Margaret was silent, and I could see leaving wasn’t going to be easy. When I’d left the bakery at eighteen, I’d been full of steam and had no intentions of looking back. But Margaret had stayed in Alexandria and had tried to help when she could. Yeah, she could be bitchy and grumpy but she was loyal to the bone.
“I swear on Mom and Dad’s lives if you stay, I will kill you,” I said.
Rachel finished her beer. “Ditto.”
Chapter Five
Sunday, 9:00 P.M.
12 days, 10 hours until grand reopening
Income Lost: $0
By the time I climbed the stairs to my room, my limbs drooped as if each weighed thousands of pounds. My stomach was settled, but my head pounded.
It had always seemed if you were carrying life inside of you, you’d feel good and full of energy. It never occurred to me you’d feel as if a truck had slammed into you. Mom and Rachel both had had great pregnancies. Tons of energy and no morning sickness. But I didn’t share their genetics. I shared my birth mother Terry’s DNA.
Terry and I had reunited a couple of months ago. It had not been a greeting-card moment but rather a tense and very trying meeting. She’d been more nervous than me, and she’d also feared I’d tell her husband and sons I existed. Hard learning you were someone’s dirty little secret.
While we’d sat in the upscale Alexandria hotel lobby, she’d tried to explain the reasons behind my abandonment. I had been a good kid, she’d said. It wasn’t my fault. She’d been a young mother, she’d explained. It wasn’t personal.
Intellectually, I understood what she was saying. But my brain and emotions didn’t always communicate so well. If I’d been such a great kid, then why not tell the world about me? Why did I need to be a secret?
I pushed through my bedroom door, flipped on a light and sat on my bed. The springs groaned and squeaked as I pulled off my shoes.
My phone rang, and I glanced at it. Gordon. Drawing in a breath I hit Send. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” He sounded surprised to hear my voice. “Did you get my texts?”
“Yeah, and I’m sorry.” I pinched the bridge of my nose with my fingertips. “Demoing the wall was a mess and then Margaret said she’s quitting.”
“Why’s Margaret leaving?” The tangible reasons seemed to ease the edge from his voice.
“She’s gotten a great job. Long story. I’ll tell you when you get back.”
“You doing okay? You sound tired.”
Morning memories of my doctor’s visit flashed. I wanted so much to tell Gordon. He was my friend. I wanted him to be my lover again. I wanted a life with him.
But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, sudden tears filled my eyes, and as I glanced toward the ceiling they trickled down my face. “I am tired. It’s been a long day.” Clearing my throat, I said, “How did the bike ride go? You didn’t lose anyone, did you?”
“Nearly lost one or two, but we had a head count of twelve when we reached the inn.”
“Same twelve?”
He chuckled. “More or less.”
“When do you get back?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Well, I’ll be here protecting the home front as Jean Paul rewires electrical outlets.”
“I’ll come by.”
I’d have the results by ten tomorrow. “I’ll come by your place. It’s insane here.”
“I love you.”
I drew in a deep breath. “I love you, too.”
When I ended the call, I held the phone to my chest. Tears dampened my cheeks. I had been nudging my life back to a new sense of normal, and now it teetered on the edge.
Setting the phone down, I rose and moved toward a small desk in the corner. I wanted to call Mom. I wanted her to take me in her arms and tell me I would be okay. But she was somewhere on a beach in North Carolina likely exhausted after chasing two five-year-olds around all day.
And right now, what did I have to tell her? I was afraid. I might have messed up.
I slipped the phone on the charger and stripped off my clothes, letting them remain where they hit the ground. The air cooled my skin as I grabbed an extra-extra-large T-shirt hanging on the back of the door and slipped it on. I pulled my hair from a ponytail and ran my fingers over my scalp, letting my gaze land on the recipe box.
I flipped open the lid and glanced at the browning, brittle cards. Gently I thumbed through the cards.
Moving back to my bed, I sat, pressed my back to the wall, and cradled the box in my lap. I chose a card from the center because it appeared more worn and tattered than the others. It was a recipe for pumpkin bread. Judging by the subtle stains and the frayed edges, it had been a favorite. The handwriting was delicate and precise. Clearly whoever had copied the recipe had taken great care. Sixty years ago there had been cookbooks of course but many relied on recipes passed from generation to generation.
I raised the card to my nose, expecting the musty scent of time but instead inhaled the scents of cinnamon and nutmeg. Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine the bakery seventy years ago. America would have been at war with Germany and Japan. There’d have been rations. Alexandria, a port city so close to Washington, D.C., would have been awash in soldiers. The art center on the waterfront, now called the Torpedo Factory, was really a torpedo factory. No Internet. No cell phones or laptops.
The idea of traveling back seventy years did not appeal. And yet people then had lived their lives as we do today. They’d loved, married, and had children—every emotion lived before by another. The cadence of life had been slower before technology but the experiences were the same.
“So why did you hide this box in the wall? What was so precious in this box?”
Flipping through the cards, I saw more entries written as neatly and carefully as the first. Pies, cakes, and cookies. All had been used but not so worn as the pumpkin bread.
