Finally unable to stand the pesky tune, I blurted, “I don’t know when my real birthday is.”
Susie stopped dancing and came back to the bed, tucking her legs under her lace skirt. “Of course you know. Today is your birthday.”
“It is not.”
“Of course it is! You are so silly.”
I shook my head. “Nobody knows my real birthday. Margaret told me my parents made up my birthday when I was adopted. Nobody knows when I was really born. May 12 is just a story.”
“Margaret is a sour mean puss.”
“But she is right. No one knows.”
“Except Renee,” Susie said.
“Except Renee.”
Chapter Four
Did you find it?” Mabel said.
The old woman leaned forward in her wheelchair, tugging nervously at a loose thread on the edge of her blue crocheted blanket. She and Florence were in the back spare room of Mabel’s town house, a room she’d not been in in more years than she could count.
Even as a bride, she thought the room dreary. And now it seemed danker and darker than ever before. She could have lived with the smell of dust and mothballs, or tolerated the overhead light that spit out only a miserly bit of brightness, or even the tasseled velvet floor-to-ceiling curtains, which blocked the sun and views of the river. She also didn’t care so much about the piles of newspapers and boxes, old furniture, and knickknacks that covered most of the floor. All that was part and parcel of an old house.
No, what she hated most about this room were the bad memories. Every square inch of the room was soaked in sadness. Of death. This room had been her husband’s when he’d been so sick. Her Robert had suffered and eventually died in this room over sixty years ago.
Florence Tillman glanced up from the deep wooden trunk filled with dusty clothes. Stirred-up dust made her sneeze. “I’m looking, Miss Mabel. I’m looking.”
Mabel leaned forward in her wheelchair, hating the craggy edge of desperation burning through her body. “Well, look faster. I ain’t got a lot of time. She’s already told me I don’t have many more days.”
“You talking to spirits again?”
“Don’t matter who. She’s right: I’m out of time.”
Mabel had never figured after all the living that she’d done that she’d be so fearful of crossing over. Maybe it was because she’d always prided herself on control and of taking matters into her own hands, just as her grandmother had taught. She’d spent many hours with her grandmother learning not only listening to stories that sounded more like fairy tales but also learning the value of grabbing destiny when it was elusive. Be anything you want but don’t be no fool, Mabel Ann.
And so Mabel had never feared taking life by the horns. When she was twelve and the copperhead snake invaded her mama’s garden, she didn’t scream or squeal like her sisters; instead she’d gotten her pa’s ax and cut its head right off. When her husband started having fits of anger after he’d been wounded in the war, she didn’t reach out to anyone. She went to the medicine cabinet. A few drops of laudanum in Robert’s morning coffee kept him even and steady for the last few years of his life. And when her no-good great-niece had come looking for drug money, she’d turned her out onto the street, refusing to hear the girl’s sob stories.
Like a vigilant gatekeeper, Mabel Woodrow did what she had to do to keep life moving forward, just like her grandmother had done.
Whereas her grandmother had been cursed with regret, Mabel didn’t have any damn regrets for the way she’d lived her life. She’d done what she’d done. Life was what it was. And only the weak fussed and fretted over spilled milk.
Still, with the time left in her life ticking down day by day or perhaps hour by hour, she’d come to see that the Lord meant for her to fix something before she left His Earth. She’d never go so far as to say any kind of penitence for her actions. She’d done what needed to be done, but she was willing to concede that perhaps a bit of mending was in order.
“It’s in the bottom of the trunk,” she said. She twisted the edge of her lap blanket tighter.
“I heard you the first time.” Florence’s words snapped with irritation.
“Move that wide bottom of yours so that I can see into the trunk.”
Florence straightened and turned her full attention to her employer. “Now, if you want to drag your bony ass out of that chair and look for yourself, I’m more than willing to sit on the sidelines and criticize while you hunt through fifty years of mold and dust.”
