My heart slowed a beat. With the three of us, the bakery had run well. Rachel baked. I managed the money and Margaret handled customers. We were a three-legged stool.
I summoned a smile, swearing I’d not let my mind go to the disaster place it liked to scurry when change occurred. “So where is the job?”
Her eyes brightened. “It’s an archeology dig up on the Chesapeake Bay in St. Mary’s County, Maryland.”
“That’s about an hour north of here.” I calculated the miles, the traffic, and the lost hours behind the counter.
An hour away wasn’t the end of the earth, and I was thinking this gig like many of the other history jobs would be part-time. Good history positions were so rare. Basically, someone had to die for a slot to open.
“So what would you do?” Rachel asked.
Margaret rubbed nervous hands over her apron. “An old pre–Revolutionary War community has been discovered. The dig has already started, but they need extra hands.”
“So is this a volunteer job?” I said.
“Not exactly. The gal heading it up has to take a leave. She’s pregnant and has to go on bed rest.” She shook her head. “Who in their right mind would get pregnant during the dig season? God, contraception anyone?”
I folded my arms over my chest. “So you’d be there for the dig season.”
“Or maybe longer.”
I knew enough about archeology digs to know the season had started in March and would extend to early December. “So you would leave when?”
“Today would be my last day.”
A rush of air escaped from Rachel’s lips.
“I know this is very short notice.” Doubt mingled with Margaret’s euphoria. “I know I’m leaving you in the lurch. I know that. But I swear this is the best job ever.”
I shoved back a pang of jealousy. I’d had a great job until the financial company I’d worked for had blown up. I’d made great money. Wore designer suits. People sat a little straighter when I entered a room. Now I worked eighty-hour weeks either in hot kitchens covered in flour and icing, ringing a register, or balancing a lopsided budget.
Sarcastic comments danced in my head, but I refused to unleash them. As much as I wanted to bust Margaret for her lack of notice, I didn’t. Couldn’t. This was a dream for her. “So can we at least throw you a going-away party tomorrow?”
Relief rushed past Margaret’s lips in a rush. “I have to be on-site Monday morning.”
“Then it will be tomorrow afternoon.” I faced Rachel. “We can do a little something tomorrow afternoon, right?”
Unshed tears glistened in Rachel’s eyes. Her bottom lip quivered, but still she nodded and smiled. “Great.”
Margaret pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t have taken this, Rachel, if Daisy wasn’t here. I know the two of you can manage.”
Rachel cleared her throat. “Of course.” She turned and vanished into the kitchen.
Margaret moved to follow.
I blocked her path. “It’s okay. Let her go. She’s been wound tight lately.”
Worry erased her happiness. “What’s going on with her?”
“Jean Paul is insisting on changes, and it’s upsetting her. And the renovation is not helping.”
Silver bracelets jangled from Margaret’s wrist as she tugged at a key-shaped earring. “She’s the boss. If she doesn’t like it then she should tell him so.”
“That’s not her style.”
“Maybe it should be.”
“I know. You know. But this is about more than changing menu items. The latest menu was Mike’s.”
Margaret rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t mean it was great. I mean Mike could bake, but he wasn’t the expert. I didn’t like all his choices.”
Mike had been a talented baker and seemed to be the perfect fit for Rachel. He liked to make decisions, and she was happy to let him. Their relationship wouldn’t have worked for me or for Margaret, but it worked for them. Since his death, Rachel had been hurled out of her comfort zone and forced to make tougher choices. So far, she’d not done so well.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m here, and Rachel and I will figure this all out.”
“I’m leaving you in a terrible spot.”
“Not really. You’ve done a lot to keep the bakery going, carried the load when I didn’t. Let me worry about it for a while.”
Margaret tugged at the apron strings. “I didn’t think I’d feel this guilty about leaving.”
“The place has a way of sucking you in.”
“So what are you gonna do? This isn’t your forever kind of place. I figured sooner or later you’d job hunt in New York or on the West Coast.”
