Sweet Expectations (A Union Street Bakery Novel)

by Taylor, Mary Ellen

  Shoving out a breath, I grabbed a cloth rag and wiped the paint from my shoe. “I know. I know.”

  A knock on the front door had us both turning to find a slender thirtysomething man with short dark hair. He wore a white collared shirt and khakis and carried a clipboard.

  I smiled but said without moving my lips, “Clipboards never bode well.”

  Rachel stood and also grinned. “Health inspector.”

  I laid my roller in the paint pan and wiped my hands. “Or building inspector.”

  “Place a bet?”

  “Two million dollars.”

  “You are on.” Rachel moved to the door and opened it. “Can I help you?”

  He nodded glancing past her to me. “I’m with the building inspector’s office. I’m here to check the progress of your electrical wiring.”

  “Our builder is on a break,” I said.

  He frowned.

  I smiled. “Builders are a tough bunch to wrangle.”

  He nodded, no sign of humor. “Is there someone who can answer questions for him?”

  “I can. I’m Daisy McCrae and this is my sister Rachel. We own the bakery.”

  “Grant Fraser. I’m with the city.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I grinned, as if I were meeting a billion-dollar client at the investment firm, and shook his hand.

  Mr. Fraser’s hand was dry but his grip tentative. “I received a call to do the rough-in electrical inspection.”

  “Right.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Did you call me?”

  My smile brightened. “My contractor called, Jean Paul Martin. Rachel, why don’t you find Jean Paul and ask him to join us?”

  Rachel gladly latched onto the reason to leave. “Will do. See you in a few.”

  She beat feet out of the place as if Mr. Fraser had announced he carried the Black Plague. We were going to have to work on her fear of confrontation. When the kid came, she’d have to take the reins for at least a little while.

  “As you can see we are using the time to paint the front of the store.”

  He pulled a pen from his back pocket and clicked it. He glanced at the freshly painted walls and didn’t appear impressed. “Where are you doing the construction?”

  “In the back. The kitchen.” I moved toward the saloon doors. “We are knocking out a wall, getting rid of what had been my office so we can make room for a new freezer.”

  “Why do you need the freezer?”

  “So we can prep ahead of time. Make one batch of cookies and might as well bake twenty. With the new freezer we can make ahead more. Right now we have about a week’s worth of freezer space.”

  “I thought bakeries baked fresh daily.”

  I pushed through the saloon doors. “We do bake fresh daily. But some batters and dough, like cookies, bake better if they’ve been in the refrigerator or freezer for at least twenty-four hours.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You’ll have to ask Rachel. She is our master baker. She can tell you why a cookie or cake does what it does. When it comes to the kitchen she is in charge. I do what she says.”

  I recapped Jean Paul’s work on the floor. “And my job is finance, marketing, and long-term planning.”

  He nodded, as he knelt and studied the floor joists. He made notes on his clipboard.

  “We’re fixing that,” I said. “That crew arrives tomorrow.”

  He nodded, but didn’t speak.

  I leaned over his shoulder, trying to read his handwriting but found it next to impossible.

  Jean Paul and Rachel appeared at the back door. She looked hurried and harassed. He looked bored and a bit annoyed.

  “Here is our builder,” I said. “This is Jean Paul Martin. Jean Paul, this is Grant Fraser with the city building inspector’s office.”

  Jean Paul nodded and shook his hand.

  Mr. Fraser fired off several questions about the supplies Jean Paul was using. Jean Paul answered most but a couple of times seemed to struggle with the English words. I had no doubt he understood. This was a trick he’d used on me a couple of times when I asked him questions he did not want to answer.

  Mr. Fraser, however, was not aware of this ploy and several times re-asked the question.

  “Would you like to see our permits?” I offered. “We were told the only change we could not make was to the brick oven. And we have not altered the stove.” For the most part.

  Mr. Fraser shook his head, unwilling to keep asking questions. “No. Let me have a look at the electrical work.”

  “I have finished,” Jean Paul said.

  Mr. Fraser moved toward the wires, studying connections and pathways closely. His world was black and white. The wires were correct or they were not.

  There’d been a time, with so many deadlines looming, I’d have rushed him through his inspection. But not today. I wanted to know the wires were right. Rachel’s children lived in this building. The kid would live here. “How does it look?”

  He didn’t answer right away as he studied still exposed wires and junction boxes. I’d relied heavily on Jean Paul up until now, and I realized I’d gambled heavily.

  Finally, Mr. Fraser sniffed and stepped back. “The work seems to be correct. I’ll be back when you’ve installed the electrical boxes for the final inspection.”

  “When will that be?” I said.

  Mr. Fraser fastened his pencil to his clipboard. “How soon can you have them installed?”

  Jean Paul shrugged. “Soon.”

  Soon. Crap. Did the man ever speak a specific word in his life?

  I willed the tension out of my voice. “Is it possible to have it done tomorrow?”

  Jean Paul shrugged. “Of course.”

  Mr. Fraser nodded. “As soon as the work is done and I have your request for a new inspection, I’ll put you on my schedule.”

