“Me? Why would my name come up?”
“Just a second, I have to get my briefcase.” Manny ran out, the eyes of the women following him. Running back in, he closed the door, set his briefcase on the floor next to Lizzie. He retrieved a cream colored envelope from his case, lifted Lizzie’s little hand to his lips. She jerked at the intrusion on her dreams.
Grinning at Liz, her eyes wide, a slight shake of the head, warning him not to wake the baby. Manny straightened up, handed the envelope to Star. “I don’t know what this letter says. Read it. Maybe it will give you some answers … maybe I can fill in some blanks.”
Star took the letter from Manny and, with a sharp knife, slit the envelope open. Her eyes began tracing the words handwritten on the creamy stationery.
• • •
My dear Miss Bloom, Star, please forgive me for being so forward, calling you Star. I feel I know you personally.
Let me explain.
My journey with you started on a visit to Disney World where I saw a newspaper article, an announcement of an Amateur Bakeoff competition. I was feeling poorly, a bit down that day, and thought this might be something to bring me out of my depression.
And, oh my, there you were, a contestant in the bakeoff, held in a rundown building in Daytona Beach. I quietly delved into your personal story, picking up bits and pieces about you from the producers. And, I learned more as you remained in the competition, never one to be sent home at the end of that particular episode. Between episodes, your admirers answered my questions telling me more about you.
Please forgive my intrusion. I saw my daughter in you—tough, always picking yourself up, pushing forward, yet soft and feminine on the inside.
I snuck into the hall and watched you compete in every episode being filmed. One day as you sat on the floor watching your piecrust through the oven window, I was reminded of the first hole I drilled for oil.
What a day that was for me and my crew. I listened and watched the oil rig, drilling and drilling, boring deeper and deeper into the ground, waiting and waiting always asking, will I strike oil today? They called us wildcatters.
My dear, Star, I did strike oil that day—she spewed sky high out of the ground falling back to earth dowsing me and my men with her rich, black gold. Forgive my rambling. You see several months ago I had been diagnosed with inoperable cancer. Watching you eased my pain—you will never know how taking part in your struggle, from afar, I was young again, looking forward to each day. You see, I had a dream once, but no funds to bring it to life. I sought investors. They all said no, except one. I trust I can be that one for you. The thought brings a smile to my lips, peace to my heart.
You didn’t notice me at the bakeoff. You never saw me, but I was there every episode. When you won the competition I was cheering with the rest of those following you.
I watched you steer a man in a wheelchair to your baking station in that final episode. I asked the person sitting next to me about the man. As the story went, you rescued him the first time you entered the diner. Seems his wheelchair was at cross purposes with the door. Thereafter you treated him as a special friend and he obviously overcame any discomfort he felt so he could wish you good luck, be in attendance for the last episode. His story only added to my respect for you.
But when I read the next day, not of your victory and winning the prize money, but of the scoundrels slinking out of town, I sunk back into a deep depression.
But then a few days later, I went to the diner where I was told you worked, but you were not there that morning. I saw a cartoon of you on the wall of the diner, and another on the back of a paper placemat. The cartoon was a baker girl smiling out at me, her twinkling eyes full of hope.
That’s when I decided to step in to help soften the blow of losing the prize money after winning the competition. Later that day I left an envelope for you, tucked next to the cash register at the diner. A promissory note for a hundred thousand dollars.
You made me laugh when I saw the diner close and you, not missing a beat turning right around and opening a bakery a few blocks away, with the name of Star’s Bakery over the door.
We may never meet, but I want you to know what a strong young woman you are and that nothing will hold you back from a wonderful, fulfilling life. Never hesitate to take a risk that in your heart you believe in, if only you had the nerve. Go for it, Star, like you did at the bakeoff competition. Like your plans for a bakery. Do this and your life will be filled with one adventure after another.
My dear Star, if you’re reading this letter, it means you will soon receive another gift from me—twenty-five million dollars. It gives me great pleasure to leave this very small piece of my estate to you in thanks for helping me through a difficult time, for helping to relieve my pain. Thank you, dear Star Bloom.
