From Scratch

by C. E. Hilbert

  ~*~

  The simple question hung in the air. His gaze drilled holes in her back. His voice, sharp with the edge of police steel, sliced through her mind as his question danced through her seeking an answer partner.

  She fought to control the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. What could she say? Oh, sorry about the knife. I thought you were the maniac who used to track my every move. He was released from prison. It’s got me a little jumpy. You understand, right? No harm. No foul. Have a nice day. Yep, that would do it. Sure, right after he kicked her out of the shop and apartment for being a whacko who attracted stalkers.

  To be fair, there was only one stalker and she was fairly certain he didn’t know where or who she was anymore. She sucked in a deep breath. Between the attempted break-in Sean mentioned a few nights ago at the bakery and the explosion at the police station last night, she felt herself slipping into old patterns, jumping, screaming and apparently pulling knives with every creak and noise in the shop.

  This morning, when she was fully given over to singing for The Lord, her defenses were down and she had panicked with the first clap.

  A knife? Really? How was she going to wiggle out of that brilliant move? She sighed. Eventually, she needed to face him. The dough was nearly smooth to her touch. She wouldn’t be able to hide behind it much longer or she would have to trash the whole batch for over-kneading.

  He wasn’t moving. Why couldn’t he be like other men who stomped off when she ignored them? Why did he have to be special?

  She patted the dough and stretched to lift the damp dishcloth draped across the sink. Wiping the residue flour from her hands, she centered her mind, trying to convince herself that thick framed glasses weren’t still superimposed over Sean’s face. Be brave. Just take a peek. You can do it. She twisted the damp cloth between her hands as she turned, slowly raising her gaze. Peace washed over her like a tidal wave.

  No glasses.

  Only Sean. He didn’t look happy. Not mad or angry. He looked resolute. Leaning casually against the tall baker’s rack, his arms were crossed loosely over the logo embroidered on his sweatshirt.

  Even now, when she was trying to think up a viable excuse for her crazy-lady-wielding-a-knife routine and her world seemed to be slowly cracking like the top-crust of her zucchini bread, she couldn’t help the slight clench of her stomach at his handsome face.

  Why did his heart have to shine through his melty, chocolate-brown eyes? She’d never been able to resist chocolate. Shield up, sister. You can’t afford any extra calories today. She stretched her mouth wide, laced her arms over her stomach, and lifted her shoulders in a quick shrug. “Thank you for your concern. But there really isn’t anything to discuss. I got spooked. What with the bomb last night and all. I wouldn’t actually have cut you.”

  He uncrossed his arms and took a step toward her. “You could have fooled me.” A slight grin tugged at his mouth.

  “I’ve been on my own for a long time. A girl needs to at least appear as if she can defend herself.” She turned from his intense stare, praying he couldn’t read the fibs fumbling out of her mouth. She flipped the hot water lever and placed her hands directly under the steady stream, scrubbing her hands with intensity.

  Sensing him directly behind her, his presence a tangible reality, she didn’t turn. Her carefully constructed veneer would shatter if she faced him again. One look into those eyes and her wobbly constitution could topple like Humpty-Dumpty. And, she didn’t have a single king’s man on speed dial.

  Butter. Sugar. Bake. She needed to bake something, to create something rich and decadent. The intake and the sharing of heavenly loaded caloric gifts was always a cure for patching up the cracks in her life. She knew only God could give her the ultimate tending, but, for a momentary fix, she couldn’t pass up a delicious alternative starting with butter and sugar.

  Sean’s hands rested lightly on her shoulders, giving her a gentle squeeze. His touch was reassuring, not romantic, but she welcomed the tender pressure. With the weight of his hands, the tension of the last few moments eased from her body.

  “I will leave you to your work.” With a light pat on her shoulders, he stepped away. “Although, it appears you can take care of yourself. I’ll lock the back door on my way out. Something you should remember to do.”

  The door wasn’t locked? She shut her eyes and swallowed the bile rolling up her throat.

  His running shoes squeaked as he made his way toward the back exit. The squeaking stopped at the doorway.

