Margaret gave me her best you’ve-got-to-be-kidding glare. “I am a trained professional, Daisy. I have a PhD—well, almost as soon as my dissertation is finished—in archaeology. You do numbers, Rachel bakes, and I do old documents. This is my thing.”
“No argument here, Margaret. But this book was given to me for a reason. And until I understand that reason, I’m hanging on to it.”
Margaret stared at me, annoyed; her palms outstretched as if to say give it!
Margaret was three years older, and the balance of power in our relationship had always been skewed in her favor, which likely explained why I was always trying to tip the scales. But now, for once, the power had shifted to me without my intervention. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was enjoying this moment. “Say it.”
Blue eyes twinkled with a mixture of annoyance and hunger. “Say what?”
“Say the book belongs to Daisy.” I enunciated each word carefully.
She arched a pale brow. “You’re being a child.”
Maybe I was being childish. Responsible, levelheaded Daisy was acting like a kid. But this book was mine. It was history that Miss Mabel wanted me to know. And seeing as I didn’t have all the pieces of my own personal history, the urge to guard this book was surprisingly powerful.
I shrugged. “I know. Say it.”
Margaret, born to parents who’d loved her since the day of her conception, and who could trace her lineage back hundreds of years, simply didn’t get it. “You’re a twit.”
“Maybe.” Mutinous silence hovered between us. Margaret waited for Daisy the peacemaker to gallop onto center stage and relent. But that Daisy wasn’t available today. In her place remained cranky bitchy Daisy, who didn’t want to share.
Margaret shoved out an annoyed breath. “The book belongs to Daisy.”
“Good.” I made a ridiculous show of straightening my shoulders. “Now we can read it.”
“Read what?” Rachel appeared from the back.
“Miss Mabel asked Mrs. Tillman to give her a valuable historic document, and now Daisy is playing games with me. She won’t let me look at it.”
“It’s mine,” I said. “I call the shots.”
Rachel laughed. “You sound like Ellie and Anna fighting over the Hannah Montana CD.”
The comment hit home with both of us. Miss Mabel had died, she’d given me this journal for a reason, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t to stir up an argument between Margaret and me.
“Lock the front door,” I said. “We’ll take the book in the back and lay it on the table.”
Margaret nodded, more excited than I’d seen her, well, ever. She hurried to the front door, flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED, and threw the dead bolt.
Rachel shook her head. “I haven’t seen Margaret move that fast in years.”
Margaret shooed us toward the back. “Shut up and get moving.”
In the back kitchen, the stainless steel worktable had been cleaned after the morning baking, but still Margaret laid out a clean apron on the work surface. Margaret, who normally slopped coffee on her shirt and left a trail of crumbs behind her wherever she walked in the bakery, made sure the towel lay perfectly flat and the edges were straight.
“Jeez, Margaret, I’m starting to think there should be a chorus of angels singing.”
Rachel giggled.
Margaret held no hint of humor in her gaze. “Honestly, it wouldn’t be out of line.”
I laid the book on the towel. “Okay, then. Let’s have a look.” I reached for the book cover but Margaret shooed my hand away.
With fingertips, she delicately lifted the cover and first page. The ink had faded only a little and reading the first entry was remarkably easy.
October 12, 1852
My name is Susie. I am a slave.
Births and deaths aren’t always recorded for slaves, but I do know that today is my birthday. I am twelve.
Mama tells me I was born on a cold day. The trees hadn’t budded, and a cold rain fell as she’d labored with the midwife in our attic room. She said it was a long, hard birthing, which just about wrung every bit of strength from her.
For most of the night, she said she cried and wailed as her muscles bit and scratched at her insides. She was about to give up when I came out squawking and crying and covered in a fine white powder. She’d said the pain vanished in a blink, and she was filled with joy and sadness. As she’d smoothed my soft curls, she knew the joy came from her love for me, and the sadness for the knowing that I would be a slave like her.
Master and his wife were out of town when I was born, and when they came home they made a point to see me. Master’s wife often tells me that I was much pinker and whiter than she’d imagined.
“Holy crap,” Margaret said. “If this is real, do you have any idea what a find this is? In 1852 only a handful of slaves could read and write.”
“I thought there was more education in the African-American community,” I said.
“There was, before 1848.” When her gaze met my blank stare she added, “Until 1848, Alexandria was a part of the District of Columbia, which was a haven city for runaway slaves. The city was progressive for its time when it came to education. And the city had a growing population of free blacks. Long story short, however, in 1848 the City of Alexandria seceded from the District and joined Virginia.”
“Because why?”
“Slave trading was a booming business in Alexandria. The slave traders and businessmen knew it was a matter of time before the District outlawed slavery. They knew Virginia had no such plans, so to protect their business interests, they joined Virginia.”
“Just like that?”
“No. In fact, it was a big political fight. Huge. In the end the business community won its bid to join the Commonwealth.”
“When was slavery outlawed in the District?” Rachel asked.
