The Tea Shop on Lavender Lane. Sheila Roberts
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Insanity was the true culprit. Anytime she was around that man he heated up her hormones and fried her brain. Now she was going to go home and rewire the synapses with junk food and a long bubble bath. She enjoyed making bath salts and bubble bath and could hardly wait to indulge in her latest creation—lavender-vanilla.
She’d barely gotten in line when Cass Wilkes walked up behind her and said hi. “Ice cream—food of the gods.”
Cass was Cecily’s sister Samantha’s BFF, but she’d opened the door of friendship to Cecily, too, and they saw each other every Sunday at Cass’s chick-flick nights and during their monthly book-club meetings.
Cecily smiled, feeling slightly embarrassed. That was both the beauty and the curse of living in a small town. Everyone knew your business. “Not exactly the diet special, is it?”
“No, but I can’t exactly say anything.” Cass held up her shopping basket, which contained a pizza and a two-liter bottle of root beer. “You can see we’re eating well tonight.”
The basket also held a bag of ready-made salad. “It’s not all bad,” Cecily said, pointing to the salad. “And pizza has good things on it.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself. I also keep telling myself that I’m only going to eat the salad and leave the pizza for the kids. But I’m lying.”
“Life’s too short not to eat pizza,” Cecily said with a smile. The smile fell away when her cell phone started singing Bailey’s ringtone, “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.”
Bailey’s life had been anything but fun the past couple of days. She had called Cecily the evening of the disastrous party, practically hysterical. They’d pulled in Samantha, who had found Bailey a tough L.A. lawyer, but no legal shark could save her from bad publicity. Of course, the story had made the papers, and all the TV stations had repeatedly run the footage of her van driving away, leaving the scene of the “crime.” Naturally, they’d zoomed in on Sterling Catering painted on the side of the van. Word of mouth had added to the avalanche of bad press. People who’d booked her for their events had been calling right and left and canceling.
Cecily answered, bracing herself for more bad news.
Sure enough. “Have you seen the Star Reporter?”
Oh, no. What now? Cecily turned to the magazine rack near the cash register. There, on the front of the latest popular celebrity news rag, was a picture of Bailey in her white caterer’s coat, standing outside Samba Barrett’s apartment building. She was wearing an expression of shock, along with her chef’s toque, her big hazel eyes wide and her mouth dangling open. She looked more confused than crazy. In fact, she looked like the village idiot. The bold print above the picture proclaimed, Samba Barrett Poisoned? Crazy Caterer Tries to Take Out the Competition.
“Oh, no.” Cecily dropped her junk food on the checkout conveyor belt and grabbed the magazine.
Cass, standing right next to her, took one, too, muttering, “Those creeps.”
“This is the worst yet. I’m ruined!” Bailey wailed.
“That headline doesn’t make sense. What competition are they talking about?” Cecily asked, trying to balance her cell phone, calm her sister and turn to the article all at the same time.
“They’re saying I had a thing for Rory Rourke, which is ridiculous. I don’t even know Rory Rourke. I didn’t know any of those people!”
During the past forty-eight hours, Bailey’s moods had swung between grim resignation and wild hysteria. It wasn’t hard to tell what mode she was in now. “This is a gossip rag,” Cecily reminded her. “You can’t believe what you read in papers like this. Nobody takes this stuff seriously.”
“My business is trashed. My life is trashed. I don’t even have money to pay for the lawyer.”
“Samantha and I told you not to worry about that,” Cecily told her. “It’s being taken care of.” News had traveled as fast around Icicle Falls as it had in L.A., and Dot Morrison and Pat Wilder, two of the town’s older businesswomen, had already set up a special bank account for Bailey’s defense fund.
Not that she was going to need it. Anyone with eyes could see the actress had pulled a cheap publicity stunt. The lawyer was on top of things, and Cecily was sure that before the month was over, Bailey would be out from under this. She said as much, hoping to calm her sister.
“It’s just...this article,” Bailey said between sobs. “I’m nothing like that. And I worked so hard to build my business. Now it’s...gone.”
Cecily wished she could reassure her, but in Hollywood, where making an impression was everything, well, it didn’t look good for Sterling Catering. “Come home,” she said.
“I can’t.”
Cecily knew how hard it was to give up a dream. She also knew how hard it was to come full circle, right back to where you started. She’d done it herself. It had turned out to be exactly what she needed, and she was much happier working in the family business than she’d been trying to match up gold diggers with shallow men who wanted Playboy bunnies.
“Think about it,” she urged. “Everyone here loves you.”
“That’s for sure,” Cass said over her shoulder.
“I can’t even leave my apartment. There are reporters hiding in the bushes.”
“They won’t hide there forever. And I can guarantee they won’t follow you here,” Cecily said. At least she hoped they wouldn’t. “The story will die down as soon as the next manufactured scandal hits. Which, I predict, will be sometime within the next seventy-two hours.”
“I asked her if she had any allergies,” Bailey said. “I have all kinds of menus to choose from, and she chose that one.”
“Don’t worry. This will all work out,” Cecily promised.
It was as if Bailey hadn’t heard. “I’m ruined,” she said again.
“Only temporarily.”
“Well, how long is temporary?” Bailey cried.
That was something for which Cecily had no answer.
* * *
Ruined, Bailey thought miserably as she ended the call with her sister. She’d gone to the hospital to see Samba, thinking maybe they could talk, that she could explain why her food couldn’t possibly have made the actress sick. She’d even brought flowers. She’d encountered a hired guard at the door of Samba’s private room, and all he’d allowed in had been the flowers, along with the get-well card on which Bailey had written, I hope you feel better soon. But now she hoped Samba contracted terminal acne.
Well, okay, not really. She liked to think she was better than that.
Samba was out of the hospital the next day, shopping on Rodeo Drive, pretending to look annoyed when photographers took her picture. Of course, she’d given a quote to any paper that was interested. “I really don’t know what happened.”
Bailey knew what had happened. She’d been duped.
“All I want is to put this behind me,” Samba said, posing like a tragic heroine.
Sure, now that she’d milked all the free publicity she could out of ruining Bailey. Rumor had it that Samba had been offered a part in a pilot for a new TV series, some sort of female detective show. (That was rich. Samba Barrett, who had just faked her own food poisoning, solving crimes.)
Meanwhile, Bailey couldn’t even get a job catering to street people. She’d been dubbed “the party poisoner,” and not only had she lost business, but she was also the butt of everyone’s jokes. One late-night TV host had cracked that he’d planned to hire a caterer for his birthday party but changed his mind since he wanted to live to see his next birthday. Ha-ha.
She’d finally given a quote