  She held her breath. Keep going. Keep going. Please don’t ask me why. Her self-preservation was nearly spent. One understanding look from those soulful brown eyes and she would spill faster than a corporate whistle-blower. And then, she would have to vanish. Again.

  “Be careful today,” he said. “I don’t want any unnecessary knife fights on my hands. I like my town nice and quiet.” There was a chuckle in his voice as he retreated.

  With the soft click of the lock, she released a breath. A burning sensation registered in her muddled brain and she yanked her reddened hands from the now scalding water. She leaned against the stainless steel sink and tears streamed down her cheeks as she laid back her head and prayed. “Will it ever just go away, God? Will I ever be free?”

  ~*~

  Sean jiggled the handle to make sure it was locked before taking a short cut to his small 1920’s home on Maple Street. His run through town would have to wait until tomorrow. His detour had taken more time than he’d anticipated.

  After all these months, nothing should surprise him when it came to Maggie McKitrick, but knife-wielding-freak-out was one he hadn’t anticipated. Her excuse that she was “spooked” seemed somewhat reasonable, but the cop in him never was satisfied with the obvious answer. Six months ago, a wall of red-tape and a lily-white rap sheet greeted him when he ran a background check on her. He had waivered on signing the lease, but Jane gave him the my-puppy-just-died look and he handed the keys over to Maggie. Now, he wasn’t so sure that had been the best choice.

  He slid his key into his front door. A twig snapped in the near distance. He yanked the key from his door and leaped over the railing of the front porch. He jogged down the side of the house, careful to keep his steps soft and virtually silent. Approaching the rear of his house, he pressed his back against the wide, wooden siding, determined to surprise whoever was skulking around his property. Slowly, he slid around the corner of the house.

  His neighbor’s cat, Fred, was sprawled across the backdoor mat, as he tried to scratch an unseen itch.

  His heart slowed. “Hey Fred.”

  The white and tan tabby, whose belly revealed pink flesh between cracks of fur, tilted his head to the side before he resumed his intense scratch.

  “Guess you’re my prowler.”

  The incident with Maggie must have affected him more than he thought. One little knife and he was jumping over railings at the sound of a snapped twig like he was a TV cop rather than a small town chief. Stepping over Fred, he jerked open the screen door and slid his key in the back lock. He needed to think like the rational, well-trained detective that he was. His intruder may have been Fred, but something was needling his instincts. Something wasn’t right in Gibson’s Run. He could feel it. And his gut told him that something started with his pretty little tenant.

  The door slammed as he jogged up the narrow back staircase. He needed to take a shower and get to the station. It was time for him to do some real investigative work again.

  ~*~

  He stood from his crouched position, brushing the dead leaves from his dark jeans. He hopped the four-foot wooden fence enclosing the dimwitted cop’s backyard, then tightened the blue scarf at his neck, and tugged his ball team’s hat low on his brow more out of habit than fear of being recognized.

  This morning was too close. He couldn’t stay in this rundown town. He needed to take a break. Go back to Maryland. Regroup. The pieces hadn’t fallen into place as he’d strategized.
He would have to wait a little longer. Patience wasn’t a natural virtue, but he had learned to wait as he pursued God’s gift to him. He anticipated a few bumps in the road, but he forgot how small towns worked. They all had a busy-body. He should have anticipated her. And yet, he was caught unaware when he glimpsed her telephoto lens between the drapes of her ill-kept home. Not that the nosy old lady was a big obstacle. But, her gossipy ways reminded him. No one could hide in a small town.

  He tugged a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and clamped a stem between his lips and flashed his lighter to ignite the revolting bi-product of his time away from society. He sucked in a lungful of smoke and then released the cloud of nicotine gray through his lips and nostrils as he paused to admire his gift.

  His lovely Mary Margaret lifted chairs from tables. Fury burned in his belly at the thought of her sweet, soft hands being laced with unsightly calluses. When they were married, as God ordained, she would never work again. The police and that meddling godfather of hers had driven her here to a life of servitude and menial labor. If they would have left them alone, Mary Margaret would be presiding over the Georgia mansion his grandmother bequeathed him, singing him private concerts in the conservatory on the second floor.