Your friend,
Dale Wainwright.
PS: Please give Benny Howard the enclosed check for $5000. Our long conversation at the bakeoff when you won the competition added to my faith in the human spirit to overcome adversity, adversity that Mr. Howard faces every day.
• • •
STAR SLUMPED ONTO A STOOL beside the counter in the center of the kitchen where all the mixing, sifting, icing took place. She put the check for Benny in her pocket and handed the letter to Gran. Wiping her hands on her apron, she took the letter from Star’s fingers.
Silence filled the bakery’s kitchen as Gran read the letter. Liz had no idea what was in the letter, must have been very bad news from Star’s reaction.
Looking at Manny, Star slowly shook her head. “I don’t believe it. Twenty-five million dollars. Did you know?”
Liz let out a gasp … twenty-five mil?
“Yes. I knew,” Manny said. “Louise Wainwright invited me to attend the reading of her father’s will. Dale Wainwright drew up a codicil to his will, leaving that sum of money to you. No one knew about the codicil, except his lawyer. It came as quite a shock. Star, that’s the good news. The bad news is that the family—his daughter, granddaughter and their husbands are very upset. So upset, in fact that Louise and her husband are coming here to meet you. She wants to size you up, called you some very unpleasant names, swears she will have the codicil overturned, set aside.”
“When is she coming?”
“Not sure. A day or two after Christmas. I think she’ll call me because I told her that you are not the monster she was making you out to be. I told her I’d pick her up at the airport.”
Gran handed the letter to Manny to read, Liz reading it over his shoulder.
Manny then handed the letter back to Star. “A word of warning, she’s coming here thinking you seduced her father, coming to accuse you of wrangling money from him. I think Louise Wainwright might change her mind if she reads her father’s letter to you. Put it in a safe place, like a safety deposit box at the bank. The letter will stand as proof that you never met him. Make a copy to show Louise when she arrives.”
“Wow, he was at the bakeoff … every episode.” Star shook her head, looked at Gran, both unable to comprehend the life-changing magnitude of what Mr. Wainwright wrote in the letter.
“Maybe that’s why I hesitated, just a moment, when you asked if I had seen the man in the picture. Everything was always so chaotic, stressful at the bakeoff, my eyes could have glanced his way but my brain didn’t register him.”
Manny took out his phone again, thumbed through the pictures to the one Louise had sent with her father in a Tuxedo. “Here, look at this from his daughter. I guess they were at a charity ball.”
Star took his phone, looked at the picture, then up at Manny. “Benny. This is the man Benny was talking to at the opening. I remember because of his bow tie … Tyler wore a black bow tie everyday at the diner. I remember wishing Tyler was at my opening. Of course, that was before Superman strolled through the door,” she added giggling.
Chapter 36
The Day Before Christmas
IT WAS ALL HANDS ON DECK.
&
nbsp; Dressed in their uniforms—black shirt embroidered with Star’s Bakery, black slacks, a white frilly apron floating over all, the bakers set to work for the final push. Everyone arrived at 5:00 a.m. except for Benny who kept to his routine—coffee, newspaper, cash register at 9:00 a.m. Star braided her hair into little piglets keeping it out of her eyes and off her neck. Today was going to be a barn-burner but she was ready.
Everyone staked out their territory on the kitchen’s long center island. The Butterworth sisters took command of one end—Hattie and Mattie one side, Anne the other. Wanda bustled in the back door muttering that she was sorry she was late, joining Anne across from her sisters.
The sisters and Wanda were in charge of bread, cake and piecrusts—anything to do with flour. Pie crust shells, navy beans covering the golden unbaked dough to prevent a soggy bottom, were baked. Hattie retrieved the crusts from the oven, sliding the perfect bottom crusts to Gran. She took over with the fillings and necessary top—dough crisscrossed, completely covered, or not—popping the pie into the oven for the final baking.
