I didn’t pull free also knowing I didn’t have the courage in this moment to stand alone. What he was saying . . . the solution he offered . . . would fix all my problems. I’d have a partner. The kid would have a real dad. I’d have a safety net. The cost for this very perfect life would be to deny the kid its DNA. Sweep Roger and all his chromosomes under the rug and forget.
Forget him.
Tears welled in my eyes. “I want to give you what you want right now. God, how I want to give this to you.”
He frowned. “But you won’t.”
Emotion clogged my throat. Why was love so hard? “It’s not about what I want. I need to think about the kid.”
Frustration deepened the frown lines on his forehead. “That’s who I’m thinking about.”
“I know. But information like this doesn’t stay buried forever. We might think we’d be fooling the kid but it would come out. Somehow.”
“Who else knows about Roger?”
“Rachel knows the story.”
“She’ll keep the secret.”
“Secret.” Such a little secret now. Barely consequential. But it would grow with each passing year. The baby would notice she didn’t look like Gordon. She might realize they didn’t have the same sense of humor or their ears were shaped differently or her hair was too curly like Roger’s. She’d eventually ask, Who do I look like? And then I’d have to look her in the eye and lie.
“That’s no way to parent. I know your heart is in the right place, but one day the kid is going to put two and two together. She’s mine after all and curiosity is buried deep in her DNA. I have to be honest with her about how she was made.”
“Why?”
“To lie about where she comes from is as good as saying she’s not good enough.”
“Daisy, that’s bullshit. You are reading far more into this.”
“I was the adopted kid. I know how it feels to be out of step.”
“You were abandoned at age three. You suffered trauma. From day one this kid will have real parents who love her.”
I traced his jawline with my thumb. “I really believe you’d love her like she were flesh and blood.”
“I would.”
“I can’t lie to her. I have to tell Roger. I can’t keep secrets because they come home to roost. One day the kid would put the pieces together and resent the hell out of me and you.”
He stepped back and rubbed a tense hand against the back of his neck. “So you are saying no to me.”
“I’m saying yes to being honest with my kid.”
“Your kid.”
“She could be ours.”
“With pencil-dick Roger in the mix.” His eyes narrowed. “You know why the son of a bitch went to China? Yeah, he took the job over there because he’s running from a hell of a lawsuit. The guy lied more times than I can count.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Shit, Daisy, if your goal was to pick the biggest piece of slime to go down on, then you found him. Great job.”
His verbal sting had me racing past hurt, and annoyance, and straight to really pissed off. “Why don’t you stop while you are behind and leave?”
Sad eyes darkened with anger. “That’s always your solution, isn’t it, Daisy, to kick someone out or run. You never stay and fight.”
“Fight for what? More insults?” My voice reverberated off sunny yellow walls.
“Stand your ground and don’t be such a coward. People do get mad at each other without running.”
“You aren’t mad,” I said my voice rising. “You are being an ass. You insulted me, and yet it’s my fault I want you to leave?”
He jabbed tense fingers through his hair. “Look, I was over the line, but I have a right to be angry.”
“You don’t have a right to speak to me the way you did!”
The saloon doors slammed open and Jean Paul appeared in the doorway, casually holding a hammer in his hand. He looked at Gordon, his gaze fairly menacing. “Is there a problem?”
I stepped back from Gordon, my hands trembling as I held them up. “I’m fine. We were having a fight.”
“Yes, I could hear,” Jean Paul said. “I imagine you also upset your sister.”
Gordon shoved out a breath. “Go back to your kitchen and let us finish.”
Jean Paul didn’t move. “I think not.”
“Daisy,” Gordon ground out.
I understood Gordon was hurt and upset. He’d offered what he saw as one hell of an olive branch, and I’d all but slapped it out of his hand. But I didn’t take rejection well on a good, nonpregnant day, and his reckless words still rattled painfully in my head. “Go, Gordon. This is not the time to have this kind of conversation.”
“When is the best time?”
“I don’t know if there is a best time. But I can’t stand here and be insulted.”
“Look, I am sorry.” His brusque tone didn’t help his case.
“So am I. We are two well-meaning people who can’t seem to get it right.”
“So you are giving up?”
“Right now, yes. My life is eggshells, Gordon. I don’t have the reserves to look after your emotions, the baby’s, and mine. I barely have enough for the kid and me.”
His lips flattened. “Fine. Have it your way.” And he turned, fists clenched, and stalked out of the shop.
Chapter Fourteen
Friday, 8:00 A.M.
8 days until grand reopening
Income Lost: $1,700
Rachel and I had retreated to the basement, putting together the shelves that would stock our new wine collection. Jean Paul had finished prepping the walls and was painting upstairs. The inspector, Mr. Fraser, had come early and inspected Jean Paul’s electrical work and given it the official thumbs-up. The movers had yet to come and haul the baking equipment to the main floor, but Jean Paul had assured me we’d have the basement cleared before the wine arrived. We were inching forward.