Old eyes narrowed to priggish slits. “Don’t you get smart with me, Florence Tillman.”
“Don’t you be bossing me, Mabel Woodrow. We are way beyond that now. Now, you gonna be nice?”
“You gonna move a little faster?”
Florence shook her head. “I swear I wonder why I stayed with you all these years.”
Mabel clicked her false teeth. “’Cause you like me.”
Florence shook her head and went back to digging as Mabel settled back into her chair, irritated and frustrated that so little time remained for this important task. She’d put one ball in play over a month ago but had begun to fear that her efforts would fail. This would be her last chance. “Fine.”
Florence snorted and returned to digging in the trunk again. She tossed out an old quilt and a stack of newspapers onto the floor beside her. “Beyond me why you got me hunting and digging through all these dusty old trunks. I swear it’s those damn sweet buns you ate this morning. The sugar has diddled with your mind and made you a little crazy.”
The sweet buns had not been the culprits. She’d barely taken a bite or two. Food didn’t much interest her anymore. Nothing much except this last task interested her.
The cauldron of worries had been stirring for months with each new dream that came to her. And last night’s dream had been the clearest and most vivid of all, once again churning up matters she’d buried long ago. The dream had made her rise early and demand that Florence take her first to the bakery and then to her lawyer’s office.
“It’s in a box,” Mabel said. “And the box is wrapped in fabric.”
“You told me that twice already. I just wish you could remember which trunk and what kind of fabric.”
“How many books could there be?”
“Quite a few.”
Mabel glanced around the dusty room at the three other trunks that Florence had unpacked, searched, and repacked. Her grandmother had given her the book and bade her to keep it close and hidden until the time was right. “It’s got to be in that one. It’s the last wooden trunk, and I know I put it in a wooden trunk.”
Florence dug through more layers of clothes. “I don’t think . . . wait a minute.” Her lips flattened with determination, and then she pulled out a book wrapped in a faded blue calico fabric. “Is this what you are looking for?”
Nervous energy snapped through Mabel’s withered limbs as Florence rose and laid the box on her knees. Mabel’s hands hovered over the book. She’d not felt such a tremor of excitement in years. It had been so long since she’d seen it, so long since she’d even thought about its significance.
She tugged at the twine that held the fabric but quickly discovered her aged hands couldn’t breach the bindings.
Florence shooed her hands away. “Hold your horses. You’re going to break a finger. I got my nail clippers in my pocket.” She fished the clippers from her jacket pocket and easily clipped the twine. The brittle twine popped free as if it had been waiting to be released for years.
Mabel’s hands shook as she watched Florence peel away the fabric and then faded newspaper dating to 1922, the year she and Robert married. When she’d removed all the layers, she found the small leather-bound book, which wasn’t much bigger than her outstretched hand. Though scuffed and worn, the leather exterior appeared whole and true.
Gently, M
abel ran her hand over the fabric covering the book. Carefully, she opened it, amazed how time had faded the ink in the last eight decades. She flipped to a page and marveled at the precise handwriting she’d not seen in so long. To S. With love, J.
Mabel closed the book. S. Dearest S. Dead so long and yet if Mabel closed her eyes she could see her now smiling as the two churned butter. Mabel smoothed gnarled, bent fingers over the soft texture of the cloth cover.
Seeing the inscription magnified her regret and made it hard for her to pull in a breath. Tears glistened in long-dry eyes.
“You’ll see that she gets this,” Mabel said.
Florence sat beside her. “Why on Earth do you want her to have it? Makes not a bit of sense.”
Mabel smiled. “She’ll figure it out. She’s a smart one. Just promise me that she’ll get this.”
The blanket on Mabel’s lap had slipped and Florence tugged it back into place. Carefully she tucked the edges under the seat of the wheelchair cushion. “I’ll deliver it first thing in the morning.”
“Don’t tell any of my damn relatives about it. Those nephews of mine might see some value and take it. I don’t want it getting mired in my estate. And if she needs anything, you see that she gets it.”
