Sugar Read online

  Sugar

  Sugar Sorenson’s life has gone up in flames… Literally.

  Struggling to make ends meet, Sugar has invested everything into her home business of supplying Sugar’s Cakes and Pastries to local Seattle eateries. A friend suggests she enter a local bakeoff with a $10,000 grand prize and oodles of free publicity. The money would make a world of difference to Sugar’s future. Working – and baking – night and day to perfect entry, she’s not prepared when the apartment oven starts a fire. Within a few hours she’s got no place to live, no clothes and no business, not even a bag of flour and a measuring cup.

  Support arrives in the form of a Victim’s Advocate social worker named Tree, a sympathetic firefighter named Charlie, and the local TV producer coordinating the bakeoff competition. She’s Emily, and the first one of the trio to make a serious play for Sugar in the morning, Sugar in the evening, and Sugar in the afternoon.

  After nine years as a single lesbian who couldn’t seem to get a heartbeat from any woman anywhere, all this attention has Sugar’s head spinning. Forced to live with her ailing, homophobic grandmother, she finds it difficult to openly date any of these new women in her life. They all offer changed circumstances, stability and a hope at forever. But which one will steal Sugar's heart?

  Chapter 1

  Honestly, Sugar Sorenson thought to herself, she'd had no idea oven insulation was flammable.

  She did know, from repeat experience, that charred sucrose, glucose and fructose smelled for days. The acrid aroma could ruin clothing, other baked food and linens. It snuck into flour and tainted spices.

  More than sugar had burned today. Looking at the sodden remains of her one-room living quarters, Sugar was pretty sure nothing in the so-called "garden cottage" would ever smell clean again—the stench of burnt converted garage was worse than any¬thing she'd ever managed. Even though water dripped from every surface in the kitchen area, some things—like the pile of cook¬books she hadn't been able to rescue—were still smoking.

  Outside, on her landlord's lawn, were the few cookbooks she'd saved. The haphazard pile was surrounded by several lingering firefighters, talking quietly amongst themselves. Their poses were curiously relaxed, making it hard to believe that thirty minutes ago they'd been smashing her car windows so it could be pushed far¬ther from the blaze. When she'd bolted outdoors, getting her car keys had been the last thing on her mind.

  That was it. All there was. Poof, flash, crackle . .. ashes.

  It was all over so quickly. She'd called 911 less than an hour ago. That had been a scant minute from the moment she'd realized her little fire extinguisher wasn't going to stop the rising flames. The fire station was only a block away and reassuring sirens had begun even before she'd hung up her cell phone.

  She'd hated the sleeper-sofa and it didn't belong to her, so, all in all, its fate was a blessing. But her little red Honda hatchback she had loved. She hoped missing glass was the worst of its woes once it dried out.

  She moved slowly toward the smoldering pile of cookbooks. Perhaps the ones in the middle could be saved. She pulled open the drawer where she kept the oven mitts, but a large puff of smoke bellowed into her face and she couldn't help a startled cry.

  "Hot spot!" Heavy footsteps pounded behind her and someone with a very strong arm muscled her out the front door and into the fresh air. "Please stay out of here, ma'am!"

  "I was just hoping there'd be something left, that's all." Sugar's protests seemed to fall on deaf ears.

  She had to admit the firefighters were doing their firefighter thing with efficiency. The "cottage," as her landlord had advertised it, was an illegal rental, and Robert was going to be very unhappy about the ruin. She supposed she should call him. She wondered if firefighters were required to tell county inspectors that there had been living quarters here. Maybe she should quietly disappear— but where could she go? Noor would put her up for a night or two before familiarity bred contempt. She wouldn't last that long with any of her other exes. Her sisters would make space for her, but only after she'd agreed to live her life according to their relentless

  perception of her as the baby of the family. So what if she was youngest? At thirty-four she had a right to self-determination.

  With a sinking heart, she realized the only person who'd welcome her with open arms was Grannie Fulton.

  No way, Sugar thought. Grannie Fulton's arms might be open but her mind was not. She'd have a killer brownie in one hand and the Good Book in the other. "Come in, my prodigal," she'd boom. "Come in and find your salvation!"

