“The dough is slow today,” he muttered. “It is too cold.”
Rachel sipped her coffee, hurrying to the row of hooks on the wall that held our aprons. As I slipped my apron over my head, I recognized the worn cotton smells of something freshly laundered. Sometime during the evening hours Mom had taken the aprons, washed, and returned them. The simple gesture teased a smile from me.
I crisscrossed the apron strings and tied them in front. “So we shape the dough?”
Henri grunted. “The dough needs a few more minutes. It’s Tuesday. We do croissants on Tuesdays. Shape the croissants.”
“Right.” There were daily staples that we offered—sweet buns, carrot cake, cookies, and pies. But we had certain specials each day of the week. Tomorrow was walnut wheat raisin bread, and Thursday was Asiago bread. But I didn’t remember beyond that.
I moved to the large refrigerator and pulled out the “books”—squares of dough folded over and over smaller rectangles of butter mixed with flour. Rachel had prepared today’s books yesterday, mixing and rolling out and folding the slabs twice. This afternoon she’d chop walnuts and soak the raisins in rum in preparation for tomorrow.
By the time I rolled out the book for the third time, there were thirty-six layers of butter and flour ready to rise and puff to life. If I’d learned anything about working in a bakery it was that good pastry could not be rushed. Dough needed time to rest and chill before it would really respond to the baker’s touch.
I laid the book on the wooden work surface, unwrapped it from the plastic and grabbed a rolling pin. A flick of the wrist and Henri and Rachel could dust the dough with just the right amount of flour. Not enough and the dough stuck to the rolling pin. Too much and it would end up tough. It was a delicate, practiced touch I’d yet to master.
Though I couldn’t toss the flour with their precise flourish, I knew not to overdo. Soon I had the book rolled out into a long rectangle, had squared off the rough, uneven edges, and cut away a long strip from the topside. This strip would be cut into squares for chocolate croissants, and the remaining rectangle would be cut into triangles, which I’d stretch and shape into crescents. My efforts weren’t perfect but better than yesterday, and I sensed in a few days I’d be able to move much faster.
The three of us worked quietly, each focused on a specific task. By seven, the chilled kitchen had warmed and smelled of butter and cinnamon. Henri had his baguettes and grunted a good day to us as he left through the back door. The shop opened at seven, and as expected Margaret breezed through the front door ten minutes late. She was either too tired or too distracted to make any smart-ass comments, however, so I let the “Glad you could join us, Princess” crack pass.
I realized how little I knew about Margaret’s life. Since I’d moved away to college I’d lost track of her. I knew about the dissertation but couldn’t say much about whom she dated, what she did for fun, or whom she’d befriended. It occurred to me that when we saw each other on birthdays or holidays we were polite for Mom’s sake but we’d not gone out of our way to ask each other too many questions.
I’d never given our distance much thought when I’d been in D.C., but now as I glanced at the dark circles under her eyes I wondered what she did after work.
“You doing all right?” After so many years of benign indifference I didn’t know how to undo the tangle of silence.
“Great.”
“You look rough.”
She shrugged. “Back at you.”
While Rachel dashed upstairs to check on Ellie each hour on the hour, Margaret and I worked together through most of the morning fairly efficiently.
Most days the stream of customers was steady until about one P.M. Yesterday had been heavier than usual and today was looking to be just as busy. At times, it took all three of us to fill the orders.
But because we didn’t offer a lunch menu, most folks found other places to eat the midday meal. A lunch crowd could be a big source of income but right now I didn’t have a clue how we could pull it off.
By one, Rachel had slipped upstairs to check on Ellie and Margaret had vanished into the back to grab coffee and a few cookies. I had snagged a croissant and taken a seat on a stool behind the counter. With each bite I calculated fat grams, carbs, and calories. How long before the weight piled on my hips? A day, a week? Maybe running around the kitchen in the morning had offset the extra consumption? Yeah, and maybe Mom still had my fat jeans from high school. Tomorrow, I really had to get my food act together.