Florence softened the edge in her voice. “Miss Mabel, you can give it to the child yourself. I’ll take you straightaway in the morning.”
Bent hands, lined with veins and wrinkles, gently stroked the book. “I don’t think I’ll be seeing morning.”
Florence frowned. “Now, don’t be talking like that.”
“I’m nearing a hundred, Florence. I’ve had a good run but it’s time for me to leave.”
Florence’s gaze softened. “What you gonna do if you wake up in the morning and you’re still kicking?”
“I won’t be.” She raised a brow and met her old friend’s gaze. “But if I am, I’ll deliver the book myself.”
Florence nodded. “That’s more like it.”
Mabel closed the book. “Just promise me, you will see that she gets it after I pass.”
“You ain’t gonna pass for a good while.”
“Promise me.”
Florence stared at her a long moment, and then she nodded. “I promise.”
Mabel eased back in her wheelchair and closed her eyes. She sat so quiet and still that Florence thought she might have died then and there.
“Mrs. Woodrow.”
The old woman nodded but didn’t open her eyes. “And the second letter?”
Florence patted the old woman’s arm. “I mailed it four days ago, like I said.”
That prompted a resigned smile. “Good.”
Chapter Five
The alarm bellowed loud, like an army drill sergeant jarring me awake. Blindly, I reached for the phone, pressed the dismiss button, and dropped back against the pillow. I lay very still for a moment or two, savoring the warmth of the covers in the chilly room. Hoping I’d set the alarm for the wrong time, I rolled on my side and peered at the glowing numbers on the phone’s display: three twenty-nine. Damn.
Yesterday, adrenaline had prodded me through the day. Much like the first day of school, the entire experience felt like one big novelty. Today, however, reality hit home with a painful force, making me yearn all the more for what I’d had at Suburban.
A year ago today, I’d been living in Gordon’s neat, clutter-free, brand-new condo. Unlike my current digs, Gordon’s place boasted all that was modern. Polished chrome fixtures winked in the overhead light, and his pipes didn’t rattle when I turned on the hot water tap. A soft beige carpet covered the floors, and there wasn’t an uneven, creaky hardwood floor to be found. No drafts chilled me when I slept, and direct and indirect lights offered generous illumination, unlike my attic room’s miserly bulbs.
Most mornings at this hour we were where any sane people would be—in bed. Gordon would lie beside me, nestling his body against mine. I liked the feel of his coarse chest hair tickling my skin, and the feel of his erection flickering to life and pressing against me. He’d wake, kiss me on the shoulder, my neck, my ear . . . The heat would rise in me, swift and hot, and I’d roll over, wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him on the lips. His touch would gain urgency and his kisses would travel to my chin, the hollow of my neck, my breasts . . .
In those warm, cocooned moments, the barriers dropped, pretense vanished, and the chaos stilled.
After we’d made love, we’d drift back to sleep entwined in each other’s arms. Most mornings when my alarm sounded at six, Gordon would already have showered, dressed, and left for work. I’d lie in bed, his scent still clinging to my body until I’d reluctantly rise and step into the shower.
Now as I lay on the pull-out sofa, the heavy weight of loneliness settled on my chest, crushing the breath in my lungs and conjuring an ache in my throat. I stared at the play of shadows on the peeling plaster ceiling. Weighted by fatigue and sadness I wondered if I’d ever feel light again. I’d not really spoken to Gordon since last October. I’d been packing the last of my clothes and moving for good out of his apartment. He’d come home early and surprised me. That meeting had been awkward and tense, choked with barriers and pretense. We’d continued to work together for several more months but we’d skillfully avoided each other.
Shit.
Another failure.
Another regret.
I rolled out of bed, flipped on the lamp by my sofa bed, and swiped away a stray tear. The cold wood floor prodded me to move so I quickly slipped on yesterday’s jeans, a fresh T-shirt, and my clogs, which were still dusted with flour and smelling of cinnamon and sugar.
