Even though I was three, I had sat patiently nibbling my cookies, watching red sprinkles pepper my yellow skirt, waiting and expecting my mother to return. In those days, time always felt like forever but I was used to waiting for my birth mother, so I didn’t panic or cry. It was Sheila McCrae, the young hippie bakery shop owner with five- and three-year-old daughters of her own who had noticed I had sat alone and unattended for too long. She called for a search that quickly became frantic.
I remember Sheila’s husband, Frank McCrae, talking to the police, the social worker speaking to me softly, and me screaming bloody murder when they tried to lead me away. “No!” I’d shouted. “Mama!”
Sheila McCrae had pulled the social worker aside and told her I could stay at the bakery as long as I wanted. Some compromise had been struck and Mrs. McCrae had told me I could wait for my mother. Finally I stopped crying. They’d coaxed me inside, found a change of clothes for me, and fed me supper. I sat awake in bed, clutching the sheets, still hoping my mom would return. Finally, I’d drifted to sleep.
My birth mother never came back that night or the nights that followed. The police launched a search. The river had been dragged. There’d been newscasts and articles that flashed my picture and the few statistics the McCraes had coaxed from me. But no one had come forward with information on the Abandoned Bakeshop Baby.
I had only vague recollections of my birth mother: the scent of peppermints, the feel of her fingertips as she brushed hair out of my eyes, and the husky sound of her voice as she sang her one and only lullaby, “Rock-A-Bye-Baby.”
The police never found or discovered her true identity. I gave my birth mother the made-up name of Renee because it sounded very exotic. But the name Renee was as much a part of my imagination as the images of her that I had created. With no facts to anchor Renee, her story and likeness often shifted when I daydreamed. A destitute woman. A movie actress. A spy. But no matter who she was or what she looked like, she loved me, and deeply regretted leaving me behind.
Sheila and Frank McCrae, even before the Commonwealth terminated Renee’s parental rights, effortlessly wove me into their family. The McCraes formally adopted me almost a year to the day Renee left. Both of my new parents did their best to make me feel loved in their home. When Mom dispensed candy, each of her daughters got five pieces. When Christmas rolled around we each had six wrapped presents under the tree. We bought back-to-school supplies at the same time, and in elementary school we each ended up with the same style backpack and the same white Nikes.
But in my mind, I was a loose stray thread that was a little too off color and uneven to fully mesh with the delicate Irish McCrae linen.
Now as I stared at the patio, a rush of anger flooded my body. Whenever I go back to the early years with Renee, I become frustrated that I cannot remember more than cookie sprinkles on my yellow skirt. When Renee left, she took critical pieces of my life with her. My sisters have their The-Day-You-Were-Born birth stories. They know their grandmother suffered with breast cancer and that the heart disease that plagued our dad is a threat. They know they inherited Mom’s fair skin and Dad’s blue eyes. But I had no medical details, and I don’t know who gave me my dark hair or my raspy voice. When Renee left, she took my history with her and she created in me a jigsaw puzzle with missing key pieces. Almost complete, but not quite.
What could a three-year-old have done to deserve being ditched?
You are not lost. . . .
“Shut up.” I sucked in a deep breath as a therapist once advised. More honeysuckle filled my lungs, and I longed for the high-rise office with its sterile, computer-controlled air that held no hints of the past.
Like it or not, I was back home. To live. And to do what McCraes have been doing for over one hundred and fifty years: bake bread. It was also not lost on me that I am not a real McCrae. And I felt a little like a fraud.
“Daisy! Daisy! Are you awake?” My sister Rachel pushed through my bedroom door, two cups of coffee in her hands.
Rachel was only three months older than me but we were as different as night and day. Rachel had the McCrae clan’s coloring: strawberry blond–cool looks, pale skin, blue eyes, and hundreds of freckles. Like our parents, Rachel was eight inches shorter than my near six-foot frame; and like Mom, her sunny disposition drew people as easily as the honeysuckle summoned the bees.