When I heard the front bells clatter, I wiped the crumbs from my lap and stood. My grin froze when I saw the black nurse who’d wheeled in Mabel Woodrow yesterday. I tensed, half expecting the old lady to show and half dreading she wouldn’t. One way or another, I had to talk to her about Renee.
I searched around the nurse for Mrs. Woodrow. “Can I help you?”
The older woman moved toward the counter. Her face looked pinched and ashen and her eyes rimmed in red as if she’d been crying. “Miss Mabel asked me to give you something.”
“Is everything all right?”
The old woman sniffed. “Miss Mabel passed early this morning.”
My mind jumped to the sweet buns she’d eaten yesterday. Had they thrown her into diabetic shock that had somehow managed to kill her? Right on the heels of that thought, I selfishly thought about Renee. Mabel Woodrow was my fragile, if not tentative, connection to Renee and I had killed her with sweet buns.
In a blink I was irritated, saddened, and even a tiny bit relieved that I’d not have to deal with the situation. “I’m sorry.”
The older woman sniffed again. Like yesterday, she wore her salt-and-pepper hair in a tight bun. Small wisps framed her round face, which for the most part, was wrinkle-free. “It was her time. She had a full life.”
The words sounded hollow and clichéd—all the things people say when an older person dies—and I doubted the words were a comfort. Mom had called this woman Florence but to use her given name felt disrespectful. “My name is Daisy McCrae. You are?”
The older woman tightened her grip on her purse straps. “Florence Tillman. I was Miss Mabel’s housekeeper and nurse for going on forty years.”
Forty years. A lifetime. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Tillman.”
Mrs. Tillman sniffed and pushed her pudgy hands into the folds of her dark coat. “I didn’t come here to boo-hoo on your shoulder.”
Grief had spawned the bitter tone and I let it pass. Grief had devastated Rachel when Mike had died. Her personality had transformed in a matter of minutes from a laughing bright woman to a snappish shrew. We’d all feared she’d never smile again. But slowly, over time, she’d come back to us. “Then why did you come?”
She pulled a package wrapped in gingham out of a large black purse, which dangled from the crook of her arm. “To give you this. Miss Mabel wanted you to have it. She sensed the end was coming and she didn’t want this getting tied up in the estate.”
I glanced down at the package, which I now realized was a book. It smelled of dust and age. “A book?”
Mrs. Tillman snapped her purse closed. “It’s a journal. A very old journal at that, so mind that you take care of it.”
In a heartbeat my thoughts jumped to Renee. “Did it belong to my mother?”
Confusion darkened her eyes. “Mrs. McCrae? No, it didn’t belong to her.”
Frustration and anger gripped me. I glanced around, fearing one of my sisters or mother would overhear. “No, I meant my birth mother. Miss Mabel said yesterday that she saw us together a long time ago. I thought she might have known her.”
A deep wrinkle furrowed Mrs. Tillman’s forehead. “I don’t know anything about that. All I know is that Miss Mabel talked a lot of nonsense toward the end, and that she wanted you to have that book. She had me searching most of yesterday afternoon through every trunk in the spare room
for it.”
I glanced down at the gingham, faded with age. “Why me? She didn’t even really know me.”
“Like I said, I don’t know the particulars. Miss Mabel had a mind of her own, and she had her mind set that I should give you this.” She started to turn. “Now, I need to be going. I’ve a funeral to plan.”
I didn’t know what to say to her. “Thank you.” “I’m sorry.” “Let me know if I can help.” None felt genuine. “I’ll let my mother know.”
Mrs. Tillman nodded. “Your mama is a good woman, Daisy McCrae. And she loves you. Don’t you ever forget it.”
Why would she say such a thing? I knew Mom was a good woman. I loved her. Appreciated her. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Tillman lumbered toward the front door. “Funeral is on Monday at Christ Church. Miss Mabel wanted to be cremated so there won’t be no graveside service.”
“I’ll tell Mom.”
