From Scratch

by C. E. Hilbert

  “I’m confused? I thought you’d appreciate the business. And now…now you’re yelling at me?” He jabbed her in the shoulder with his forefinger. “And, poking me. What’s your problem, McKitrick?” He rocked back on his heels, lacing his arms. “And, what do you mean ‘it’s only you, now’? What happened to those two kids?”

  She sighed. She did appreciate the business. He was being helpful and she was a loon. She rubbed her hand over her face. “I’m sorry. It’s been a weird day.” She leaned her back against the counter and matched his casual stance. “I fired the interns today after I caught them making out in the pantry. I could handle suffering through their repeated culinary mistakes, but I explicitly told them I had a zero-tolerance policy for fraternization. And then, after just two weeks, they are in the pantry like they were seventeen and under the bleachers at a high school football game. I spent the rest of the afternoon running between the front to ring up customers, and the back prepping dough for this big bagel order in the morning. And, I guess I didn’t really understand when you said you had to ask me for something.”

  He rested his hands on her shoulders, giving them a soft squeeze.

  His gentle touch washed a wave of shivers over her body. She raised her gaze and saw genuine concern reflected in the depths of his eyes. She bit her lip, hoping she masked the gentle warmth that bloomed from the core of her soul. “I’m sorry.”

  He dropped his hands. “You’re forgiven.” He took a slight step backward. “Not to tread on a sensitive subject, but are you interested in the catering job?”

  “I think so. Who’s the party planner?”

  “Jane Barrett.”

  She felt her world steady at the mention of her friend who had led her to Gibson’s Run. “Why didn’t she just ask me?”

  “She took over the ball last minute. Our original coordinator went into early labor. Jane and I were on the phone discussing the arrangements and realized the desserts hadn’t been finalized. When your name came up, I said I would ask you. I told her I was coming over anyway, so it would save her a call.”

  “You were coming over, anyway?”

  Sean shoved his fingers through his hair. “Well, sure.”

  She lifted a single eyebrow and waited for him to continue.

  “Well, I thought you might have some more of those brownies. Maybe you were going to throw them out.” He shook his head and sighed. “That would be a tragedy.”

  She giggled. “You came over for a brownie?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Well they’re good brownies. Who knew you were going to umm…release your frustration on me.”

  “I guess you deserve a brownie on the house. Have a seat and I’ll bring it out for you.”

  She turned to the display counter and slid open the door.

  He walked to the bakery entrance, flipped the open sign to closed, and then slid back into his seat.

  She dragged her attention from the delicious cop to her delectable brownies. Lifting the oblong plate from the case, she spied the metal dispenser that held the homemade whip cream. She plucked the dispenser from the cooler and rested it in the crook of her arm. She set the platter of brownies and whipped cream in the center of the table.

  Sean eyed the desserts. He shifted his focus back to her, his dimple deepening in his cheek. “What, no coffee?”

  “Give me a second, Chief. I was only born with two hands.” She waved her hands in the air as she walked back to the counter. Yanking forks from the silverware jar, she simultaneously picked up coffee mugs with two fingers and then swiped the half-full coffee pot with her free hand and made her way back. She filled each cup, before placing the nearly empty pot on the table, and slid onto the seat across from Sean. She offered him one of the two forks still in her hand.

  “You make that seem like a ballet. Perfectly choreographed. I would have dropped the forks, at least.”

  “Years of restaurant service. Trust me. You have to be able to balance a stock pot on your nose in some of the kitchen spaces I’ve worked. You get used to having as much in your hands as you do on the prep counter.” She depressed the nozzle and a mound of frothy, white cream dressed her brownie. She took a bite allowing the chocolate to soothe the rough edges of the day.

  Sean leaned back in his chair with his coffee cup in hand. His watchful gaze rested upon her as he tilted the mug for a deep drink.

