Page 8 of Leo and His Love Bunny

Did I say the word delicious on air? I can’t remember.

There’s so much about this day that I want to forget.

But the money that I stopped to put in the bank on my way home is not one of those. That, along with the automatic deposits from the day’s sales, represents the most money I’ve ever had in my account at one time, earned all by myself. Not including bank loans.

I can’t believe it. I can understand why sin can be so seductive.

After all, if I’m selling naked woman cupcakes, and they’re making me a ton of money, it’s tempting to...sell more naked woman cupcakes and perhaps naked man cupcakes as well.

I don’t even let my mind go there. No. There are some things a person cannot do for money, and that is one of them.

“Nora!” Phyllis says as I step into the common room, which is basically a glorified hallway with chairs and a worktable with the elevator at the other end. I think that the downstairs to this apartment building used to be some kind of shop, because of the odd way it is laid out.

Regardless, I smile and try to pretend that there’s nothing wrong. That this hasn’t been the worst day of my life. “Hello, Miss Phyllis. How are you?”

I strive for nonchalant, but I think the best I do is talking like somebody’s hand is rubbing my neck and I’m afraid I’m going to die at any moment. That’s not exactly how I feel; it would probably be an improvement.

“I heard that you have R-rated cupcakes at your shop.” Miss Leslie looks up from the loveseat where she’s carefully removing the old upholstery. I actually really love what they do. The designer in me is fascinated, and they’ve even asked my opinion a few times about what kinds of fabric designs they should use.

It is very flattering and surprising too. The ladies might be older, but they treat me like they admire and respect me as a person and don’t just look down at me because I am young.

“It was an accident,” I say, and it almost comes out like a question.

“You had cupcakes that look like breasts, and you’re trying to tell us it was an accident?” Miss Leslie says, an eyebrow raised.

Miss Carrie, behind her, with the flashing neon green hair, snorts. Her hair might be green, but she is the quietest of the group. That snort is the most I’ve heard her say all week.

“Yes. I know it sounds crazy, and if I were you, I might not believe me, but I promise you I did not mean for that to happen.”

“So do you mind telling us the story of how you came to have imitation breast cupcakes, on accident?” Miss Tammy says, holding a small hammer in her hand while reaching into the apron that she wears around her waist for the tiny staples they use to gently tap the new fabric in.

The ladies are very meticulous in their work, and the furniture they create is absolutely gorgeous.

“Well, I guess there’s not really much of a story,” I say, edging toward the elevator, hoping to make a quick escape. “My assistant, Matt, made cupcakes, and my other assistant, Stephanie, iced them with icing that was flesh colored.” I can tell I’m deliberately trying to distance myself from the debacle. Matt really did make the cupcakes, and Stephanie really did ice them. I made the icing, which I think I’m not going to mention. “Which was fine. It was supposed to be a pale pink, and we were going to have a rosy pink on top. It...turned out to be maybe more nipple than rose, and the way Stephanie topped it off just...made it look...like a breast.” That’s all I have to say. I start to lift my hand up to walk away when Miss Phyllis says, “Darling Nora. Would you mind watching Trixie for us?”

I open my eyes wide and shoot them to the corner where the most annoying parakeet in the world sits in a cage.

I want to come up with an excuse. Find a reason why I cannot watch Trixie, but nothing comes to mind. I can hardly say, I have big plans to go to my apartment, shut the door, lock it, lean against it, and start crying. And Trixie will interrupt those plans. I mean, one, that is not exactly something that a twentysomething entrepreneur admits to the world. I’m supposed to be big, bad, and capable of doing anything. After all, I own my own business. I am a woman of the world. I don’t sit in my apartment, eat ice cream on the floor, and cry into the tub.

At least, I don’t admit that I do that.

“Sure,” I say, wondering if I agree to babysit the parakeet if they will not kick me out of my apartment. I’m pretty sure there are laws against that, but I signed a six-month lease, and I actually need to renew it, but I haven’t gotten around to it. I think the email about it is still in my inbox.

“All right. We don’t trust just anyone with him,” Phyllis says with a hand out emphasizing her words as she stands. “He’s very sweet and shouldn’t give you any trouble at all. I’ll make sure that I write my phone number down so you can call me if you need me for anything.”

“I thought the name of the bird was Trixie?” I say, and this is mostly to get my mind off the fact that I want to start crying before I’ve made it to my apartment. This just seems like the last thing in the world that a person who has been through the kind of day that I have should be expected to do.

“Well, when we first got him, we thought it was a girl, but it turned out we were wrong.”

“Say I love you, say I love you,” the parakeet says as Miss Phyllis walks toward him.

“I love you, Trixie,” Phyllis says as she picks up the cage and grabs a box of what I assume to be bird food from the shelf beside it.

She comes back, and I naturally walk forward to help her. Not that she needs it. Miss Phyllis must be in her seventies if she is a day. The other ladies who are in their seventies or possibly early eighties are just as spry and active as she is.

Come to think of it, I believe I’ve seen Matt around the apartment building once or twice, even though he should have no business here. He is about the age of Phyllis.

The ladies probably wouldn’t appreciate me playing matchmaker with them, but I tuck the idea about Matt away inside my head. Matt lost his wife to cancer five years before,which is part of the reason that he sold his business in New York City and came home. He hadn’t been ready to retire, even though he had been in his early seventies.

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