Suddenly, the chaos that awaited me in the bakery didn’t seem so daunting. In fact, I welcomed it. At least in the bakery I didn’t have time to think.
I shoved aching fingers through my hair and padded toward the bathroom, negotiating around the untouched boxes and bags, brushed my teeth, tied back my hair, and splashed warm water on my face. I was halfway down the attic staircase when Rachel rounded the corner, two cups of coffee in hand. Her smile wasn’t the 100-watt perky kind of smile that was trademark Rachel.
Accepting the cup, I studied the shadows under her eyes and reminded myself that she was only thirty-four, a widow with two small children and a business that teetered on ruin. “Rough night?”
She shrugged as if to say all was well but the gesture was stiff. “Ellie is getting a cold. She didn’t sleep well.”
My long fingers wrapped around the mug and greedily accepted the warmth. “Where is she now?”
“She finally fell asleep about an hour ago. With luck, she’ll sleep for a few more hours. I doubt she’ll make it to school today. I’ve already told Mom, and she’s gotten into my bed with her.”
I sipped the coffee, bracing for the java’s bitterness and much-needed jumpstart. When I’d been little and afraid, Mom would get into bed with me. She’d lie beside me, and in her soft voice she’d spin fairy tales that transformed the shadows into wonderful characters in rich stories. Now when I remembered those moments, I pictured Mom rising at the crack of dawn to help Dad in the bakery. She’d never complained about exhaustion but there could have been no escaping it with three children and a business to run.
The coffee warmed me. “Mom will take good care of her.”
The worry in Rachel’s eyes faded a fraction but there was no hiding the guilt of a mother who couldn’t be there for her sick child. “I know.”
“What about Anna?”
“She’s fine.” Rachel drank her coffee and shook her head as if she were trying to figure out a puzzle. “That kid is like you. She has got the constitution of an iron horse.”
It was a bit odd that my niece and I were so much alike. She’d inherited my olive complexion from, I guess, her father’s side, and like me enjoyed books, strawberry ice cream, and saying the occasional
expletive. At thirty-four I’d learned when to hold my tongue; Anna, however, at age five had yet to understand that teachers didn’t appreciate frustrated kindergarteners dropping the S word. More than once Rachel had been summoned to the principal’s office to deal with the latest Anna event.
“I take no responsibility for anything genetic when it comes to you or your kids. Of course, if their behavior is stellar, then we’ll chalk it up to Auntie Daisy’s nurturing.”
Rachel laughed. “Duly noted.”
We moved downstairs to the first floor and then the basement. “Did you order your supplies yesterday?”
“I did,” Rachel said. “We’ll have our regular delivery tomorrow, but I think the driver will want to talk to you. He’s gonna need a check.”
The money from Suburban should hit today and if the vendor held the check a day or two the wire would clear in time. “The vendor give you any trouble?”
“Oh, no, Ike is always so nice to me. But he was just adamant about getting a check.”
“How much?”
“Fifty percent.”
I did a rough calculation. Fifty percent equated to about one thousand dollars. The money from my liquidated stocks was not going to last long. “Okay.”
“On the bright side, Chase Sugars was all smiles yesterday.”
“That’s because I sent them enough money to get our accounts updated. We owed them a chunk of change.”
She looked shocked. “I could have sworn I sent them a check.”
“You did. Four months ago.”
She chewed her bottom lip. “So do we have enough to cover the bills?”
“We do for this month but we’re gonna have to hustle to make up ground for next month.”
The sparkle returned to her gaze. “Business was great yesterday.”
“Let’s hope the novelty of my return continues.”
We found Henri at his mixer, stabbing the risen dough with his finger. I’d learned long ago that if you poke a floured finger into the dough and the hole doesn’t collapse, the dough had risen enough and was ready to be kneaded. He frowned as he stared at the dough, studied the indention a moment or two, and then turned his attention to a batch of cookies.
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