  The butterflies, long quiet, began to flutter their wings and she felt the sudden rise of heat to her face. She shifted the lukewarm cup of coffee in her hand. She couldn’t blame pink cheeks on the mug.

  Stupid blushing. She was never quite comfortable being the focus of someone’s undivided attention.

  He set his cup down and leaned back in his chair. “So, what’s this about firing your interns?”

  She sighed and traced the rim of her cup. “They went to find the extra sugar in the pantry, but found it between each other instead.”

  Sean’s face lit up with a grin worthy of a sixth-grade boy. “You’re kidding?”

  “Nope. Pretty much firing the interns was the low point of the day, but it never really rebounded from there.” She stopped her tracing and looked him in the eye. “And it started out so well.”

  He reached out and gently touched her hand. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  A wave of tingles swam raced over her body with his touch. She dropped her gaze, focusing on the brownie plate between them. “There’s not much more to…”

  A loud crash jolted both of them.

  Sean jerked his hand away and jumped to his feet as an alarm blared from a near distance. He glanced down at her. “Lock the door behind me.” He yanked his sidearm from his holster. Slamming the front door open, he sprinted across the street to the police station without looking back.

  Maggie stood stunned for a moment before she scurried in his wake and flipped the lock closed. Her heart raced and her thoughts slammed through her mind in a mass of chaos as she watched Sean.

  He charged into the police station as smoke billowed out the front corner. In moments, township fire trucks and county sheriff vehicles swarmed the area, blocking off Main Street.

  Maggie swallowed deep breaths, trying to deter the fear that was nipping at her. Lord, please keep him safe. For countless minutes she observed the flurry of activity as firefighters hurried into the station and cops taped off the city block. She hoped to see Sean emerge soon. She knew they were nothing more than business associates, maybe borderline friends, but she would feel responsible, if his being near her brought disaster.

  The back door! She streaked across the café. She barreled through the connecting doorway and skidded to a stop by the back entrance. Testing the lock, calm washed over her. She must have locked it earlier in the afternoon when the interns left. Turning her back, she slid against the smooth, metal surface and dropped to the floor.

  Wrapping her arms around her knees, she huddled in a tight ball and tried to regain her control. She willed the tears ready to spill to retreat. Sucking in a deep breath she counted in her head. 1…2…3…4…5…

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  Her head shot up and she stared straight ahead; her entire body shook like a tuning rod.

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  “Open up, Maggie.” She registered Sean’s muffled voice.

  “Sean?” She thrust off of the floor and sprinted to the front of the café.

  Sean stood just on the other side of the glass, his face smudged with soot. “Maggie, would you let me in?”

  She yanked open the door and propelled herself toward his chest, plastering her arms around his middle. “Are you OK?”

  He patted her back. “Well, I won’t be if you don’t let me breathe.”

  Warmth spread up her cheeks as she released him. “Sorry.” She stepped back through the entryway.

  He lifted his hand to his neck and began twisting as he trudged through the front door and dropped onto the chair he’d left earlier. “No need to be sorry.”

>   “Can you talk about it?” She slid onto the chair and locked her hands in a tight grip.

  “What I know…not that it’s much. It looks as if someone threw a brick, broke the front window of the police station, and followed that with a homemade smoke bomb. The smoke set off the alarm, signaling the fire station. But somehow, the sprinklers weren’t set off. We’ll have to look into that later when the insurance company gives their assessment. Other than the window, and some public service time, nothing appears to be damaged.”

  “Well, that’s a good thing.”

  His lips drew into a tight line. “I guess.”

  “You guess? That doesn’t sound very solid, Chief. I would think you would be pleased that it was basically a non-event. No one was hurt. Nothing was destroyed. Sounds pretty good to me.”

  Shrugging his shoulders, the left corner of his mouth twisted. “Why would someone break the window of a police station and not take anything? Not destroy anything? It doesn’t make any sense. Who would break in for no reason?”