“Ready to start your first day?” A neat ponytail accentuated her freshly scrubbed peaches-and-cream face. And of course she was smiling. Rachel was always smiling.
I tossed a final glance at the night sky. “Day? You’re kidding, right?”
Rachel laughed as she crossed and handed me the steaming cup of coffee. “Welcome to the world of a baker. You remember when Dad climbed out of bed at three every morning when we were kids?”
“I guess.” Dad had rattled around the kitchen each morning, cursing and trying to make his coffee. I often got up, found the coffee beans, and set the pot to brew as we sat and listened to the gurgle of the machine. After he filled his cup and drank his first sip, he’d kiss me and then shoo me back to bed.
I stared into the dark depths of my cup, knowing I wouldn’t be going back to bed and that I had a three-cup minimum before I’d function at full speed. “It’s one thing to know someone was up early, but it’s quite another to be the one who is actually awake and functioning.”
“Henri has been in the kitchen since midnight.” Henri, who originally hailed from the Basque region of France, had worked for Dad for over twenty-five years. Every night, Sunday through Friday, Henri clocked in at midnight to fire up the bakery’s stoves. He mixed dough and shaped loaves until his shift ended just before seven. I only had vague recollections of him leaving each morning just before the store opened, a cigarette dangling from his lips, flour coating his black shoes, and several loaves tucked under his arm. Henri had always been a bit of a ghost to me; the thought of working side by side with him was jarring.
“Working until three in the morning was the norm when I had deadlines for the firm, but rising at this unholy hour is different. It breaks all the laws of nature. I can’t believe you’ve been doing this for the last year alone.”
Rachel shrugged, and I imagined the worries rolling off her shoulders like rain from a duck’s feathers. “It hasn’t been so bad. I’m up and have the bulk of my work done before the kids wake up. And remember Margaret is scheduled to open the storefront at seven.”
According to the new plan, I would work in the bakery kitchen with Henri and Rachel, and then at seven, our other sister, Margaret, would arrive to work the front counter while I retired to the bakery office to sort the paperwork. Rachel would hurry upstairs to her second-floor apartment to get her twin five-year-old daughters up and dressed for school. Once the girls were out the door, Rachel had to head back downstairs to work in the shop, which she’d keep open until three. Rachel’s late afternoons were split between the bakery and doing more kid-related things—soccer, dance, and God only knows what else. Mom promised that the new plan would run like clockwork.
Clockwork.
Right.
This entire family hadn’t had many clockwork days in recent years. Six years ago when our parents retired, they moved into the town house building across the street, which they’d bought in the eighties and had been renting out. They also turned over the bakery to Rachel and her new husband, Mike. Mom and Dad were near seventy by then, and Dad’s heart had given him some fits in the form of minor heart attacks. The changing of the guard seemed a natural, logical switch. I had just gotten a big promotion at work and my sister and her husband had happily taken over the bakery. With my parents safely retired, my association with flour, hot ovens, and waiting on customers promised to slip happily into the past forever.
A year later, Rachel and Mike’s twins, Ellie and Anna, came screaming into the world seven weeks early but, in the long run, perfect. Rachel and Mike we
re thrilled. Mom and Dad beamed. Even my older sister Margaret had seemed happy with her PhD studies at William and Mary. We had all found our place in the world. And then, thirteen months ago, Mike had suffered a brain aneurysm while he’d been icing cakes. He died before the ambulance reached the hospital.
The family rallied. I had made a loan to cover Rachel’s cash-flow problems and Mom and Dad had stepped in to run the bakery. Margaret had come home for a few weeks and kept the register running. And Rachel hid in the kitchens, pouring her grief into endless confections. She often said the girls and baking had saved her sanity.
Unfortunately, the routine my parents had managed so well for most of their youth soon overwhelmed their aging bodies. Dad had suffered another minor heart attack so Rachel approached Margaret and asked for help. Margaret reluctantly agreed, believing she could work in the bakeshop and finish her dissertation in her spare hours. I sent money, more than happy to part with cash so I could keep my distance.
