Nuts (Hudson Valley, #1)(51)

“Don’t start rumors, Bowman,” I said quietly, straightening the tines of his fork to line up with the paper placemat. “It’s just . . . it’s not like that.” I looked around to see if people were still watching. And listening. . . .

Ninety-nine percent of the diner’s customers went back to their breakfasts, busily gossiping and doubtless passing it through the town’s phone tree. But one older fellow at the counter was glaring a hole into the back of Chad’s shirt.

I blinked. Surely he couldn’t have a problem with Chad?

“Pay the bigots no mind, lovey,” Chad said, turning me to face him. “That’s Herman.” He smiled and tipped his coffee toward Herman, who looked irked that attention was being volleyed back at him.

Throwing back his coffee, the man tossed a few bills onto the counter, then stormed out of the diner. Unfortunately, the door did not hit him in the judgmental ass on the way out.

“A good friend, I see.” I leaned my elbows on the counter across from Chad. Though he’d brushed it off like it was no big deal, I could see that it bothered him. “Do you get that a lot? The nasty staring ?”

I hoped that the answer was no, that most people were accepting, and only a few were *s. Especially in this town, where half of the businesses flew rainbow flags outside.

Chad shifted on his stool. “No, that doesn’t usually happen here. That’s a big part of the reason we decided we could move back. And I can handle that crap now, but just after high school, that kind of thing would have killed me.” He smiled. “I would have panicked and said nothing, and then thought of ten great comebacks an hour later.”

His admission gave me such a new perspective on him. I couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to hide that big a secret. To pretend to be something I wasn’t.

“I wish I knew then, in case you wanted someone to talk to or whatever.”

“Enough about this,” he said dismissively. “I want all the explicit details about last night!”

“Phone for you, Rox,” a voice rang out from the kitchen, and I grinned in relief.

“Gee, looks like I have to take a call.”

Chad pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at me, telling me he that knew something was up and he’d be watching me.

I grinned and grabbed the phone off the wall. “This is Roxie.”

“Hello, Roxie, this is Mrs. Oleson, from the mayor’s office.”

“Oh hello, Mrs. Oleson, how are you?”

Chad’s eyebrows went up. Mrs. Oleson had worked in the mayor’s office for as long as anyone could remember, no matter who the mayor was. She had her hand in nearly everything that happened in town. Huh. Not unlike a Mrs. Harriett Oleson from Walnut Grove. I allowed myself a few seconds of Almanzo fantasy.

“Roxie, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here. What can I do you for, Mrs. Oleson?”

“I’m in a bit of a pickle, dear, and I’m hoping you can help me out.”

“I’ll do what I can. What’s up?” I replied, confused but intrigued.

“Well, you know I always bring cakes to the ladies’ luncheon, and this year I’ve just totally overextended myself. Linda and Evelyn were positively raving over the walnut cake they had at the diner last week, and I wondered—”

“You want a walnut cake too?” I finished.

“Actually, I’d need four. And maybe . . . do you have something different you could make? They’ve already had the walnut cake, so I thought maybe we could surprise them with something new,” she said, her voice getting quiet and sneaky. “Eleanor made her famous sponge cake last week, and I need to step it up a notch or two.”

“Something new,” I repeated, glancing over at the barren cake display case with worry. Not about how I was going to bake more—but because I wanted to do it. “When do you need these?”

“Tomorrow?” she asked hesitantly.

Yikes. I looked again at the display case. This morning it had held eight cakes, each sliced in eighths, individually for sale. Now there were only crumbs.

Did I want to do this? Could I do this was a better question, adding another thing to my already packed schedule.

“What did you have in mind?” I asked, decision made, grabbing the yellow order pad out of Maxine’s apron pocket as she passed by. She frowned, eyeing me from under the beehive hairdo that held a—

“I need this too,” I chirped, plucking the pen from the hairspray-stiffened swirl. She cracked me on the ass with a dish towel in complaint.

“Carrot?” I parroted back to Mrs. Oleson, my mind immediately racing. “Traditional? With nuts?” I was giddy at the thought of shopping at Leo’s for the ingredients. Mmm, I could do a cream cheese frosting. I’d seen tubs of it at Maxwell Farm from the dairy next door. What else could I pick up there? Oooo, maybe he’d pick me up. Maybe he’d finish what he started that day in the silo—

Shit, I was on the phone. “Pick them up tomorrow morning,” I instructed Mrs. Oleson, flustered.

As I hung up the phone, the Scott family walked in. Mom, Dad, and two kids, with the point-five bun in the oven and ready to pop out.

“Have a seat anywhere that’s open,” I called, leaning over the counter to see if there was a booth or table free. There was one in the back, and Mrs. Scott was able to waddle uncomfortably over and sit down.