“Eighteen fifty. And the white owners were even more worried about any kind of independence among the slaves. Reading, which fostered independence, wasn’t considered a good thing.” Margaret leaned back, smoothing her fingers over her hair as if she’d just been slammed by a great wave.
Judging from Margaret’s reaction, most historians would be thrilled to receive such a document. This was a remarkable find. I understood it. Appreciated it. But I had no idea why it had been left to me.
“You said Mabel wanted you to have this, Daisy?” Rachel said.
“Yeah.”
Rachel shook her head as she glanced between Margaret and me. “Why? Daisy, you barely knew Miss Mabel. It just makes no sense to me.”
The edge sharpening her words made me feel like an outsider. I felt a little offended. “I did know she liked sweet buns.” I leaned forward on my elbows and stared at the neat, childlike handwriting.
“Sweet buns are hardly the basis for a relationship,” Margaret said. “I spent hours and hours with her. We talked endlessly about the city and her grandmother.”
I shrugged, recognizing Margaret’s logic. This time yesterday I couldn’t even remember the old woman’s name and today I was in possession of a 150-year-old journal. “I have no idea why she gave me the journal.”
Chapter Six
My name is Susie. I am a slave.
As I read the words on the first journal page, the hairs on the back of my neck tingled. Energy pulsed through my body. I had the sense that I was becoming reacquainted with an old friend. That I’d somehow known this girl who’d written these words over 150 years ago. I was not like Margaret, who believed in the past life/karma theories. I believed that life was only about the living, and you have what you have right here and now.
And still I stared at the yellowed pages with the scripted letters written in fading ink and wondered why I felt such a steely connection.
The service bell on the front counter dinged once.
Twice. And on the third ding I glanced up, more than vaguely annoyed. I closed the book. “Margaret, can you go see who’s out front?”
Margaret slid the book from my fingers before I thought to tell her no. “You go see. I want to look at the book.”
As much as I wanted to ignore the bell, the bakery couldn’t afford to turn away any business. I handed Margaret the journal, rose, and crossed to the front door. The CLOSED sign blocked the view but I could see it was a man.
Flipping the lock, I opened the door still distracted by the journal. “Can I help you?” The words absently tumbled out of my mouth as I smiled but didn’t quite make eye contact.
“Daisy?”
I looked up to the sound of a very familiar voice. Standing in the doorway was Gordon. Gordon Singletary. My Gordon. Lover. Ex-fiancé. “Gordon.”
“What are you doing here?” The rasp in his voice still roughed up my name in a way that made my breath catch.
He wore faded jeans, a blue turtleneck, and loafers. He’d lost weight and toned up since I’d seen him last year, and he’d let his banker-short hair grow so that it skimmed his collar. Sun had darkened milk-white skin to a deep bronze and added highlights to his hair.
I blinked. Once. Twice. “It’s my parents’ bakery.”
Aware that I wore no makeup, that an old scrunchie barely held my hair in a wild topknot, and that flour and pink cream cheese icing covered my shirt and clogs, I straightened my shoulders. The last time he’d seen me I’d been in a black tailored suit, cream silk blouse, and Prada heels. He’d been angry and had called me a cold bitch.
I yanked off my engagement ring and set it in the center of the bureau. The gold-and-diamond ring caught the light above and winked.
I’d hoped to have my bags packed and be out of the apartment by the time he got home. Gordon rarely got in the door before eight, and it was only seven. I should have come home earlier but there’d been a meeting at the office and I’d gotten tied up. Now as I glanced at the clock, tension coiled in my stomach. I should have been out of our apartment by now.
I shoved more underwear and bras in the suitcase already crammed with a haphazard collection of jeans, suits, running clothes, and whatever else I thought I might need until I could return. I’d have left it all behind but I didn’t have the time to replace it all.
Cramming the top down, I clicked the latches on the suitcase and pulled it toward the front door. I’d be out of our apartment in a few seconds and Gordon would be in my past. Keys scraped against the lock on the other side and the door opened.
Gordon stood in the doorway. Tall, his broad shoulders slightly stooped. His gaze went to my face and then to the suitcase.
“This shouldn’t be a surprise,” I stammered.
But the look on his face—a mixture of hurt, anger, and frustration—told me surprise barely covered it.
“Did you take the day off from Suburban?” He glanced into the shop slowly as if he weren’t sure if he should turn and run or stay.
“The investment team was fired. You didn’t hear?” The lighthearted edge didn’t soften the words as I’d hoped. “You were always in the know about all the comings and goings in town. You didn’t hear?”
His gaze held mine, searching. “I don’t keep up with the finance world anymore. I barely read the paper these days.”
I scraped a stray, annoying wisp of hair from my eyes. “You’d have had to have been on the side of a mountain not to know. It’s been in all the news.”
Gordon had always had his ear to the ground. Little happened in the D.C. financial world without him knowing. He’d been an information junkie. In fact, that is what I’d called him when we’d fought one of those last times. There’s never time for us. Of course, sharper, more complicated emotions had been simmering that day but neither one of us could have put them into words. In fact, I doubt that I could even now.
He slid his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “I’ve been on a cross-country bike trip for the last four months.”