  Gran's brownies were a religious experience, but all that talk of hellfire and brimstone ruined the epiphany.

  Sugar belatedly realized one of the firefighters was gesturing at her from the cottage doorway. She walked in that direction but the firefighter bolted toward her in response. She hesitated and let the imposing figure reach her.

  "You need to get at least as far away as that fence, ma'am!"

  The voice and visage were muted behind the safety gear, but Sugar could tell the speaker was female. Looking up and doing the math, she figured the woman for six-two, a good eight inches taller than she was. "Why?"

  The because-I-said-so exasperation was plain. "It's for your safety."

  "What about yours?"

  "I'm the professional."

  Having no tart response to that, Sugar retreated to the fence that separated her imputed lawn space from her landlord's. The off-kilter pickets divided his tended lawn and garden from the lumpy broken part she was supposed to care for. It was what she had signed on for, she reminded herself. Living in a converted garage with nothing but her own resources to carry her forward in life, that was the goal. She'd given up slaving in restaurants for other people. What a waste often years that had been. She needed nothing and no one.

  Well, except a place to live.

  Not that anyone had asked to take care of her forever. Not that she wanted to be taken care of, either. Not that she'd had more

  than a passing coffee with an eligible woman since Noor had said, "This isn't working for me." Not precisely heartbroken, Sugar hadn't gone right back to dating simply because she hadn't had much spare time. It wasn't as if anyone had sought her out once word got around that she was single.

  Did she care? Of course not. She could live on her own. Of course she could.

  The warm spring breeze shifted and the smell from the house did not make her think of the status (burned up) of her life. The skyscraper of a firefighter turned around as if to warn her to move farther back, but Sugar was saved from another admonishment by the arrival of an ordinary sedan in the tiny side driveway that led to her "garden cottage." It was the kind of car you'd forget seconds after seeing it. The King County seal on the driver's door caught her attention then. That was quick, she thought. Was it a building inspector or arson investigator? Someone from the tax board coming to demand payments of some kind from the landlord for the illegal rental?

  Even worse, could it be a health inspector finally realizing that Cake Dreams by Sugar was operating at a new address, and had been for longer than allowed without updating her business license and inspections? She'd known all along the cheap rental was temporary. Now, fate had decided it was time to get legal again, it seemed. She wasn't missing that message in all this chaos. How would she afford a new place with the right zoning to get her inspections back up to date?

  The woman who climbed out from behind the wheel did not have a clipboard. In Sugar's experience, all inspectors carried clipboards. Nor did she look the least bit like an accountant. Of course Sugar didn't know exactly what an accountant might look like, but the black lace-up Doc Martens, calf-length leggings and flowing overshirt of blue, green and purple patchwork didn't fit the stereotype in her head. Neither d
id the brilliant emerald crocheted bag tucked under one arm. If tax assessors looked that good then no one would be anxious to talk to one, she realized.

  Two realizations hit her at once: the newcomer was stepping over fire hoses with the aplomb of someone accustomed to doing so, and, after an exchange of curt nods, it was clear that the tall firefighter knew her.

  "I'm Gantry Racine from Victim Services." She held out an elegantly pale hand tipped with short but gleaming nails. "Do you need anything? I have fresh bottled water in the car and an armful of resources we can call to get you shelter for a while if you need it."

  "Oh. I'm a victim?"

  "Of a fire, yes, but we don't have to worry about if the label fits." Gantry had black eyes that snapped and sparkled.

  I must be in shock, Sugar speculated, not to have taken in right away that she's likely the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in the flesh. She'd heard of porcelain skin but never actually looked at it except in paintings.

  "Drink this," Gantry said firmly. She produced a foam cup from her bag, along with a Thermos bottle. "Tea. Would you like sugar?"

  "Yes." Tea sounded really good, now that she thought about it. "That's my name."

  "How rude of me." Gantry handed over the cup, then tipped the contents of a sugar packet into it. "I didn't ask your name. I sincerely apologize."

