In a Bind(Plaything #3)(18)

I pulled off the main freeway and onto the coastal highway. The sun had just set and the orange glow of dusk had finally been erased from the horizon. I drove past the marina, where the Friday night frivolities were just starting. Toby’s Bar and Grill, one of the hot spots along the wharf, had turned on the strings of lights and orange lanterns. People were already gathering around one of the blazing fire pits with their drinks.

I’d ducked in and out of the singles dating scene for the last few years, but lately I’d been more out than in. I’d grown weary of the forced smiles and feigned interest in strangers’ life stories. It was always such a game, such an awkward human courtship ritual, hooking up in a bar or restaurant. I was tired of it.

I reached over and patted my laptop, my best friend lately. I had design work to finish, but tonight was strictly for my pirate and his beautiful and slightly wanton treasure.

I turned my car off along the small road that led to Northam’s Cove, a quiet bay that was surrounded mostly by cliffs. I was in luck. It was a clear night, no dreary fog to dampen my mood. The eastside of the cove was dotted with multi-million dollar beach houses, but the west side had proven too rocky and steep for even the most daring developer. My plan was to park on the street and hike with my computer, blanket and a small bottle of wine to my secret place, a small flat section of rock that overlooked the entire inlet.

I drove along the quiet stretch of road looking for the Northam Cove sign, the marker that told me I was close to the turnout where I could park my car and hike to my secret spot.

But as I drove along for a few minutes, it occurred to me that nothing looked familiar. Even the stretch of beach below had changed. A long, dimly lit fishing pier, that I’d never seen before, jutted out over the water.

The road began to bend in a curve, and I found myself heading downhill. None of it was familiar. Somewhere along the way, a way I’d traveled dozens of times, I’d taken a wrong turn.

I continued along the curved path, hoping I would eventually meet back up with the road to the cove. Instead, the paved stretch turned into a long driveway that led to a stately looking home overlooking the ocean and pier.

I rolled up next to a sign that read “Baker’s special today- Hot Buttered Rum cupcakes”. My mind shot straight back to the unusual website. I looked frantically ahead at the house. With a gasp, I sat back against the car seat and squeezed the steering wheel in my hands to see if it was real. The only rational explanation for ending up in front of the inn that had been advertised on the site was that I was sleeping. These unexplained kinds of things only happened in novels and movies and vivid dreams. But the steering wheel was solid in my grip. I was awake, wide awake. Unfortunately.

I drove ahead, deciding that it was best to confront these masterful marketers face to face. Somehow they’d managed to find out details of my private life, and I needed to find out just what the hell was going on.

I parked the car and climbed out. The picture on the website had obviously been photoshopped because the cascading blooms of pink roses were no more than an ugly tangle of dead vines. The house itself wasn’t exactly ready for a magazine cover. It was in need of paint, and the porch railing looked like a set of teeth in bad need of a toothbrush.

I marched up the questionable front steps with my fists tight as rocks, ready to knock firmly on the front door. Something sketchy was going on, and I was determined to get to the bottom of it. But once I reached the large mahogany door, some of my anger was appeased by the incredible aromas floating through the cracks in the windows and doors. Mouth watering didn’t even cover it. I was nearly lightheaded from the delicious fragrance, a mix of butter, brown sugar and spicy rum.

My first planned firm, confident knock turned into a polite rap on the door. It was almost as if once I’d crossed the splintery planks of the front porch, my indignation had been replaced with the feeling that I’d just found a little slice of heaven in the middle of nowhere. I was instantly transported back to my grandmother’s cute little cottage in the mountains where we would all meet for holidays to eat mounds of incredible mashed potatoes and gravy and hot apple pie heaped with cinnamon ice cream.

I tapped the door with my knuckles once more. It creaked open. Incredible aromas swirled around me as I stepped into the entry. Unlike the worn and tattered exterior of the house, the inside had been beautifully restored to its historical charm. Even the glossy, cherry wood entryway table looked as if it had stood there proudly for a century, welcoming every visitor that stepped through the door. A huge vase of pink roses sat on the top of the table, their fragrance muted some by the delicious food smells. They were the same pink roses that had been draped around the facade and porch balustrades in the doctored website picture.