Behind all the cards was a small photo featuring three people. A twentysomething young woman dressed in a white bakery uniform stood in the center of two men, both dressed in military uniforms. The woman pinned her dark hair back in a bun and though she wore no makeup, her vibrant smile made her beautiful. The men appeared to be a bit older. The one on the left was shorter and broader and wore his cap cocked to the left. The other man was tall and lean with fair hair, had set his cap straight, and though he also smiled, he seemed a bit more serious. Each wrapped their arms around the woman, but she leaned a little closer to the man on her right. The trio stood in front of a sandwich board reading, UNION STREET BAKERY.
Smiling, I leaned in and studied the building behind her. I recognized the bakery’s front door. I knew the door had been changed out several times but the style remained the same. I flipped over the picture and saw written on the back, Jenna, 1944.
So who were you, Jenna? I fished the dog tags out of the box and ran my fingers over Sergeant Walter Franklin Jacob’s name.
“I’m guessing the tall, serious one is Walter.” But I could have been wrong.
Dad had said once he’d stowed the bakery archives in his attic. In 1944, Dad would have been two, so if he had crossed paths with Jenna he wouldn’t have remembered.
I studied Jenna’s profile and looked closer. Her smile, her brightness, and her zest captured my imagination. Gently I traced her profile. I’d never thought much about the archives but now I was curious about Jenna. She’d been young. She was clearly close to two different men and she’d taken the time to hide a recipe collection in the walls of the bakery with Walter’s dog tags.
I searched the box for any other photos but found none. I closed the lid and then my eyes. Worries quickly crowded out Jenna’s questions.
“In the morning the doctor is going to tell me I have no worries. Gordon is going to come home. I am going to tell him how much I love him, and this will all be forgotten.”
; Chapter Six
Monday, 7:55 A.M.
12 days until grand reopening
Income Lost: $300
The morning weatherman had rambled about temperatures reaching the upper nineties, but I wasn’t feeling the heat. The clinic was scheduled to open at eight and I’d arrived ten minutes early, hoping to be first in line and avoiding any kind of wait. I’d hoped the receptionist would look through the glass doors, take pity on me and let me in early. But the lady at reception did a fine job of avoiding eye contact with me.
A car pulled up behind me and a coughing woman got out. I nudged a little closer to the door, not wanting to lose my first place slot or to catch her cold.
She came to stand behind me and sneezed. “Jeez, you’d think they could open. It’s one minute to eight.”
I folded my arms over my chest. The minute didn’t mean much to the folks inside the building, but it was a lifetime to me. “Yeah.”
The woman sneezed again. “I got a cold.”
“Rough.”
“What’s going on with you?”
“Flu.”
“You look like you’re holding up well.”
I stared through the glass doors at the receptionist, willing her to rise and unlock the door. “It’s a front. I’m a mess.”
At exactly eight o’clock the receptionist did stand, cross to the door and unlock it. She wasn’t smiling and her slumped shoulders suggested this was the last place she wanted to be. Back at you, sister.
Managing a smile, I moved toward the front desk sign-in sheet. Carefully I signed Daisy McCrae and took a seat, not bothering with a magazine. Tapping my foot I folded my arms over my chest. Don’t borrow trouble. Mom had said it to me a million times. I was the kid always ready with a detailed worst-case scenario in no time flat. Once Mom was driving Rachel and me to a classmate’s six-year-old birthday party. She’d been running late because of work at the bakery and so she’d been driving fast. Long story short, she’d gotten a speeding ticket.
Rachel had been devilishly curious and calm when the officer had walked off with Mom’s driver’s license, because in Rachel’s young world life always worked out. I, however, did not know that. I’d been abandoned at age three, and I understood on a cellular level the world could indeed crumble.
“Momma, if you go to jail,” I asked, “who will take care of me?”
Mom glanced in the rearview mirror, her eyes sparking with annoyance. “I’m not going to jail, Daisy.”
My fingers drew into tight fists. “Yeah, but what if you do? Who is going to take care of me?”
She’d squeezed her fingers on the steering wheel and studied the officer in her side mirror. “Dad would take care of you.”
I’d clung to the strap of my seatbelt. “What if Dad can’t come?”
Mom huffed out a breath as she watched the officer. “Dad will come.”
“But what if he can’t.” One backup had not been enough.
“Then I’ll call Mrs. G. from next door or I will call your grandmother. There will be someone.”
My churning stomach had eased, and I’d settled back, accepting that the bench of potential rescuers was indeed deep enough to keep me safe.
“Daisy McCrae.”
I glanced up to find a gray-haired woman dressed in scrubs looking to the woman with the cough. I rose. “I’m Daisy.”
“Come on back.”
I followed her to a curtained room where I sat on the gurney as the nurse read my chart.
“Can you tell me if it’s a yes or a no?” I said.
The nurse punched keys on the exam room computer and pulled up my name. “The doctor will be right in to see you.”
I lowered my voice. “Blink once for yes and twice for no.”
She smiled. “He’ll be right in.”
Doomed to more waiting and wondering, I shifted on the gurney, crossed and uncrossed my feet, stretched and then shoved out a sigh. Finally the curtain snapped back to reveal a tall, slim man of Indian descent. His rich dark hair was neatly combed back and his white starched jacket covered khakis, white button-down, and tie.