Gran and Star labored on either side of the remaining three-foot wide section of the island finishing the pies and mixing, baking, and frosting cookies with or without sprinkles.
Gran and Star kept exchanging glances—twenty-five million darts shooting between them. Star swore Gran to secrecy—the late-night meeting with Manny and Liz. However, the sisters knew something happened when Mattie found a bootie, a pink bootie, on the floor in front of the shelf with the flour bin. A little L was appliquéd on the side. That moppet Lizzie had paid a visit. Mattie handed the bootie to Star who merely said thank you and that she would see to it that the bootie was returned to Liz.
Once the bakery opened the ka-ching of the register rang out merrily non-stop. Benny was decked out with new red suspenders over a new red and green plaid shirt, unbuttoned to reveal his white Star’s Bakery Tee. Grinning, he thanked the customers, wishing them a merry Christmas or a happy holiday, as he rang up the sale.
Two culinary-art students filled in for the better part of the day, bagging and boxing the orders for pickup, dashing back and forth between the front of the shop and the kitchen when Star or Gran called out that a pie, cake, or whatever was ready.
The Wurlitzer played holiday music nonstop including I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas, thanks to Benny, who also added a spritz of fresh snow to the front windows. Star saw her opportunity to talk to Benny quietly as he stood back admiring the new snowfall.
“Benny, I can’t explain right now, but I have check that’s burning a hole in my pocket.”
“Aw, Star, we all agreed no gifts—”
“This isn’t from me. It’s … well, it’s from a friend of yours, Dale Wainwright.”
“But I didn’t know him, we talked, but we didn’t exchange names.”
“I know, but you made quite an impression. He wrote me a letter before he died. He asked me to give this to you with his words ... Benny Howard faces adversity every day.” Star retrieved the folded check from her pocket, handing it to Benny.
Unfolding the check, his brows furrowed at the amount. “This is a lot of money … more than I ever … is it real?”
“I’m pretty sure it is. As I said, I’ll tell you more later. You’re a special, wonderful person, Benny. Merry Christmas.” Star kissed his check. Feeling her eyes mist, she turned, quickly walked back to the kitchen.
At 3:26 p.m., twenty-four minutes before closing, everything came to a halt. Superman strolled in completely undoing Star.
The final pickup-orders left the shop, customers hugging everyone, the staff hugging each other and anyone else who walked within range. Holiday greetings, kisses on cheeks, pumped up the celebration as the hands on the clock swung to closing time.
Wanda shut the front door, turning the swinging sign from Open to Closed. Per Star’s direction, Wanda tucked a twenty dollar bill into the envelopes with the student’s pay. Wanda also put out the offer to Gran that she’d give her a ride home given Superman was lingering around a certain baker girl. The offer was accepted. Gran picked up a fresh loaf of sour dough, commenting that a tuna sandwich and a glass of wine were in her future, and a long sleep, after a long day. Superman reminded Gran that she and Star were invited to the Jackman’s for Christmas dinner. He would be around to pick them both up at noon tomorrow.
The sisters made their exit with Benny, after a final round of hugs calling out that they would see them in two days. Wanda and Star had decided that a two-day holiday was due everyone. Wanda paused a few minutes asking Tyler about California and how he liked his job, then she and Gran said goodbye.
Benny had fed the Wurly with several coins before leaving with the sisters, so holiday music continued to fill the little bakery as Star turned off the shop lights, pulling Tyler into the kitchen.
Star leaned in as Superman circled the blond baker girl with pigtails into his arms.
The white lights twined around the shop windows twinkled merrily along with the soft colored lights dancing from the Wurly.
The magic of Christmas Eve settled into Star’s Bakery on Atlantic Avenue.
Chapter 37
Christmas Eve
RELUCTANTLY, THEIR EMBRACE ENDED.
Superman leaned back, gazed into the baker girl’s big blue eyes. “I love you, star of mine. I’ve missed you,” he murmured playfully fingering a piglet.
“Oh … you have no idea.”
“How about dinner? You must be starved.”