She stared at me long and hard. “Thank you.”
After she vanished out of sight, I sat down on my stool and laid the wrapped book in my lap. For a moment, I didn’t remove the fabric, fearing what I’d find. My hands hovered over the knot, trembling just a little before I took a deep breath. The fabric was brittle and frayed on the ends but the knot securing it was surprisingly tight. I wedged my fingernail into the knot and dug until it loosened enough for me to pry the ends free.
My breathing shallowed and my heart raced as I gently peeled back the red fabric. Even without opening it I knew Mrs. Tillman was right: It was old. Very old. The tattered book had a worn spine and frayed edges.
Carefully I opened the cover, wincing as the old spine creaked in protest. The yellowed first page was brittle and blank except for an inscription written in old-world style that had me visualizing the author dipping the nib of a pen into an inkwell. The inscription read: To S. With Love, J.
S. as in Susie. For a heart-stopping moment, I pictured the little girl I’d dreamed of for so many years. Of course the S. could have been S. as in Sam, Sarah, or Smith. But my thoughts had tripped back to Susie, no doubt, because I’d been dreaming about her again.
The letter could have referenced a thousand different names, but still the coincidence had me shifting on the stool. I ran my hand gently, even reverently, over the cover page. The unshakable sense that I was reaching into the past washed over me.
“What’s that?”
I was so engrossed in the journal, I didn’t hear Margaret approach. “It’s a journal, I think. Mrs. Tillman just gave it to me.”
“Why would Mrs. Tillman give you a journal?” Genuine curiosity softened Margaret’s typically imperious tone.
I traced the S. with my fingertip. “She said Miss Mabel wanted me to have it.” I glanced up at Margaret. “Miss Mabel died last night.”
Sadness snapped in Margaret’s eyes. “What?”
A sigh shuddered through. “She died in her sleep.”
“Shit. Does Mom know?”
I shook my head. “I just found out a few minutes ago myself.”
Margaret sunk down on the stool beside me. Her shoulders slumped forward, and she reminded me of a balloon that had suddenly popped and gone flat. “Damn. She’s going to be upset. She’d planned to visit her today. Hell. I’m upset. I liked that old lady.”
Guilt niggled me. I hadn’t liked the old lady. Even back when I was a teenager, I didn’t like the way she stared at me. “I barely knew her. Other than yesterday, I hadn’t seen her in almost twenty years.”
Margaret didn’t hide her surprise and disappointment. “Miss Mabel was here? I never saw her. We always make a point to talk.”
Lifting a brow, I shrugged. “You were late. She came before you arrived.”
“Shit.” Margaret rubbed the back of her neck, coaxing tension away. “I wish I’d been here. She’d not been out of her house in months, and then she came here and you saw her.”
Margaret usually didn’t seem to care much about anything and for her to care about the old woman was a surprise. “Were you two close?”
“When I came back to Alexandria five years ago, I was working on my dissertation on ancient Greek women. I had all my research but I just couldn’t get the work to flow. The Archaeology Center had just hired me and asked me to write an article on Mabel. I did, and found I really liked the woman. So I kept going back and talking to her. We talked a lot about the city and how it used to be. I also talked to her about her parents and grandparents. You know me and history. She seemed to really love talking about her grandmother. I’ve got notes and recordings of those talks. I should dig them out.”
I tried to envision Margaret sitting in the old woman’s home, speaking softly and balancing a cup of tea on her lap as she tried to take notes. “Frankly, Margaret, that’s a match I can’t picture.”
“She inspired me to change my dissertation. I’ve left ancient Greece behind and am now focusing on Alexandria.”
“Which explains why you’ve not gotten your PhD yet.”
“Yeah. But I’m okay with that. Mabel was nearly one hundred. She knew so much about this town. She was a treasure of information. Hell, her grandmother was born in 1840. Eighteen freaking forty. But I really liked the old lady. She had a take-no-prisoners kind of attitude about life, and I liked that.”