The family and bakery limped along for another year, but the schedule didn’t really work. Margaret lost more and more time from her dissertation and Rachel’s weight and vitality waned as her pale skin turned pasty.
Last Christmas, I came home on the heels of a bad breakup, only half listening to Rachel and Dad exchange heated whispers over selling the bakery. Mom had whipped mashed potatoes into a fine, gooey paste all the while reminding us it was the holiday, and we damn well better act nice to each other. But it had been a grim holiday. The bakery, it seemed, might just have to close.
But then the McCrae’s Irish luck came calling. A week and a half later, I lost my job. Though I had hopes of landing something before my three months’ severance expired, I had quickly discovered employment prospects for the crewmembers of Suburban, aka the SS Titanic, were slim to meager.
Last week had marked three months of unemployment and the end of severance. Mom had summoned me home for a family dinner. I’d gone expecting that she’d ask for more money. I didn’t have a lot left after the company’s crash but I’d been ready to offer what I had. Instead, Mom had been all smiles, and she’d been serving her deadly daiquiris. I really should have known better.
Mom’s daiquiris had stealthily unwound the tension normally knotting my gut and allowed me to lower my guard so that when she offered me the job of bakery manager—until I found something better, of course—I’d been too buzzed and too at peace for my own good to say no. I agreed to manage the bakery and work with Rachel.
Like rabid dogs, my parents and sister had named a salary and offered living arrangements before I sobered. And in just three days, I managed to throw a blowout going away party for my unemployed work friends and my family had moved me from my D.C. apartment back home to Alexandria.
“I really appreciate this, Daisy,” Rachel said.
I sipped the coffee, remembering Rachel brewed it too bitter for my taste. “Hey, family helps out family. And we’ll find you someone who can help on a more permanent basis soon.”
“Right.”
I pushed through mental cobwebs and searched for Dad’s old schedule. We had almost four hours before the bakery opened. “So, we mix the bread dough first?”
Rachel smiled. “Just like in the days Dad ran the business, Henri has mixed the dough, and then we help him shape the remaining loaves and rolls. Bagels next, and cakes after that so they can cool while we bake the cookies.”
“Great.” I gulped more coffee. “Let me pee, and I’ll be right down.”
“Sure.” Rachel nodded but didn’t leave. “It really will be nice working with you.”
“Should be great.” Still, Rachel hesitated, which triggered an awkward need in me to fill the silence. “Are Mom and Dad going to help this morning?”
“No. They want us to go it alone. Dad’s not been feeling great.” She sipped her coffee and frowned. “And you know Mom never worries when you are around.”
“Mom worries about everyone.”
“But she worries less when you’re here. You’re the rock.”
“Maybe Mom also knows today won’t be easy for me and she is avoiding my moodiness.”
“You moody?” The unexpected sarcasm made us both laugh.
But when the laughter trickled away, the darkness regained footing. Rachel sensed the shift in me, just as Mom always did. And like Mom, Rachel got that wounded look in her eyes. It hurt Rachel and especially Mom when I cringed if they hugged too tight or kissed my cheek. I’ve long wanted us to be closer but I’d come to believe that I don’t know how to really love. I care about people, worry about their welfare, but an invisible barrier has always kept me separate from the world.
Despite the distance or perhaps because of it, I became fixer of all things McCrae. Need a picture hung, a ride, or furniture moved? Call Daisy. Need a little money? Call Daisy. A babysitter . . . yup, Daisy is your go-to gal.
A glance up at Rachel told me she wasn’t going anywhere despite bruised feelings. “I can pee by myself, Rachel.”
“Oh, yeah, right. I know. Curse of small kids,” she said, stepping back. “I’m always lingering in case I’m needed.”
“Which reminds me, you cut up my food last night.”