  Ice shot through her veins. She swallowed deeply trying to dissolve the instant bulge in her throat. “Who, indeed.”

  5

  The unusually muggy air of the October morning enveloped Sean as his feet hit the pavement in a steady rhythm. He enjoyed his early morning runs. They gave him an opportunity to check out his town and spend some time in prayer. He wasn’t good at sitting in a pew, a chair, or even a recliner, and centering his mind on talking with The Lord. His mind seemed to focus best when his body was in motion.

  As he turned from Sycamore Lane to Columbus Street, his prayers fell in pattern with his morning route.

  He started with his brother Mac, in South Carolina, who was facing uncharted territory. The owner of the company where Mac acted as the general counsel was nearing the end of a long cancer battle. The man was a mentor to Mac, a man of integrity and faith, and his brother’s admiration for his boss was evident with each mention of his name.

  The CEO’s looming death gave Sean pause.

  How would his brother react to losing another integral person in his life? With the death of their dad, and then their mom, Mac retreated into himself, turning his back on his family, friends, and even God. He was much further along on his faith journey now, thanks in large part to the man who now faced imminent death, and Sean prayed that Mac’s relationship with the Lord was strong enough to withstand the blow of another loss. Perhaps this loss would cause him to turn outward, seeking comfort in others and Jesus, rather than trying to solve all of his problems alone.

  Sean prayed for that truth.

  The squeal of tires turning a corner fractured the peaceful cocoon the early morning provided. He ignored the distraction and continued to the intersection of Columbus and Main. Turning left onto Main Street, he quickened his pace, heading up the slight slope as he neared the town square, and shifted his focus to his younger brother, Joey.

  Joey lived and played professional baseball in Minnesota. He’d ridden a slump from the All-Star break to the close of the regular season. His self-worth was yoked to his ability to perform on the field. The last few times he’d spoken to his brother, the youngest Taylor seemed to have lost some of his unending supply of self-confidence. The team was done for the season, but Sean prayed that God would give Joey a glimmer of hope in his exit interviews with the coaches. He often allowed his ability to play baseball to send him on a dangerous roller coaster, and one bad season could have his little brother turning his back on his one true love.

  As he passed the police station, a piece of plywood, awkwardly nailed over the broken glass, shifted his prayer to a few thanksgivings for the day and the previous evening. The puzzle pieces didn’t fit for him. Why would someone deliberately break in to a police station and not take anything? He was a little anxious to discover the answer. He always did like a good mystery. There were so few in Gibson’s Run, he was worried it would take a few days to shake the rust off his gold shield. He hoped his long unused skills wouldn’t hamper the investigation. Whoever chose to attack the police station deserved justice, and he wanted to be the man to serve it with a lock and key.

  He closed his prayer with an “Amen” as his gaze shifted to Only the Basics and his thoughts settled on the shop’s owner. After the previous evening’s chaos, he hoped she wasn’t freaked. As irritating as she could be, he would hate to have to search for another baker to come to town. Although he could likely find a tenant less demanding, he doubted he could find one who could bake as well as Maggie.

  He glanced down at his watch and wondered how early she clocked in to begin prepping for the day. Crossing the street, he closed the half of a block from the station to the bake shop in under a minute.

  The front of the café was dark, but he saw a flicker of light from the kitchen area in the back. Turning down the side alley, he made a quick right behind the building. The crunch of gravel beneath his feet filled the stillness of the parking lot as he slowed to a walk, allowing his breath to settle.

  The backdoor handle reflected a dull shine from the single security lamp posted on the opposite end of the lot. He cranked the knob to the left and shoved open the door, silently berating Maggie for not locking the dead bolt. Hadn’t he just warned her that someone had tried to break into the shop? Wasn’t a near bombing across the street enough to be vigilant?