“I’m going to give the bakery a full year, see it through the renovation and the wholesale transition.”
“When did you decide this?”
I glanced around the shop at the cookies in the display, the cupcake clock on the wall, the blue trim needing fresh paint. “When we committed to the renovation.”
“So you’re going to stop looking for another job?” Surprise and doubt wrapped each word.
My defenses rose. “A year isn’t forever, Margaret. And if the right job came along I’d sure look at it.”
“You mean like opportunity knocking on the door?”
“Something like that.”
“Kinda Zen and kinda passive for you.” A frown furrowed her brow. “I remember Dad saying when he was a teen he’d never work in the bakery. That he wanted to be a pilot. And then his dad died and life locked him into this place.”
The comparison didn’t sit well. I didn’t resemble the McCrae clan but temperament-wise I was a lot like Dad. We thought alike. Mom said we both had type A personalities. “I don’t think he has a lot of regrets.”
“He does, too. He never says, but those regrets are there. I don’t want you to end up with regrets, Daisy.”
Dad said he was happy with his choices. Had he simply fooled himself like I was trying to now?
My stomach gurgled. Right now I could not think that far ahead. “Let me get through the next two weeks, and then I’ll worry about the rest of my life. You take this job. In fact, consider yourself fired as of noon today.”
Margaret laughed. “Fired?”
“That’s right. We want you out.” I wagged my finger at the front door. “Don’t ever darken our doorstep again.”
Margaret tapped a ringed finger against her thigh. “And if it doesn’t work out or last?”
“It will.” Better she think of this as a one-way ticket. Trap doors, outs, and nets had a way of making us not try as hard. “Now would you flip the sign to Open? Customers should be here soon.”
She moved toward the door and spun the sign around. “I thought I was fired.”
“Like I said, you are fired at noon.”
Margaret stopped and stared at me for a long moment.
“What?” I grumbled.
“Thanks.”
This time my smile was real. “You’re welcome.”
I’d barely slipped on my apron before the first throng of customers arrived. Saturday was our busiest retail day. Folks who’d denied themselves sweets all week arrived ready to sin and enjoy. Some planned ahead for Sunday after-church meals and others were the random tourists who’d found us. Weeks ago, Rachel and I had visited all the area hotels within walking distance and handed out samples and offered a 10 percent discount to hotel guests. The ploy seemed to be working, which made me all the more frustrated by this much-needed closing. I’d planned to renovate and move the kitchen in September or October but when the wholesalers agreed to give us a try, I knew I needed to have the new operation in full swing by fall. Again, plans and me, we didn’t fare so well.
As Margaret welcomed a customer, I turned toward the saloon doors leading to the back. As I took a step, an odd
wave of energy passed over me. Cold. Frigid. It took my breath away and for a moment I froze, not sure what was happening. Maybe more flulike symptoms but this didn’t feel so physical. The sensation was dread mixed with a jolt of energy. As my head spun, I imagined the floor under me shifting. The sounds of Margaret and the customer faded and the loneliness enveloped me. Instinctively, my hand slid to my unsteady belly. I was going to be sick.
Stumbling forward, I pushed through the saloon doors and hurried up the back staircase to my room. I made it to my bathroom seconds before I threw up. After the nausea had passed, I sat on the bathroom floor, my eyes watering and my head aching. I leaned my head back against the tiled wall. “This is such bullshit. Such bullshit.”
Whatever was going on with me needed to stop. I did not have time to be sick. And I sure as hell did not have time to be pregnant.
I’m not sure what drew my gaze to the trash can, but there it went, catching the edge of the pregnancy test strip. Absently, I reached for it so I could stare at the light-pinkish window, which had refused to confirm a pregnancy this morning.
When I looked at the strip, the color was no longer a light pink. It was dark pink plus sign. A really dark pink plus sign.