I’m a linear thinker, and I like to tackle one task at a time. Multitasking had never been my strong suit. But I was learning if I didn’t multitask the bakery would close. It required someone who could keep juggling lots of balls.
The shelves were black and sleek and had been on sale, but deciphering the instructions threatened to drive me to drink, swear, or scream. “These don’t make sense to me.”
“I can see why these shelves were such a deal,” Rachel muttered. She looked panicked as she stared at the collection of screws laid out on the white sheet. I’d insisted on the sheet knowing I’d crack if we lost a screw or a bolt.
“I choose to believe if we follow the steps correctly, we’ll have shelves.”
“Too bad life doesn’t work that way.”
Smiling, I reread the third section. “So I think I have it. You hold boards A and B, and I will connect with bolt one.”
“Which ones are boards A and B?”
“The farthest board on the right is A. We read from left to right so I arranged from left to right.”
Rachel nodded and picked up the boards. “If you ever really want to punish me, put me in a room with one of these to assemble.”
“I’ll remember that.”
She held the boards together so they formed a long L.
“Board B is backward,” I said.
Frowning, she studied the setup. “How can you tell?”
“Because the sign facing me says Back not Front.”
She studied the instructions, shook her head and flipped the board around. “Right.”
This went on for another hour. For the most part it went smoothly. Once I attached a board backward and Rachel caught it. Muttering words, I unscrewed the fastener and reattached it. When we finished the first set of shelves both of us stood back to admire the work. The shelf was seven feet tall, black, and had verti
cal slots that held the wine. Against the basement’s brick wall it looked kind of cool, and for the first time in a couple of days I thought maybe all of this might really come together.
“Three to go,” I said.
Rachel groaned. “Kill me.”
“It should get easier.”
She brushed back a stray curl. “From your lips to God’s ears.”
And so we tackled the second set of shelves, which took half the time to assemble. More progress. At least this one small part of my life was under control.
“We’ve got this.”
Rachel offered a tentative smile. “You have jinxed us.”
“We’ll be fine.” I needed to master these shelves. I needed something to go really right. A little control, please.
The third set of shelves was missing three screws, which I had to steal from the fourth set. When the third set was complete, I studied the fourth incomplete box. “We know we’re missing screws from the top section. So we know we can at least build two-thirds of the shelf.”
“And then what?”
“If Jean Paul can’t rig a fix I’ll have to make a run for the hardware store.”
“Great.”
Rachel held boards A and B in an L shape. “So how was your meeting with Gordon last night?”
She’d not asked so I’d pretended it had never happened. “Not too well.”
I screwed in the first fastener. Maybe if I could make the pieces of the shelves fit I could reassemble my life without having to borrow pieces or rig joints.
“I didn’t exactly listen at the door,” she said. “But I heard the tension in his voice and yours.” She held up the next set of boards while I repeated with fasteners.
Gaze on the screws, I maintained a steady tone of voice. “I’m fairly sure I blew my life out of the water.”
“Why?”
I focused on twisting the screw into place. My voice was barely a whisper. “He said he’d be the baby’s father. He said we didn’t need to tell Roger, the bio dad, and we could raise the baby ourselves.”
Rachel paused. “Daisy. Do you realize what he was saying to you?”
Emotion choked my throat. “Yes.”
She studied my face. “So why did he sound mad?”
A sigh shuddered from my chest. “I said I had to tell Roger about the baby. I couldn’t keep a secret like that.”
She nodded slowly. We’d been together since we were three and though we didn’t always agree we knew each other very well. “He was pretty mad.”
“He doesn’t understand why I need to tell Roger.” A bemused bark of a laugh escaped. “I can’t say I understand. Maybe if I knew who my biological father was I could let this go. But I can’t deny the kid what has been denied me.”
“You’ve not heard from Terry.”
I arched a brow.
“She’s playing games again.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think she means to be cruel. I think dealing with me and her past is hard.” The admission stung deeper than I thought and for a moment I stared at the screwdriver in my hand.
Rachel put her arm around my shoulders and hugged me close. I shrugged off her embrace, pretty sure I’d cry if she hugged me. And this she understood, too. It wasn’t the first time I’d run from comfort.
We finished assembling the first section, bringing the last set of shelves up to my hips.
“Do we still have that order with Simon?”
She arched a brow. “He hasn’t canceled it. And canceling would not be his style. He is a gentleman.”
“So, you’re going to have to see him when we make the delivery.”
“No, you’re making the delivery. I will bake, but I will not go see him. Not yet.”
“Rachel, you cannot be a baby about this. You are going to have to go do the delivery. I can’t do it alone.”
She pouted a little. “I don’t want to.”
“I could give you a list of all the things I don’t want to do, but I won’t bore you. Running a bakery isn’t for sissies.”
Her frown deepened. “If Mike weren’t dead I think I’d kill him right now. He said we’d be together forever and he lied.”
“He didn’t mean it, Rachel.”
Her blue eyes blazed with anger. “I don’t give a shit! He left. Period. End of story.”