Star sighed. “I’d love it. But where? I have something big to tell you and a restaurant isn’t—”
“Not a problem, Miss Bloom. Superman has the menu under control. He most assuredly stocked his refrigerator with a roasted chicken, a side of salad, and that chocolate fudge cake I saw. The last one, I might add, in your display case will top dinner off nicely … don’t you think?”
“I think!” Star said, her lips smiling. “Here’s a box. You get the cake while I close up.” Star locked the bakery’s back door, turned out the light, stepped through the swinging door and into Superman’s second embrace. A thought mingled with the electric shot … how nicely their bodies melted together.
Driving to his parent’s home, he kept hold of her hand, raising it time and again to his lips.
His studio apartment, over his parent’s three-car garage, glowed softly with indirect lighting as they entered. Once again he pulled Star into his arms.
Another long embrace.
Letting his arms fall to his side, he smiled, his right hand grazing her cheek. “There’s a bottle of white wine in the fridge. Glasses on the counter. Can you pour us a glass while I change into Tyler Jackman?”
“I think I can manage that although I kinda like the goose bumps coming from Superman’s kisses.” They both laughed as he stepped away to the walk-in closet at the end of the studio, bordering the futon sleeping area. Star turned to the galley kitchen and the wine assignment. She took a minute to pull the elastics from the pigtails, freeing her hair to soft wavy curls falling to her shoulders.
Returning, Ty picked up his glass, arms around her shoulders guiding her to the buttery soft leather couch facing the computer work area across the way. Above the computer monitor was a wall mounted television he used to scrutinize his animations for editing.
A sip of wine, a kiss, the cuddling on the couch quickly turned into a desire to quench their thirst, not for the wine but for each other. Throw pillows on the thick red Oriental rug, their hearts beating faster, and faster to the rhythm of the music emanating from the sound system Tyler had flicked on when they entered his private space. The hunger from the two week separation flamed, until their thirst for each other was quenched and they lay sated in each other’s arms, the racing blood slowly returning to normal.
• • •
TYLER, HIS HEAD ON A PILLOW, Star’s arm circled his chest. Touching one of her wavy curls tucked under his chin, he stared at the pine paneled ceiling. So this is what love feels
like.
“I believe Superman said something about a roasted chicken,” Star whispered nestling tighter into the crook of his arm.
“He has a big mouth … but, I believe he was right. Of course, we could start with the fudge cake.” Tyler slowly sat up, smacked a kiss on her forehead. “Wait here … I believe Superman hung two cozy robes in my closet.”
“Umm … he certainly is thoughtful.”
“Always, Miss Bloom.”
Returning with two thick white terrycloth robes, he helped Star to her feet, wrapping her in a robe along with an embrace.
“I’ll put the salad out—buffet like,” Star said pulling him to the counter framing the galley kitchen.
“Very well, mademoiselle, I shall attend to the bird. More wine?”
“Yes, please.”
Star lit the three candles on the black granite counter, their flicker casting homey soft shadows.
Helping themselves to salad and pieces of chicken, they quickly perched on the counter stools. Tyler had retrieved their wine glasses from the floor in front of the couch, barely touched, topping them off. “To a wonderful Christmas,” he said raising his glass to hers.
“To a promise kept … returning home for Christmas,” she said raising her glass to him.
“I believe you told Superman you had some big news. Since he left, can you tell me?”
Star put her fork down, took a sip of wine and turned to Ty sitting inches from her. She put a hand on his raised knee, his foot on the middle rung of her stool.
“You know all that business with the body, with John Doe, the pictures forwarded back and forth between Manny and Liz, and you and me?”
“Yeah. Has the mystery of his death been solved? I guess they’ve identified him?”
“Dale Wainwright. A big oilman. A very big oilman. Ty … I don’t even know how to tell you. Wait, I have a copy of the letter in my shoulder bag. Let me get it. The letter will explain way better than I can.”
Star slipped off the stool.
Promises: Star's Bakery (The Baker Girl Book 2) Page 12