  "It's okay." Sugar rushed to reassure her. "Sugar Sorensen is the whole name."

  "I wish we were meeting under better circumstances." She nodded at the cup in Sugar's hand and Sugar dutifully sipped. Hot, a bit strong, but the act of sipping was calming.

  The firefighter, who had watched their exchange behind the passivity of the safety mask, spoke so suddenly that Sugar nearly jumped. "Hey, Gantry."

  "How's life been treating you, Charlie?" Gantry pushed her thick, blonde hair over her shoulder, but there was no flirtation in the gesture.

  "Same old, same old. Are you going to be at Dee's shindig?"

  "I'm on call, so who knows?"

  "Me, too."

  There was a loud shout of "all clear" from inside the house. The firefighter, Charlie apparently, pulled off her safety mask. Sugar took note of the two light brown eyes set in a face too evenly cafe au lait in shade to be the result of a mere temporary tan. Close black curls were glossy with perspiration.

  I must be in shock, Sugar thought again. All the women were looking like models. She stifled a giggle. If she looked in a mirror maybe her freckles, chipmunk cheeks and unruly, mousy brown hair would be gone. Instead, she'd see Meg Ryan at thirty-four. That wouldn't suck.

  The other two women were talking in fits and starts about Dee's shindig, which appeared to be a wedding of some sort. Sugar was staring morosely at her poor windshieldless Honda when yet another car arrived.

  Whoever it was didn't work for any government agency. The Jaguar's door opened and the first thing Sugar could see clearly was a tapered black pump, exactly the kind that made her feet hurt just looking at them.

  Deep down there was a thought that she ought to know who this person was, but nothing came to her as the quiet click of the heels on cement proceeded toward them. The woman's brow was furrowed with concern, but she still stepped forward with confidence. Her red hair was caught in a French braid that shimmered in the sunlight. "Sugar? Sugar Sorenson?"

  "That's me," Sugar replied brightly.

  "The fire truck is blocking the street." The newcomer glanced open-mouthed at the ruin of Sugar's car and then at the smoldering cottage. "My goodness, what's happened?"

  Producer—she had to be the producer for Best of Seattle. The producer who might want to do a spot on Cake Dreams by Sugar. The producer who was supposed to melt off the chair with a casually offered slice of fruit and chocolate mousse torte. That torte,

  had it survived the drenching from the fire hoses, would have tasted like burnt house, Sugar realized, so the deluge was just as well. Under the circumstances she was fairly certain her hospitality wasn't under scrutiny.

  Charlie answered seriously, "A single-unit domestic fire. Seems to have started in the kitchen wall from an electrical source."

  "Oh, my lord." For the third time in minutes, Sugar found herself appraised by a lovely pair of eyes. These were the blue of four drops of food coloring into a quarter-cup of sugar. I've cracked up, Sugar thought. "What a shock that must be."

  "You look very familiar to me, but I don't think we've met." Gantry regarded the producer for a moment. "Was your picture in the Advocate}"

  The perfectly lipsticked mouth opened in slight surprise. "Yes, it was. They did a piece on women in television. I'm here to set up a segment on Sugar's culinary business and discuss the desserts category of the Seattle Eats cookoff coverage."

  Sugar considered that she hadn't been this close to this many lesbians all at once in quite some time. The last time was at the Grrlz Dance Party, and she wasn't really a "grrl." On the other hand, she hadn't been the only over-thirty lesbian there, either. Why was she thinking about a party from months ago when her house had just burned down? She looked closely at the producer, now thinking those incredible blue eyes were familiar. Surely she was losing her mind. But how did she ask? Did she say, "Did I meet you at that dance-mostly-naked, step-out-back-if-you-want-to-do-more party? Didn't we bump hips and other body parts for a while on the floor?" It had been in March, in honor of Noor's thirty-fifth birthday. Pathetic that the only party she'd been to in ages had been for an ex. She couldn't bring it up. It would sound like a come-on, as if she'd burnt her brains along with her house.

  Even if they had met—maybe even briefly danced—she didn't want the producer thinking she was a compulsive party girl. She was hardly the good-time girl her family thought she was. Rose took those honors.