  His eyes fluttered shut as the image of his most treasured fantasy floated into his mind. She was leaning against the gleaming, black grand piano, the moonlight sparkling through the bank of windows, draped in a silky, white dress. He clutched at his flannel shirt as he swayed to the music only he could hear. His angel. Singing only for him, the way God intended.

  He had been listening to her sing this morning, standing at the base of the back stairwell. A preview of what would one day be. Then the cop rudely interrupted the concert, forcing him to slink away into the darkness, like the criminal so many had unjustly accused him of being. He would not allow another such interruption. He had been raised to know how to deal with uninvited guests.

  He shifted his attention away from the shop, and his lips lifted to a sneer as he admired the clumsy patchwork over the broken police station window.

  The previous evening, he should have had more control, but the burning vision of that cop’s hand touching his gift exploded in a billowing rage through his body. Before he could fully comprehend his actions, a loose brick from the sidewalk released through his fingers with the accuracy of a Sunday afternoon quarterback. He had to think quickly, relying on one of the lessons he’d learned from his fellow inmates. Distraction was always the best strategy.

  He stubbed the remainder of the cigarette in the palm of his hand and threw the base into the mildew-encrusted fountain behind him. Glancing down at the gold sedan, he scanned the cabin for a remnant. Overlooking details was what separated him from Mary Margaret these past years. He wouldn’t be so careless again.

  He had dealt with men who had interfered in the last decade.

  Sean Taylor would not get in the way of destiny.

  His and Mary Margaret’s destiny was epic. They were ordained by God to be together. And they would be. Either in this life, or the next.

  6

  Glancing up at the clock above the oven, Maggie closed the box on the last of the twenty dozen bagels for the Smith brothers’ breakfast meeting. She had ten minutes to spare before she had to open and someone would be by for the order. This was the second time this month the Smiths had ordered such an enormous blowout of bagels. Oh, hail the carb-lovers!

  Reflecting on the morning, Maggie cringed. The day started so wonderfully, spending time baking and praising Jesus, until Sean surprised her. For all of her bravado and surly attitude, she’d pulled a knife on a cop. There would be consequences. Truce or not, she would be facing some well-deserved interrogation. Minutes, now hours, later she could admit to herself that the fear was real.

  Over the last few months, the terror she’d kept in a well-insulated room in her mind, while her tormentor was tucked away in prison, had been gnawing its way free. She’d been able to keep the lock secure with the knowledge that her new life was untraceable. But, if she wasn’t vigilant, her fear would escape and consume her, paralyzing her with the thoughts of what could and had happened. Shaking her head, she let out a slow, cleansing breath. She couldn’t worry about what might be. She had a business to run.

  The bakery hadn’t been her dream when she was a girl, that dream died with Mary Margaret, but this shop was hers and she could feel God’s warming smile on her. He had given her this tremendous gift and she wouldn’t waste a moment of the opportunity.

  With a grunt, she heaved the tray of boxes off of the prep-counter, waddling from the kitchen to the main café, and shoved the loaded carrier onto the shelf.

  The snickerdoodle-flavored coffee dripped into the dispenser. She snapped the lid shut and then popped the pump lever so that it would be ready to flow freely when Mrs. Shively came in for her morning fix.

  She filled the cubbies for sugar, zero-calorie sweetener, swizzle sticks, and straws with the speed and ease of one who could accomplish the simple task in her sleep. She straightened the handles on the milks and creamers. The symmetry would be lost as soon as Marty McSeverin and his mother arrived for her on-the-way-to-daycare coffee. After experiencing Marty for five minutes every morning, Maggie understood why his mother often stopped for her on-the-way-to-daycare coffee after she dropped him at Tiny-Tots Daycare.

  Tables clean. Counters clear. Napkins stocked. Display case set and filled. Coffee brewed. Flip on her tunes, unlock the door, and another day would begin. The flutter of butterfly wings tickled the walls of her stomach. She was ready for another day. Oh, Lord, Thank You for this life! I wouldn’t be living it without You.

