The Good Wife(41)

“I had no idea you were still so hung up on him,” Lisa said when she was finally able to speak.

“I wasn’t. Not until this last summer, when all the local papers when nuts about him, you know, making the jump into the big leagues, and I think . . . I think . . . it got to me.” Lauren stared into the fire, watching the flames dance. “I sent him a picture of Blake. In a card.”

“Tell me you didn’t, Lauren!”

“It was of Blake’s T-ball photo from spring, you know, the one where he’s wearing his little blue baseball T-shirt, and he’s got the bat on his shoulder?” Lauren bit down her lip, working it over. “I thought, maybe John would see it, and . . . care.”

“You’re killing me, Lauren,” Lisa whispered.

One of the logs in the fire pit cracked, shifted, popping and falling, sending up a shower of orange and red sparks. Lauren blinked back tears and sipped her wine, watching the bright hot sparks shoot high and then burn out and disappear. She had waited all summer for John to e-mail or call. She waited for him to do the right thing. “He didn’t respond,” she said, voice faint.

“Of course he didn’t.” Lisa grabbed a poker and savagely jammed the end into a glowing log, twisting it. “That’s because he’s a piece of shit.” She jammed it again, ferociously crushing the log. “And I hate, hate, hate that you contacted him, but”—she took a breath, and looked at her sister with tears filling her eyes—“I understand why you did. You want the fairy tale. You want the happy ending. I get it. I do, too.”

Lauren struggled to smile and Lisa poked the fire once more.

“So,” Lisa said slowly. “I don’t know if this is the right time to talk about this, but I think we should go into business together.”

This was a rapid shift and it took Lauren a second to follow. “You do?”

“Yeah. We need to be our own bosses. Call our own shots.”

Lauren could feel the wine in her veins. She was definitely buzzed, but not drunk. “What would we do? Mow lawns? Clean houses? Open a day care?”

“Good God, no.” Lisa shuddered and dropped back into her chair, crossing one cowboy boot over the other. “Have a shop. Something upscale and trendy.”

Lauren eyed her sister’s tattered Wranglers and scuffed-up boots, knowing she was wearing the same outfit. Neither of them had ever been fashionistas. “Trendy and upscale . . . you and me?”

“Not talking clothes or shoes. Talking cupcakes.”

Lauren coughed, choking on her mouthful of wine, thinking her sister had to be kidding.

Lisa’s chin jerked up and the crackling flames cast a golden, flickering light over her face, revealing the set of her jaw and her determined expression.

Oh, dear. Lauren recognized that expression. Lisa was serious about her proposition.

Although they were two years apart, even as children, Lauren and Lisa had looked so much alike that people thought they were twins with their long, light brown hair, blue-gray eyes, and their stubborn mouth and chin.

“Yes, cupcakes,” Lisa repeated firmly. “They’re the big thing in Los Angeles right now. Big, fat, beautiful cupcakes with lots of big, fat, pink frosting.”

It crossed Lauren’s mind that Lisa had been living in L.A. too long. “Lisa. This is Napa. New York and Los Angeles are big cities. Maybe they can handle a cupcake-only business, but there’s no way we’d survive on just cupcakes here.”

“We could make cakes, too,” Lisa said, reaching for the wine bottle but discovering it was empty. “Damn.” She looked at Lauren. “Should I open another bottle?”

“Good God, no. I think we’ve had enough.”

Lisa pursed her lips, disappointed. “It helps with brainstorming.”

“We’ve got to keep it real, though. We need to make money, Lisa, and cupcakes aren’t going to pay the bills.” Lauren gave her glass a swirl, watching the rich red liquid spin. “Furthermore, where would we do this? And do you have any idea what commercial spaces go for?”

Lisa dropped her feet. “I’ve already found a spot.” She smiled. “And it’s free.”

“Where?”

“Grandma’s.”

Lauren pictured her grandmother’s little Victorian on First Street and started shaking her head. “No. No.”

“Why not? First Street is already being developed into a commercial district. Two of the bigger historic houses near Grandma’s are B-and-Bs and another one is an art gallery.”

“That makes it okay to kick Grandma out?”

“She’s moving in with Mom and Dad later this year. She needs help and Dad’s not going to put his mom into a nursing home. He’d cut off his right arm first.” Lisa rose, headed for the house. “I’m going to get another bottle.”