“Mrs. McCrae?” he said.
I didn’t quibble with the mistake. Sitting straighter, I fisted handfuls of the gurney paper sheet in my hands. “Hey.”
“Mrs. McCrae.” He glanced at my chart as if to double check. “You are indeed pregnant.”
For a moment, time stopped. The sounds of the nurses and patients outside my room faded. The air around me grew thick and heavy and my heart slowed. I could feel myself shrinking into the gurney and resisting the urge to pull the paper sheet over my head.
I cleared my throat. “Are you sure?”
He didn’t make eye contact as he nodded. “We ran a blood test. And they are very accurate.”
“Very. Is your kind of very like a one hundred percent kind of very or a ninety percent very?”
He lifted his gaze to mine so there’d be no confusion. “One hundred percent.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I shoved out a breath and then more to myself said, “Now what?”
The doctor frowned. “You were not expecting this?”
Threading my fingers together and resting them on my lap, I nodded. “An understatement.”
“There are options available to you.” His voice sounded distant and far-off.
Options. The word sounded so neat, clean, and nonthreatening, as if we were talking about removing tonsils or an appendectomy. I’d known women who’d exercised their options, but I’d never been faced with this choice before because I’d always been so careful. I’d never wanted to make a baby I didn’t want, because I’d been that baby.
“Mrs. McCrae?”
I glanced up. “It’s Miss and I know the options.” I hopped off the table. “Thanks. That option is not for me.” I had no idea what the hell I was going to do, but I was certain what I wouldn’t do.
“Do you have an obstetrician?”
“What? No, not yet. My sister likes hers. I’ll get on with her.” I was saying the right words, but I was so not feeling them. An obstetrician for me. Shit! “Thanks, I’ll take it from here.”
As I reached for the curtain, he said, “Are you going to be okay?”
A ten-ton weight had settled on my shoulders and he was asking me if I was going to be fine. I had no idea. “Yeah, sure. I always find a way to bounce back.”
As I gave the receptionist my credit card and waited for her to process the payment, I fought a tremendous sense of loneliness.
My support bench, the one Mom had relied on all those years ago when she’d gotten her speeding ticket, had thinned. Mrs. G. and Grandma were dead. Mom and Dad were on vacation. Margaret had left. Rachel was struggling. And Gordon, well, there was the minor detail that the baby was not his.
* * *
There wasn’t much I could do to help Jean Paul with the electrical work, so Rachel and I focused on the front of the store, which needed a new coat of paint. My life was out of control, and I was so grateful for any basic task able to fill my day and occupy my mind. And so instead of thinking about the kid, Gordon, and the next eighteen years of my life, I fixated on paint samples.
Rachel, hidden behind dark sunglasses, climbed into the passenger seat as I slid behind the wheel of the bakery’s delivery truck. Balancing my can of ginger ale, I clicked my seatbelt.
My sister’s hair was pulled back into a ponytail but the style wasn’t smooth. In fact, it looked like she’d simply combed her fingers through her hair and tied it back. In the rush of getting the girls and our parents out of town yesterday, I’d not noticed how rough she looked.
“You feeling all right?” My stomach flip-flopped as I turned on the car and waited for the chug-chug of the engine to warm and settle. I unrolled my window, breathed in fresh air, a
nd sipped my soda.
She also unrolled her window. “Great.”
A sideways glance in her direction didn’t jive with the adjective. “You look a little upset. You can’t be missing the girls already.”
She straightened and brushed a lock of blond hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. “I’m not missing them yet.”
“You look rough.”
She tossed me a glare. “You don’t look so hot yourself.”
Thinking about not feeling well made me sicker. I put the gear in reverse and backed out of the alley. “Did you get drunk last night?”
She reached for my ginger ale, which I reluctantly surrendered, and sipped carefully. “And then some. I had a couple of bottles of champagne I found in the cabinet in my apartment. They were leftover from a New Year’s Eve party Mike and I had a couple of years ago. I polished them both off.”
“Warm champagne?”
“I added ice.”
“You’re kidding?”
She shook her head, wincing as if it hurt, and handed the soda can back to me. “I wish. Note to self: Ice and champagne are okay, but consuming two bottles of iced anything is begging for trouble.”
“Duly noted.”
She moistened her lips as if the memory of the champagne was too much to tolerate. “So what was your poison?”
A broken condom four months ago. “Just under the weather.”
Rachel shook her head. “You never get sick.”
Tipping my head back, I commanded my stomach to calm as I turned onto King Street and headed west. My gut responded by constricting with nausea and then finally relaxing. “Never say never.”
Rachel rubbed the back of her neck with her hand. “I haven’t gotten hammered since high school. After Mike died, there were many reasons to drink then, but I didn’t. But I sure made up for lost time last night.”
“Why?”
“If the girls had been at home I wouldn’t have. But they were gone and the house was so quiet. And then I thought about Margaret leaving and her life taking such a great turn.” A half smile tugged at the edge of her lips. “I felt sorry for myself.”
Sweet Expectations (A Union Street Bakery Novel) Page 7