  She walked behind the counter, opened the small compartment housing the sound system, and contemplated what kind of melodic mood she was in today. Music was her first love. She loved baking and it helped to fill the creative void leaving music had created, but nothing would ever replace the feeling she had when the Holy Spirit flowed through her body in song.

  She shuffled through various mixes before landing on an alternative Christian rock set. The music would help to put her focus on God. Maggie wasn’t much of an evangelist, but she tried to share her faith in her own subtle way. She slid the compartment door shut, stood, and straightened her chef’s coat.

  Showtime.

  She unlocked the door and flipped the “closed” sign to “open” in one smooth, synchronized motion. And bam! There it was: the twisted tingle in her stomach she always had before she stepped on a stage. Now, it was a constant reminder that every day of her life was a show. Who knew when she was training to dance and to sing for the Great White Way that she would be playing a role for a lifetime rather than a nightly performance? She tugged the small string downward and the Roman shade lifted with a zip to reveal the picture of Main Street, Gibson’s Run, Ohio.

  She leaned her left shoulder on the glass of the door and scanned the street. Two pick-up trucks were parked north of the town’s fountain, both owned by regular customers. Her gaze shifted south, and she caught a glint off of a gold sedan she didn’t recognize. Her stomach rolled as her brief conversation with Mr. Hopper replayed in her mind.

  His information was limited to Sissy Jenkins’s suspicion about an unknown vehicle, and like so many others in town he had ignored the balance of what the resident-expert-on-everyone-else’s-business had to share.

  Maggie wished she could have, this one time, given Sissy a little of the attention she obviously craved. If he had, Mr. Hopper may have been able to provide Maggie with enough details to erase the wave of worry threatening to drown her. She drew a deep breath through her nose. The air in her lungs was forced out slowly through her lips as she prayed for peace from her worries. Could anyone add a single hour to one’s life by worrying?

  The reminder from Jesus’s own words often brought her comfort. Today was no different. Worry was a waste of energy. At the moment, she had no way of confirming if the unknown gold car was the suspi
cious sedan Sissy was prattling about to Mr. Hopper. The new car of a town resident was the most logical conclusion; nothing nefarious.

  Maggie looked away from the vehicle. When Sissy came in for her post-Jazzercise latte today or tomorrow, she could subtly question the ever-knowing Mrs. Jenkins about her suspicions. Her gaze drifted up the street and settled on the plywood covering the front window of the police station. Or she could ask the chief.

  She was on a bit of a teeter-totter with the police chief. Although their relationship seemed to be balancing out, this morning’s knife-wielding exhibition probably used up all of her free question tokens. Payment for her curiosity would undoubtedly require answering some of his questions about her life. Best to stick with Sissy.

  Sissy’s intel would be smattered with more fluff than facts, but any details would help move Maggie closer to the peace she craved. She shoved away from the door. Before she made it behind the counter, the bell announcing a customer chimed, and she turned with a broad smile “Good morning, Mr. Grey. How are you today?”

  “Maggie girl, I thought we discussed this? Mr. Grey was my father. Please call me Henry or Hank.” The gentle farmer stood six foot two inches and had the look of a weathered cowboy with salt and pepper hair and a thick mustache covering his top lip. He held his tattered ball cap and the arms of his light-weight flannel shirt were cuffed to the elbows. His worn denim spoke of years, not mere months. There was authenticity in his clothing, the kind that couldn’t be purchased from a catalog.

  “Well, Hank, what can I get for you this morning?” Maggie moved behind the counter.

  “You know Bitsy’s in South Carolina, helping Emory, our youngest, settle back into her apartment for her last year of law school. Although I suspect the two are just shopping their way up one end of King Street and down the other. But, she’s left me all alone to fend for myself for three days without her cooking. I woke up this morning and decided that I just had to try one of your scones. I love those carrot muffins you make, and your coffee is as good as my wife’s, please don’t tell her I said so, but for some reason I just got a hankering for one of those scones. Every time I stop in for some coffee or a visit with the guys, those scones scream my name from across the shop, but Bitsy’s voice is always louder. Now that Bitsy’s in Charleston, I think we might be out of shouting distance, what do you think?” His smile shone through his eyes.