I blinked, shook the test strip as if a hard jolt would dilute the color, and then looked at it again. The plus remained as bright and pink as before. Weren’t these tests no longer valid after twenty or thirty minutes?
I fished out the box and read the back instructions thinking maybe, just maybe, the plus meant something other than pregnant.
Quickly I scanned the tiny type. I found in bolded letters Results. A negative sign meant no pregnancy. A plus indicated pregnancy.
The instructions had the good sense to remain neutral and oddly calm, though it could have said, Daisy, you dumbass. You are thirty-four years old, and you are by no stretch a virgin. So how the hell did you get pregnant? You know better!
Clutching the strip in my hand, I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes. Tests like this weren’t perfect. There was at least a 10 percent margin of error, I was fairly certain. The definitive test, according to Rachel, was a blood test.
Clutching the strip, I swore. “Why couldn’t you have given me a straight answer in the time listed on the back of the box? Then I’d have a real answer. Not a maybe yes, maybe this is a bad test yes.”
Shit.
I thought about another drugstore test but I couldn’t imagine doing this all over again tomorrow morning. No more dime-store tests, which could have been left in the rain, heat, or cold by a hapless delivery truck driver.
Yeah, the test was faulty. Yeah. Faulty.
The blood test would prove once and for all that I was not pregnant.
* * *
Rachel’s smile was as brittle and fragile as spun sugar, which was as easily admired as shattered. As she boxed up assorted cookies for a mother with two toddlers screaming to be let out of their double stroller, she tried to imagine herself at a beach. Soft sand. Cool breeze. The sun on her skin.
But as hard as she tried to summon the image, she could not. She’d not been to the beach since high school, and when she’d been there it had been with Mike. They had barely started dating. She’d been a cheerleader. He’d been on the football team. They’d not had much money, but there’d been no worries for either of them in those days. Their biggest concerns were getting a base tan before prom, which was weeks away. She’d been so worried her pale skin would all but glow in her new black dress.
The lost, long-ago beach day had been magical. They’d had a beer or two. Soaked up the sun. Laughed with friends. No worries.
Perfect had ended during the car ride home when she’d broken out in chills. She’d sunburned. Badly. When they’d arrived home her skin simmered with heat. Mike had laughed and reminded her he’d told her so. Her mother had coated her skin with aloe vera.
“Could you throw in another dozen sugar cookies?”
Rachel glanced up toward the voice that sounded as if it were a million miles away. The woman wore her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, sunglasses on her head and gold earrings dangling. She looked annoyed.
“Another dozen cookies?” Rachel said. “Sure.”
“Sugar cookies,” she repeated as Rachel reached for the lemon bars.
“Right. Sure.” She carefully stacked the dozen in the box before sealing it with a gold Union Street Bakery sticker. “That’ll be twenty-one dollars.”
The woman handed her a credit card. “I saw the sign out front. So how long are you going to be closed?”
If the woman had seen and read the sign she’d know. But Rachel summoned a smile as she swiped the card. “Two weeks.”
A manicured finger smoothed over a sleek eyebrow. “My son’s birthday is August 12. I’d like to order a cake.”
Rachel handed her back her card and receipt. “I can take it now.”
“You are sure you’ll be open on time? I’ve never known construction to go as planned.”
“We will be fine. We’ve built in extra days of cushion.”
“It’s been my experience when there’s a remodel days turn into weeks.”
“We’ll be fine.” And they would. This was about knocking out one wall and moving kitchen equipment, not rebuilding the entire place. “Would you like me to take the order?”
She opened the cookie box and handed one to each child. “It needs to look like a ninja. A red ninja. Chocolate. Must feed twenty children.”
“A ninja?”
“You can do that can’t you?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“And he has to be red. Billy likes the red ninja. He has a red ninja doll and is obsessed with it.”
“I can do a ninja. And red. Vanilla icing. Chocolate cake.”