The entryway walls were adorned in vintage, cottage style wallpaper that was welcoming and charming, but it was the buttery fragrance of warm baked goods that made me want to search out a good book and curl up in an oversized chair for the night.

“Hello, is anybody home?” My voice echoed off the walls of a narrow hallway.

“This way,” a cheery voice called back. “Just follow your nose.”

I headed down the hallway and entered a great room that was much larger than I would have anticipated in a century old house. It had been fashioned into a quaint bakery, complete with round tables and a gleaming glass counter filled to the brim with sugary delicacies. Plump cupcakes mounded by swirls of chocolate frosting sat in perfect lines on a tray.

A low, cooing sound brought my attention to the large picture window at the front of the bakery. A bright green parrot was pacing sideways along the window ledge as it stared out at the ocean view. It didn’t seem to notice me.

I turned back around to the counter at the patter of soft footsteps. The woman who’d stepped out from what I could only surmise was the kitchen was carrying a glass of milk. At first glance, I’d already formed the image of an older woman, slow moving and slightly hunched with fine age lines around her large green eyes and well-shaped mouth. But as she neared, her face was showered by the pendant lights hanging over the counter. I realized then I’d misjudged her age. She was young and incredibly pretty, not so much in a traditional sense like the girls on a makeup advertisement, but more like someone whose inner beauty could not be contained and so it showed on the outside too.

Her sparkling eyes seemed to be assessing me. I was just about to introduce myself, but she beat me to it. She placed the milk on the counter and stuck out her hand. It felt cool from holding the glass. “You must be Ginger. I’m Coco.” She followed with a laugh that shook me out of my stunned state. “Our names make it sound as if we belong in a bakery.” She waved her hand around. “Oh look. Here we are.” She patted the corner of the cupcake tray. “Hot buttered rum. Try one. I only make them once a year.” She put her hands on her hips and tilted her head to look at me. “I was expecting red hair.”

I reached up and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind my ear. “My mom and dad both have red hair, so they had settled firmly on the name Ginger long before I popped out and surprised them with this.”

“I love that story.” Coco’s laugh caught the parrot’s attention.

Its tiny talons tapped the window ledge as it turned around and bobbed its green head up and down. A squawk followed that was loud enough to peel paint off a wall. “Awk, pretty girl,” the bird muttered.

I turned back around just as Coco was reaching into a cabinet behind the bakery counter. She pulled out a box of crackers and removed one from the sleeve. Her rainbow striped skirt swirled with her as she spun back around. “Help yourself to a cupcake. I’ve got to feed Polly.”

“Polly is eating a cracker? Seriously?” I turned to watch her feed the parrot. It was still staring longingly out the window and not at the round cracker coming its direction. But instead of stopping at the window, Coco flitted right past the colorful parrot in her even more colorful skirt. She walked out the back door and returned a minute later without the cracker.

I stared in confusion as she walked back toward the counter. “I thought you were giving Polly the cracker.” I couldn’t stop the laugh after saying the words.

“I gave it to her.” She wiped her hands on her yellow apron. The wrinkles, I’d seen earlier, creased around her eyes and then instantly washed away. If nothing else, I wasn’t leaving this strange place without the name of her eye cream.

I knew my mouth was hanging open, but I couldn’t seem to close it as I pointed over my shoulder at the parrot. “That’s not Polly?”

“Nope, that’s Dexter. Polly is our resident squirrel. She lives in the big oak tree in the backyard. I’m watching Dexter for a friend. And, as you can see, he’s quite anxious for his owner to return.”

The bird had turned its beady eyes back to the window. Its skinny bird legs nearly tangled together as it paced back and forth along the edge.

“How sweet that he’s waiting like a loyal friend.”

Coco pulled a plate out from beneath the counter and placed a cupcake in the center of it. “Tell me what you think.”