  She'd never had the luxury of the time or money to drink bitter coffee and plan her next body piercing. Her small circle of friends was comprised of sous chefs and wannabes, which meant they were free for two hours a month. There were a few women in the greater Seattle metropolitan area with whom she had shared a misguided night that had turned into an awkward breakfast, but only Noor counted as an ex. They'd dated for almost three years, ruined that by moving in together and broken up a few months later.

  Now that the house had burned down, however, there were three awesomely attractive lesbians all looking her over. And all she was to them was a victim.

  "Yes, well, it certainly is." Emily Dorsett, Sugar thought. The producer was Emily Dorsett. She turned that bright blue gaze in Sugar's direction again. "We'll reschedule this, Sugar. I'm just devastated for you. You've got my card, right?"

  "Actually ..." Sugar swallowed as her voice cracked. "I'm not sure I do anymore."

  Gantry was the one who moved first, but it was Charlie who caught Sugar before she hit the ground.

  "What was I thinking?" Gantry's face swam in Sugar's vision for a moment. "Standing her out here in the sun after a shock."

  Just before Sugar blacked out she thought that they all had angels' faces, looking down at her in concern, like a trinity of lesbian beauty, compassion and strength. Angels of cocoa, cinnamon and vanilla ... If she'd known they were coming, she'd have baked a cake ...

  Sugar. . . sugar bear. Sugar, give me some sugar, darlin'. Sugar, ah honey honey, you are my candy girl. Sugar... sugar pie. Wake up, sugar pie, honeybunch. Sugar in the morning, sugar in the evening, sugar in the afternoon . . . sugar.. .

  "Sugar. Come on—she's coming around."

  "Sorry." Sugar turned her head away from the hand patting her cheek. "I don't know what hit me."

  "Shock."

  She was in the passenger seat of Gantry's car. Given that she smelled even more strongly of smoke, she was willing to guess Charlie had carried her there. If she'd known some hunky firefighter would have to pick her up she'd have worked harder to lose the fifteen pounds self-employment had put on her body.

  Charlie was speaking into the radio on her shoulder. "She's conscious, so the paramedics can—"

&nbs
p; "No, please," Sugar protested. "I don't need paramedics. I just fainted."

  "Sorry, it's procedure."

  "You did lose consciousness, Sugar," Gantry said quietly.

  Without looking at Emily, Sugar admitted, "My health insurance deductible is huge. Please, if you can cancel that call I'd appreciate it. I won't let them work on me."

  Charlie sighed, then shrugged. Turning away, she spoke into her radio again. The back of her black- and yellow-striped jacket was emblazoned with C. BRONSON. Sugar remembered having seen the name around the neighborhood. Some mornings when she went out for the paper, she'd seen letters in bold red across the shoulders of a sweat-soaked T-shirt as the early-morning jogger zipped past the house. She'd even giggled to herself and thought, "Must be Ms. Majestyk."

  "I'm glad you're feeling better." Emily glanced at her jeweled watch, but Sugar didn't sense she was unduly impatient. Yet she must be a busy woman, and her trip to die suburbs had been pointless. "I think I should leave you in peace. Please let me know when you're settled. I was really looking forward to doing this segment about you and your work. The photographs you sent were amazing."

  Sugar brightened, realizing that Emily did have a copy of her portfolio and a number of photos. "I will be asking for those back sometime soon, I hope, to make copies. It's possible my computer survived. It was farthest from the kitchen. And my digital camera might still be okay." She looked after the imposing Charlie, wondering when she might be able to go back into what was left of her home. She had no idea how far the water had spewed from the original blaze.

  As if reading her mind, Gantry said, "You'll probably be okayed to go back in tomorrow. At least you got a few things out. And some of your appliances will have survived the water."

  A screech of tires startled them all. Sugar started to get out of Gantry's car but found that Gantry's hand clamped on her shoulder held her in place with no effort at all. Sugar marveled for a moment at her unresponsive arms and legs. Wow, limbs could actually be so weak they trembled.