“Yes. But not buttercream. I like the icing made from Crisco. I know it’s not the fancy kind, but I like the taste better. Tastes like the canned icing. I know we shouldn’t like it, but we do. So do the kids.”
As Rachel wrote up the order, she pressed so hard with the tip of her pencil it broke and she had to fish another out of her apron. Ninja. Crisco. What else? Food coloring in the batter? “Sounds good. You’ll pick it up on the eleventh?”
“Yes.”
She recorded the woman’s information and watched as she left. “Why don’t you go to a chain store at get your ninja cake? Why bother to come here?”
Margaret glanced up from the register. “What are you mumbling about?”
“People who come to a specialty bakery wanting their cake to taste like the ones in the grocery store.”
Margaret looked unworried. “Money is money. Does it matter as long as they pay?”
Rachel glared at Margaret. “I feel like a cake whore who mixes up whatever to keep the customer happy.”
“Cake whore?” Margaret cocked her head. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
Rachel could see the surprise in her sister’s gaze but didn’t really care. “What am I supposed to sound like?”
“I don’t know. Happy, I suppose. Daisy and I are the bitter, grumbly ones, remember? You are supposed to be the happy one.”
“Maybe I don’t feel like happy. Maybe I’m a little bit annoyed in general today.” The bells rang on the front door as several more customers wandered in. Rachel watched as they absently searched the menu above for ideas, and she realized if she had to answer one more question about the difference between white chocolate and chocolate, she’d scream. Without a word, she left Margaret to deal.
She considered escaping to the kitchen and baking to burn off stress, but remembered the ovens had been unplugged and Jean Paul was downstairs dismantling them for the move.
She smoothed her hands over her hips and rolled her head from side to side, trying to work the kinks out of her neck. Margaret was right. She was the happy one. She
didn’t get pissed and didn’t do bitter well. And yet here she stood, annoyed and angry living in skin tightening by the moment.
Daisy reappeared red-eyed and pale.
“Where have you been?”
The sharp edges on her words had Daisy raising a brow. “Bathroom.”
“Are you hungover or something? Gordon’s been gone since Thursday night on his bike trip, and you’re not the type to sit in your room and drink alone.”
Daisy moistened her lips. “It’s less like a hangover and more like something. A bit of a bug, I think.”
Immediately contrite, Rachel struggled with her anger as if she didn’t have the right to express negative emotion with anyone, especially Daisy, who had damn near ridden to her rescue months ago. “You need to hang back when we pack and move equipment.”
“No. I’m good. I already feel like I’m on the mend.” Daisy glanced at the clock on the wall. “T-minus fifteen minutes.”
“And the bakery closes for fourteen days.”
“Margaret out front?”
“Figured I’d leave it to her since she’s abandoning us.” Bitterness melted into her voice.
“That’s not exactly fair. She’s hung in there with you.”
“Yeah, she has. And Mom and Dad helped her with grad school and last I checked the bakery pays her for her time.” She rubbed her hands over her arms, craving a beer. She’d had a couple since Mike died, always denying herself a second, fearing if she gave in to the grief she’d never stop drinking.
“You on the rag?” Daisy challenged.
Rachel shook her head. “Can’t I be annoyed without being on my cycle?”
“You are only edgy during your period.”
“Well, today, I’m annoyed, and I’m not on the rag.”
Daisy’s gaze narrowed as she studied Rachel. “How was the girls’ sleepover with Mom and Dad?”
She huffed out a breath. “No one called so all systems must be go.”
Mom and Dad had offered to take the girls on a beach vacation when Daisy had proposed the renovation. It had made sense to all, so her parents rented a cottage on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. The Sunday-to-Sunday rental began tomorrow, but Rachel had been worried about her aging parents chasing after very busy twin five-year-olds. She’d suggested sleepovers as practice. So far, they’d gone well. The girls had been happy and Mom and Dad hadn’t died from exhaustion.
Sweet Expectations (A Union Street Bakery Novel) Page 3