Rachel’s laugh held a hint of apology. “Sorry.”
And still she didn’t leave.
I pulled the rubber band from my hair, finger-combed it, and then gathered it into a smoother ponytail. “Really, I can pee on my own.”
Rachel traced the rim of her cup and with each turn of her finger her smile faded. “Daisy, I know you don’t want to be back. I know this has really got to suck for you.”
I smiled but sensed the effort looked more like a grimace. Faking nice has never been one of my specialties. “Am I that obvious?”
“You are—to me. I think you fooled Mom and Dad well enough.”
“They wanted to be fooled. It was easy.”
Fresh tears glistened in Rachel’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
She wrung trembling hands. “For not being able to keep this place afloat by myself. If I could, you’d be somewhere else.”
“Come on, Rachel, don’t cry. I hate it when you cry.” I half expected Mom to bust through the door. “Daisy, did you make your sister cry again?” “And yeah, I’d be somewhere else. I’d be in an apartment I can no longer afford, and I’d still be jobless. You did me the favor.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“I do.”
“Keep saying it out loud and you might believe it.” Rachel swiped away a big, fat tear.
“Stop crying.”
“You know me. I cry over spilled milk.”
“Hey, this could be fun.” A small lie that supported the greater good wasn’t so bad, was it?
“It’s just since Mike died, I’ve been doing so much by myself.”
“No more worries. Daisy to the rescue.” I had the sinking feeling that my temporary arrangement with the bakery had just been extended. “Just remember the baking gene skipped me. You’ll need to tell me what to mix. I can burn toast.”
That seemed to buck her up a bit. “Who knew flames could shoot that high out of a toaster oven?”
“Don’t forget the flaming cheese when I cooked pizza from scratch.” As a teen I’d gained a reputation as a terrible cook. The description had stuck, and though I really had improved over the years no one in the family had really noticed. In their mind I would forever be Daisy, burner of all things edible.
A laugh eased some tension from her shoulders. “Right.”
“Hey, I know my fractions, and I can add and subtract. You stay close for the finesse part of the work, and I’ll do the heavy lifting. Between the two of us we’re a decent baker.”
“I can do that.” Rachel swiped another tear and straightened her shoulders. A hint of her trademark smile reappeared. “I c
an do that. I can do that.”
“See? All better.” I patted her on the shoulder, but my hand was stiff and my touch a little too hard. “Now, Rachel, please leave because I really, really have to pee.”
Chapter Two
Henri, a short willowy man with stooped shoulders, hovered by a large mixer, watching patiently as the large dough hook twisted and molded the dough. His gnarled fingers gripped a handful of flour, which he randomly sprinkled into the stainless steel bowl. What looked haphazard to me, however, was not at all arbitrary to Henri.
Like any master baker, Henri read dough as easily as I read the paper. Too much water? Too humid? A bad batch of flour? Henri knew. When I was a kid, I had been fascinated by the fact that he never went by any written recipe or used measuring cups. I would stand in the corner just a little afraid to talk to the silent man who never mingled with the family and watch him dump his ingredients into the large mixing bowl. I once screwed up the courage to ask him how he knew what to do, when. For a long moment he didn’t answer or move his gaze from the dough, and then he’d shrugged and said, “Je sais.” I know.
“Henri,” I said, clearing the gravel from my voice and trying not to sound like he still intimidated me a little. “Que pasa?”
He raised his gaze, and his brow arched as he stared at me. I half imagined he was glad to see me, and then he grunted a greeting before returning to his dough.
Others might have been offended by Henri’s abrupt, almost rude response. But I wasn’t. In fact, I drew comfort from it. So many people have changed on me, disappointed me, or let me down, but never Henri. I can always count on Henri to worry more about his dough than polite “Good Morning”s.
I sat my cup down on the large stainless worktable and picked up a white apron hanging from a hook. As I slipped the apron over my head and crisscrossed the ends around my waist, I had a moment of pure panic.
Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) Page 2