In the last eighteen months Rachel had kept a stiff upper lip. But that lip had quivered a lot lately and frankly I was glad. No way you could take a hit like she did and not feel gutted.
“You are supposed to be angry,” I said.
“Why the hell do I have to be angry? I don’t like being angry!” she shouted.
“Because you’ve got to get pissed to move forward.”
“You’ve been angry all your life, Daisy. Where has it gotten you?”
I sat back, stunned. I wasn’t sure if I should be hurt, amused or . . . angry.
Rachel’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry, Daisy. I didn’t mean it.”
I shook my head, deciding on amused. “You are right. I’ve been angry for a long time.” I sighed. “I don’t want you to end up like me, which is why venting emotion is good. Bottle it up like me, and the anger will burrow bone deep.”
She blinked. “Are you that angry?”
“Some days, yes. Some days, no. You aren’t wired like I am. Happy is your style.”
“Happy. I’m not sure what happy feels like anymore.”
“It will return.”
“When?”
No cute wisecrack came to mind. “I don’t know.”
We finished the shelves, a heavy silence hanging between us as we each brooded over our own worries. Despite all the trouble, the black shelving looked very sharp against the ancient stone wall. Clear out the debris, add wine bottles to the shelves, we’d have our own wine room.
“Damn,” I said. “This is coming together, Rachel.”
She folded her arms over her chest, studied the arrangement, and shrugged. “It looks pretty good.”
I nudged her with my elbow. “And it’s going to look great when the wine arrives. We will turn a nice profit on those wines. We are making this work.”
She stuck out her bottom lip. “Maybe.”
“Maybe, my ass. This is happening, Rachel.”
The squeal of little voices and the thunder of excited feet had us both looking toward the stairs.
“Sounds like the girls,” Rachel said.
“Yeah.” I’d bet Mom and Dad would last three days. Rachel had bet two. They surprised us both by making it five. “Hopefully they haven’t killed Mom and Dad.”
“I better go check.” She bounded up the stairs, the spring returning to her step. She’d missed her girls.
I rose and followed. We found Jean Paul showing Mom, Dad, and the girls our progress. Mom and Dad both looked a little pale. Mom didn’t wear any makeup and her blue T-shirt was stained with something purple. Dad hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and his shirt was inside out. They both looked like a truck had hit them.
But the girls were dressed in rumpled blue shorts and matching yellow T-shirts that read, Outer Banks Rocks!, which were no doubt a souvenir from their gemstone rock adventure. Their ponytails were askew but they were giggling and jumping with energy.
“Hey!” Rachel said.
“Mom!” The girls squealed as they ran to Rachel. She hugged them close, kissing one as they talked excitedly about their trip.
Dad nodded in my direction as he scanned the new buttery yellow. “Looking good, Daisy. Coming together. I like the yellow.”
His approval made me smile. “We’re getting there, Dad.”
Rachel removed Ellie’s crooked ponytail, smoothed her hair with her fingers and then refastened it with the hair tie. “Wait until you see the kitchen.”
Jean Paul’s gaze flickered briefly to Rachel but he gave no hint of what had happened last night. Rachel blushed ever so slightly. However, I sensed awareness between the two that made the air crackle.
“I will give you a tour, Monsieur McCrae,” Jean Paul said. “Please follow me.”
Dad nodded, his gaze now alight with interest. He glanced toward me and I nodded for them to continue. “Lead the way.”
As Dad and Jean Paul left for the kitchen, Mom crossed and gave me a tight hug. She pulled me close and then for a split second her body stiffened. She pulled back and her gaze dropped to my belly. “Daisy Sheila McCrae.”
I smiled, sheepish.
She frowned. Her hand slid to my stomach as if she needed to confirm her thought.
“Surprise?”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “Why don’t we have a chat in your room?”
No avoiding this conversation. I’d not really worried about telling Mom about the baby, but now that crunch time had arrived I wasn’t so sure of myself. “Sure.”
“Frank, Daisy and I are going to catch up. Rachel has the girls.”
No missing the relief in Dad’s gaze as he nodded and headed into the kitchen. “See you in a bit.”
Rachel glanced over the head of the girls at me. She raised a brow as if to offer help, but I waved her away as I followed Mom up to the third floor.
When I closed my door her gaze narrowed. “You are pregnant.”
I shoved out a breath. “Yeah.”
She rubbed her temple with the tips of her fingers. “How did you manage this?”
“Would you like a play-by-play?”
“Don’t be smart, Daisy Sheila. I know how you managed it. Start with when and then maybe who.”
“The night before I returned to the bakery. Call it a memento of my going-away party.”
“Daisy, you are thirty-four years old, and I taught all you girls about the birds and the bees.”
Having this kind of lecture from my mom rankled, but I deserved it. “Stuff happens. I didn’t plan it. And believe me, I’ve been in a state of shock.”
She glanced at my belly. “How long have you known?”
“About a week. I didn’t catch on right away and chalked the difference up to stress.”
Sweet Expectations (A Union Street Bakery Novel) Page 19