  Another deadline, another line to stand in. “Do you have a rough idea when you could come back?”

  “I can’t make that determination until I have the request.”

  “I called you today,” Jean Paul said. “And here you are within hours.”

  “Your timing was perfect. I had an opening so I came.”

  Of course. Jean Paul never, ever worried and the universe opened up for him. The universe, however, had a way of turning its back on me. I would put in the request as soon as I could, and Mr. Fraser’s schedule would be overwhelmed and he’d not be able to return for weeks. “Thank you.”

  “Have a good evening.”

  After the inspector left, I looked at Jean Paul. “Tell me you can do that work by tomorrow.”

  “Of course.”

  “When should I put in the application for the next inspection?”

  “I cannot predict problems. I cannot give you a time.”

  Realizing I was grinding my teeth, I relaxed my jaw. “What if I go by before closing today, put in the request and then hope you are done by the time he returns.”

  He sniffed. “Always a rush.”

  “I need to keep this reno moving forward. I am not making five hundred dollars a day right now. Which means you might be getting paid but Rachel and I are not. We need to get the final approval so you can finish the wall, fix the floor, and we can plug in our new freezer which arrives in two days.”

  “You worry too much. It will happen.”

  “I know it will. Or I’m going to kill you and stuff you in the new freezer waiting to be plugged in.”

  He arched a thick brow but overall seemed nonplussed by my somewhat empty threat. I marched back into the front of the store and picked up my roller. “Shit.”

  Rachel followed. “Daisy, we are going to get this worked out.”

  “It would have been worked out if I’d been more on top of the details. I’ve let my brain slide the
last couple of weeks. This never would have happened to me a year ago. I’d have been a step ahead of Jean Paul with the applications. Now I am a step behind we cannot afford.”

  “Go ahead and submit the application. He’ll get them done tonight. Mr. Fraser will return tomorrow for the final. It will work out.”

  “How do you know that?”

  No smile or rousing cheer, only, “Because it has to.” She picked up her brush. “Now we need to paint. It will happen. Sorta like wax on, wax off, grasshopper.”

  “You mixed Karate Kid and Kung Fu.”

  “Whatever, Daisy. Paint your damn wall.” Her eyes blazed blue and an edgy irritation sharpened her words.

  Surprised, I looked at her closely. “You okay?”

  “Me okay?” She pretended to think. “Let’s see. My husband is dead. My children are in another state with aging parents who will likely die from the exertion of babysitting. My bakery is inside out. The floor is rotting and the Frenchman doesn’t seem to give a crap about anything. Other than that, I’m great.”

  Despite it all, I giggled. “You’re spending too much time with me. I’m rubbing off.”

  “Maybe it’s about time I grew a set.”

  Laughing, I pretended to dab a tear from the corner of my eye. “I think my little girl has grown up. Before I know it she will be giving the finger to a cab driver and swearing when she adds numbers.”

  Rachel raised a brow. “Really? Did I sound like a bitch?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  She pulled back her shoulders as she raised a brush to the wall. “Score.”

  * * *

  Rachel and I stood back and studied the second coat of buttery yellow paint that had now completely covered the blue. The room looked bright, clean, and fresh.

  “For the first time, I feel like I’ve made my mark on this place,” I said.

  Rachel wiped the yellow paint from her hands and arms. “What are you talking about? You blew in here like a steamroller and made the place your own within days.”

  Late-afternoon sunlight reflected off the walls. “I’ve balanced the books and the expenses are under control. Not exactly a lasting mark.”

  “If you hadn’t made that mark we’d not be standing here now doing this. You are as much a part of the bakery now as I am, Daisy.”

  Instead of feeling fear or dread, pride welled. “I couldn’t have imagined us having this conversation last year.”

  “Me either.”

  I pushed back a strand of hair. “I have to give credit to the bakery. It’s not such a bad place.”

  “You give credit to the bakery?” Rachel raised her gaze heavenward and giggled. “Take me, Jesus, I’ve heard it all.”

  For all the years of bitching about this place, I deserved the jab. “Funny.”

  She sobered. “Finish your thought.”

  “No.” Emotions, spoken almost without thinking, grew shy and silent.

  “You are such a girl. Man up and say what you like about this place.”

  I lifted my chin, feeling a little vulnerable. “At the bakery I can see tangible results at the end of the day. So many cookies baked, loaves sold, cakes iced. Concrete returns. I like that.”

  “You didn’t get satisfaction in Washington, D.C.?” Rachel rarely mentioned my job in Washington. I suspected she was afraid to invoke the past for fear it would steal me away.

  “My old company offered great financial rewards. And sometimes I felt a glint of satisfaction. Quarterly earnings, a sales presentation won, a corner office. But those victories were few and far between the last years. For the most part the work didn’t feel real. One electronic pile of numbers shuffled into another electronic pile.”

  “Do you still want to go back?” I knew it had been the question haunting her, and we’d done our best to avoid it.

  “Sometimes. Like when Jean Paul doesn’t tell me about electrical inspections. Or when the water heater blows. Or when I skip paying myself so we can buy supplies. At least at the last place I had the illusion of stability.”