“Did she tell you much about the city?”
“Sure. She told me all kinds of things about what it was like to live here. Her grandmother came to town at the very end of the Civil War.”
“Did she tell you much about herself?”
“No. In fact, she was fairly tight-lipped about her own life. Every time I asked about her past, she said she wasn’t interesting and that I should let that sleeping dog lie.”
“You look up her records and trace her family?”
“No. She didn’t want me to pry so I didn’t.”
“Very un-historian of you.”
“Tell me about it.” Margaret folded her arms and shook her head. “Now that she’s gone, I guess I’m free to dig as much as I’d like.”
“Have at it.”
Margaret glanced at the journal. “You know, she always asked about you.”
“Why? She didn’t even like me.”
“She liked the idea of you doing well.” Margaret cocked a brow. “You piqued her interest, I guess.”
“I wonder what she thought about me losing my job and then stumbling back home to work.”
“Mom told everyone you were coming back home because you were one of those huge successes who wanted to turn her back on corporate America and return to her roots.”
“Ah, much like the story we spun yesterday.”
“Great minds think alike.”
I chuckled and rubbed my eye. “Corporate executive to bakery shop manager. I guess on paper my downward move could be seen as a spiritual thing.”
Margaret kept glancing at the book. “She said you were like one of those gals who opens a B&B or a winery.”
“Mom can put a good spin on anything.” I followed her gaze to the journal, which was far more interesting than my descending career. “So why give me the book? It makes no sense that Miss Mabel didn’t give it to you.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” A bit of frustration had crept into my sister’s voice. “Can I see that book?”
“Sure.”
Margaret took the journal; immediately her demeanor changed from sadness and confusion to reverence. Gently, she opened the book, wincing a little when the spine creaked, and studied the yellowed, brittle pages. Blue eyes sparked with joy. “Holy shit.”
“What?”
“This book appears to be a handwritten journal, written mid-nineteenth century. Shit. Shit. Shit. Have you read past the first page?”
“No. Mrs. Tillman just gave it to me. What is the big deal?” It’s old and rare, and I could appreci
ate that on some level but honestly the book wasn’t of real interest.
Margaret’s face flushed with excitement. Her hands trembled slightly when she closed the book. “We shouldn’t be handling this with our bare hands. The oil from our skin isn’t good for the paper.”
I’d never seen Margaret so excited, and it made me wonder why my heart wasn’t racing. I rose and grabbed two sets of fresh plastic gloves. I handed her a set and slipped on mine. “I’ll hold the book while you put your gloves on.”
Margaret hesitated, as if I’d just asked her to feed her firstborn child to the wolves. “Be very, very careful.”
Amused by her angst, I thought about pretending to drop the book but decided that was immature even for me. “Margaret, I think I can hold a journal while you put on gloves.”
She studied the book with a mother’s loving eye. “You have a heavy hand, Daisy.”
True. My fingers were not only long but also strong, and I was famous for breaking stuff—vases, door handles, electronics, you name it, I’d broken it. “Be nice or I’m going to take my journal away and not let you read it.”
Margaret blinked. “You cannot shut me out of this, Daisy. This is so huge. It’s the kind of find I’ve been waiting for . . . well, for a really long time.”
I tugged it from her fingers. “Yes, I can.” The weight of the journal seemed to increase as I cradled it on flattened palms. “If it’s such a big deal, then why did Miss Mabel want me to have it and not you? You are the history geek.”
Margaret’s eyes glistened. “She must have made a mistake. Maybe she was just confused and she really wanted me to have the book.”
No! The journal is yours.
The words resonated in my head, loud and clear.
Instantly a protective urge rose up and filled every nook of my body. Mrs. Tillman had given the book to me. She’d not been the least bit confused. “Mrs. Tillman was very clear, Margaret. She said Miss Mabel wanted me to have the book.” As if I hadn’t spoken, Margaret reached for the journal ready to retake possession. I drew back. “You can read it, but you will not run this show. The book is mine.”
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