanilla. I’ll need to order more. I just hope no one realizes about the eggs.” She huffed an agitated exhale, allowing me to lead her through the darkness. She couldn’t see at all, and I—like all my siblings—could see tolerably well.

I took the infernal bakery box from her grip. I set it on a nearby crate, brought her near a corner, and leaned her against the wall. This particular corner was scarcely illuminated by a sliver of light coming in through the stage curtains.

The cafeteria was just beyond the curtains, and the loud buzzing of town gossip and chatter from earlier in the evening was now a low murmur of scant conversation. Most folks had moved on to the music rooms, likely because all the coleslaw had been eaten. As long as we whispered, we wouldn’t be overheard or noticed.

“Is everything settled? With Mr. Badcock?” I studied her expression, noting the grooves of worry on her forehead and the way she was twisting her fingers.