  Rachel shrugged. “Dad told me once the bakery promised him hard work, and if he was lucky the sales and expenses broke even at the end of the year.”

  “Yeah. This place doesn’t whisper sweet somethings in my ear. But I’m okay with that. There is comfort in knowing this place won’t lie to me. I might not like what I hear, but I know it is the truth.” I glanced toward the wall, expecting the cupcake clock, and realized we’d removed it. “What time is it? I must light a fire under Jean Paul and get those plans to the city offices.”

  She glanced at her wristwatch. “A quarter to five.”

  “Let me see what Jean Paul is doing. If he’s started on the electrical work, I’m going to put in our request.”

  “But he’s not done.”

  “I’m going out on a limb here and hoping by the time he’s done, Mr. Fraser’s schedule will have an opening.” I pushed through the saloon doors and saw no sign of Jean Paul. I found him in the alley, leaning against a brick, reaching for his pack of cigarettes. “Are you working on the electrical box?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think time is precious, Jean Paul. And I hope if I submit the request for an inspection now you’ll be finished with the work before the city inspector arrives.”

  “It is a risk, but what is life without a little risk.”

  “Are you telling me you will or won’t be ready?”

  He shrugged.

  Tension crawled up my spine as I glanced around the alley.

  “What are you looking for?” he said.

  “I’m wondering who is around. I don’t want anyone to hear you scream when I strangle you.”

  An amused grin quirked the edge of his lips as he lit the cigarette.

  Flexing and uncurling my fingers, I tried to look menacing. “We’ve reached our quota of risk.”

  He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke downwind from me. “You live to worry.”

  “What?”

  “Always finding problems. Do you ever have fun?”

  Fun. “Jean Paul, I own this joint. My days of fun have ended.”

  He shook his head. “There will always be problems and there will also always be reasons to smile. Each day we choose the focus.”

  “Easy for you to say. You only have yourself to worry about. I don’t have such luxury.”

  “We have the same luxuries. But you choose not to enjoy yours.” He shook his head. “When the baby comes what will you teach him? Will you teach him to walk around sad and worried all the time?”

  Baby. I opened my mouth to argue but the words didn’t come. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps you should.”

  I didn’t want to think of another way I could scar my kid with my personality quirks and hang-ups. For now I could only think about the application. “I’m submitting the application.”

  “A good idea.”

  Mumbling about insane Frenchmen, I hurried upstairs and grabbed my purse. Outside, the sun warmed my skin and the fresh air smelled sweet. A quick check of my watch told me if I hustled, I’d get to the inspector’s office before closing.

  I’d taken six steps away from the front door when I heard a young voice say, “Hey, do you work there?”

  Summoning a smile before I turned, I found a girl who looked to be about sixteen. She had long brown hair, big blue eyes, and a pale complexion. Not stunning, but cute. Next to her stood a boy who seemed to be three or four years older. Same coloring. And he appeared to have Down’s syndrome.

  Impatience goaded me toward the city offices, but I kept my voice fairly steady. “What can I do for you?”

  “Do you work there?” Her blue eyes turned keen.

  Direct, careful. I liked that. “I do. I’m Daisy McCrae. I’m the own
er/manager.”

  She took the boy’s hand in hers and stepped forward. “My name is Meg Adams. I go to TJ High School. This is my brother, Tim. I heard you were looking to hire help.”

  I made a sign but hadn’t put it up yet. “Who said?”

  “My aunt owns the shop across the street.”

  “The gift shop?” I glanced toward the merriment shop and an image of a redhead with curly hair popped into my head. She sold souvenirs, cards, and novelty items.

  “Yeah. She heard your sister moved away and thought you might need help. I thought we’d ask and see if that was true.”

  Initiative. Two points. “Where do you live?”

  “In Alexandria near Seminary Road. We live in an apartment with our mom. She’s a nurse at the hospital.”

  “Do you have any baking experience?”

  Tim grinned. “I like to eat cookies.”

  Meg squeezed his hand in warning. “I bake at the apartment. I made Tim’s birthday cake last week.”

  “Box or scratch?”

  “Box.”

  Honest. Three points. “We are under renovation now but in about seven days we are going to put the place back together and prep for the Saturday grand reopening.” There were so many hurdles standing between the reopening and me, but I decided to be more Jean Paul about the matter and not worry. “I’m not sure exactly what I need and will have to figure it out as we go.”

  Her eyes burned with eagerness. “I’m flexible.”

  “You have reliable transportation?”

  She swept a lock of hair out of eyes. “The bus. We live on the bus line. It takes me about twenty minutes to get here.”

  Tim glanced at his sister for guidance. Clearly, she looked out for him. “Meg, tell her I want a job, too.”

  Meg met Tim’s gaze. “She’s hiring one person, Tim.”

  Tim’s smile faded and he pouted as if he were a toddler. “But what will I do?”

  Her voice was gentle and held no signs of irritation. “You are going to stay at home and watch cartoons, remember?”

  Tim’s face scrunched into a frown. “But I don’t want to stay at home. I want to come with you.”

  Meg patted the boy on the arm. “I look out for him.”