  He closed the door with a click and followed the fresh aroma of baking bread. He took a single step in the direction of the kitchen, intent on giving her the stern reminder about adhering to upped security measures. But his heart was stunned into silence by the angelic tones wafting over the scent of the bread and the notes filled his spirit with an otherworldly melody. He moved toward the sound; the music grew more intense and vibrant with each step.

  Through the doorway of the kitchen, Maggie’s shoulders rolled as she kneaded the dough on the marble slab. The rhythmic movement was one he had witnessed much of his childhood when his mother stood in nearly the same spot. But Mom never sang like Maggie. No one ever sang like Maggie.

  He leaned his shoulder against the door frame, lacing his arms, and listened.

  Her voice was full and rich; she hit notes that sounded as if they’d been transported from the original Christmas Eve angels’ choir when Christ was born.

  He recognized the song from a musical he endured during a trip to New York years earlier. His girlfriend at the time thought he needed to be culturally aware. Three rows back, he’d achieved cultural awareness via osmosis. But if the lead that night had a voice like Maggie’s, snoring would have been the last thing on his mind.

  She lost herself in the final bars, tilting her head back as if she were singing for God alone. When she finished, she dropped her head for a moment and then began leisurely kneading the mass of dough, a hum still softly slipping through her lips.

  He stood frozen, reveling in the music swimming through him before he clapped his hands in a steady tempo.

  She spun, a stray, curl falling from her bun across her forehead.

  His hands stopped mid-clap.

  Stark terror shone in her gaze.

  He stepped toward her and stopped midstride as a quick glimmer off the large chef’s knife in her right hand caught his eye. “Whoa. Maggie, it’s OK.”

  She held the knife steady, pointed directly at his heart, not flinching at his words.

  He shoved back the black hood of his sweatshirt, taking another step toward her. “Maggie, it’s me. It’s Sean.” His voice sounded soft and smooth to his ears in complete opposition to the pounding of his heart. “We’re friends, now. Remember?”

  Her hand held steady, her face washed in the gray tone of fear; her eyes nearly black as her pupils expanded against her clear, blue irises.

  His gaze locked with hers, trying to find his Maggie inside the house of horrors where she had disappeared. He shuffled closer to her, his hands raised in submission. She could easily thrust her knife in his belly. He was willing to take the risk. He trusted her.
He needed to get her to trust him. “Maggie…”

  Her head tilted to the side. The blade of the knife tipped toward the ground. “Sean?”

  A silent moan escaped his lips. He cautiously laid his right hand on her shoulder and removed the knife from her slack grip with his left hand. Setting the knife toward the back of a wire shelf, he kept his focus trained on Maggie’s downturned face. With a slight nudge, she slid limply onto the step stool beside the baker’s rack. He squatted in front of her and took her hands, gently rubbing the backs with his thumbs.

  She dropped her focus to her pinstripe, black cotton chef pants.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” His voice was low.

  She lifted her gaze to his. The pain etched in the crystal blue depths of her eyes twisted his heart. What had happened to her?

  She shook her head and rolled her shoulders. The corner of her mouth curled. “I’m fine. You just startled me.”

  “Someone who’s startled throws flour in the air or screams. She doesn’t pull a knife on someone with the intent to slice his belly.”

  Yanking her hands from his protective grasp, she forced him back on his heels as she shot up. She swiveled toward the pile of dough and began banging and punching as if she were in a self-defense class. “What are you doing here, anyway? You shouldn’t be sneaking up on people when bombs are going off in the neighborhood. That’s just rude.”

  Sean stood, his gaze trained on her back. How had she gone from singing angel, to scared rabbit, to outraged she-cat, in barely a heartbeat? “My question, first…what’s going on with you, Maggie?” He crossed his arms.

  Silence hung in the room punctuated by her rhythmic pummeling of the dough. Her back was taut with pressure as she kneaded.

  He leaned against the shelves. He could wait. He was a patient man. His patience had helped him break more than one squirrelly witness. A hot-tempered baker should be a snap.