“During the winter?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I never did things the easy way.”
My Gordon wouldn’t have done anything without a plan and risk assessment. This Gordon was a stranger. “I find that hard to believe.”
His stance was casual, open, but there was the slightest edge of apology lurking behind his dark eyes. “What did I have to lose?”
Gordon Singletary had been CFO of Suburban. He’d been the one who, just months after I’d left him, had played the losing poker hand and destroyed the company.
He couldn’t have changed that much. He’d been even more addicted to work than I’d been. “You’ve let it all go?”
“It let me go, remember?” Defensiveness lingered behind the words.
“Right. I’m sorry.” Why was I apologizing? I doubt either of us was interested in a postmortem of Suburban or our relationship, and to explain the move home felt akin to climbing a mountain. “Well, the digest version is that I’ve decided to reconnect with my roots. I’m running my parents’ bakery.”
His gaze skimmed my face, and for an instant it almost felt like fingertips brushing my skin. “How long have you been here?”
I folded my arms over my chest. “A few days.”
He glanced past me into the bakery, and then back at me again. “You look like you belong here.”
I laughed. “You’re joking.”
The hardness in my voice had him cocking his head a fraction. “No, I’m not. You look real good here.”
Another laugh stuttered past my lips, but I felt angry, annoyed, and oddly flattered. “I don’t know if I’d go that far.” Silence settled and for a fleeting second I savored the deep hue of his tan, the scruff of blond beard on his chin and the faint V dip of his shirt. He looked good. Real good.
Gordon arched a brow. “Are you going to let me inside or not? The sign says you’re open until three.”
“Oh, right, yeah sure. We had a little excitement and closed for a few minutes.” He didn’t ask about whatever had come up, and I didn’t offer. Better not to get too well acquainted, as my mother used to say.
Rachel and Margaret had moved up to the counter and stared shamelessly at the two of us. And I saw that they had picked up on the change in me. Leave it to a sister to see what others don’t.
“Welcome to Union Street Bakery.” Margaret’s grin was too bright to be real, and as Gordon moved to the counter I rolled my eyes.
“Thanks.”
Margaret’s smile broadened. “My name is Margaret. I’m Daisy’s older sister.”
Rachel cleared her throat. “My name is Rachel, the other older sister.”
“Sisters?” He looked at me, didn’t say a word, but I imagined the thoughts tumbling in his head. So this is the family you never wanted to talk about.
It was hard to explain without sounding foolish. But I’d rarely discussed my life here in Alexandria, and when I talked about my family I suggested they lived far away. When I’d left for college and then taken the job in D.C., I’d left the bumbling, sad bakery Daisy on the south side of the Potomac. And I guess I feared mentioning the bakery too much might somehow allow the old Daisy to return. Not so logical, but it had worked for the most part.
Hand extended, he moved away from me to the counter and shook their hands. The air around me lost its charge and I released the breath I’d been holding.
“My name is Gordon Singletary.” His trademark deep baritone still had the power to command a room.
“Welcome, Gordon,” Rachel said.
“What can we do for you, Gordon?” Margaret’s voice sounded softer and I could have sworn she was blushing.
After a hesitation, he said, “I need to order some kind of dessert.”
Margaret nodded. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. We are all about dessert.�
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I listened as Rachel explained the difference between the confections. They spoke about Gordon’s renting retail space and his having a kind of open house for potential financiers. He tossed out an address, also on Union Street, and I realized that my ex-fiancé was now my neighbor. My neighbor. The words tangled in my whirling thoughts, and I wondered if I’d jumped from the frying pan into the fire.
“What flavors and confections work best for wrestling money from potential investors?” Everyone laughed and even I smiled. But all I could think about was that Gordon was setting up some kind of shop in Alexandria and we were going to see each other weekly if not daily.
This was so not good.
I wanted to suggest a cake laced with arsenic, but Gordon and my sisters decided on a cookie tray.
“So how on earth do you know Daisy?” Margaret said. I glanced at her, saw the gleam in her eyes, a mixture of curiosity, sexual attraction, and payback for the journal.
Gordon glanced at me, clearly surprised. The smile that played on his lips reflected hurt, not humor. “You never told them.”
Heat rose in my face. I could launch into the whole Old Daisy doesn’t mix with New Daisy, but at this moment the lines were so blurred. “Why are you here, Gordon?”
“Didn’t you just hear? Ordering pastries. Opening a bike shop.”
“But you live in D.C.” My voice sounded like sandpaper.
“Didn’t you hear? Not anymore. Like I just said, I’m opening a bike shop in Old Town.”
This was the perfect storm of disasters: job loss, parents’ house, and now the return of the ex-fiancé. “Great. That’s great. But I’ve got to say, I never thought you liked bikes that much.”
He glanced briefly beyond me to the street outside. “Back in the day I rode a lot.”
When he’d had a few beers he’d talk about his cycling days. I listened and always marveled at how different we were when it came to past, present, and future. He longed for the past and I ran from it. He hated thinking about tomorrow and it was all I cared about. “I know. I know. I just thought you’d left that behind.”
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