“But that plate might empty in the next few months,” Rachel said. “When Mike died, it was all I could do to tie my shoes and brush my teeth. The idea of planning made my head hurt. In time though I not only managed the basics but I could think ahead. That day is coming for you.”
“My thoughts aren’t going to change on this. I’m not calling her, and if she sends another letter then return it unopened. I don’t care.”
“Daisy,” Rachel whispered. “Let us help you. Let me contact her.”
“No!” And then more calmly, “No. I don’t need any help, Rachel.” I enunciated each word with cutting directness. “Honestly.”
She shook her head. “Yes, you do.”
Unable to summon another fighting word, I stormed across the bakery toward the front door. Nothing mattered right now. Not the letter, my family, not even the journal. All I wanted was fresh air to fill my empty lungs. I needed space. Silence. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Where are you going?” Mom said.
“Out. I’ll be back.”
Mom opened her mouth to say something else but Margaret silenced her with a look. “Mom, not now. Daisy, we’ll see you soon.”
“Right.”
The air outside had turned cooler and the wind had picked up. Thick clouds promised rain. I crossed the outdoor café, wanting to put much distance between it and me. The bakery was the last place I needed to be, but something tugged at me and I stopped.
Hugging my arms around my midsection, I turned and stared at the uneven brick sidewalk now covered in a thick green layer of pollen. The pollen came every year at this time, coating everything as it brought renewal, stirred allergies, and created an endless need to dust. When I was a kid, I’d been the one to sweep the pollen. Now as I studied the faint coating of green dust on the patio, I realized Mom had been keeping up with it this spring. In the days since my return, I’ve been too busy to even step foot on the patio.
Stupid to care about the damn patio, but it made me wonder how much of my life I would miss because I’d be slavishly working in the bakery’s basement or some new financial office.
A sudden urge rose up in me. I wanted to pack my Toyota and just start driving. I’d always wanted to see Nova Scotia and Seattle and New Mexico. There was so much I wanted to do, but work at Suburban and now work in the bakery kept me tethered.
Why couldn’t I just break free and run away?
Because as much as I’d like to have packed up my car and driven as far away as I could from the bakery and Renee, I wouldn’t. Yes, the bakery and I were shackled together because of finances and promises made, but it was more than that. I really was not so different than I was when I was seventeen. I may have crossed the Potomac to work but basically I had lingered in the Washington, D.C., area because I was waiting for Renee’s return.
And now she had.
And now I did not want to see.
A year ago, I’d have been in a better place to handle the letter. A year from now, I’d be back on my feet. But now . . . I was off balance, wondering who I was and how I was going to help support my family. Renee could not have picked a worse time.
I walked up and down the street, dressed in my jeans, sweatshirt, and flour-dusted kitchen apron. The air was chilly, the clouds above thick and dark with rain. I moved down Union Street toward Founder’s Park, a small, grassy area that bordered the Potomac. It was less than a couple of blocks wide, but it was a welcome bit of nature in the city. Today, there was an ancient tall sailing vessel, a schooner I suppose, that had moored at the Queen Street dock. At one time there’d have been dozens of ships just like it in the harbor but now the ship was an odd, out-of-place visitor that no longer belonged.
On warmer days the park would have hosted children and tourists. But the cold and threat of rain had driven everyone inside.
Sitting on the park bench, I stared out at the water. The water rose and fell in short choppy waves. A sailboat skimmed past, its white sails full of wind. The boat’s captain had his face to the wind.
I was jealous. He looked so free. And I felt anything but free.
I wasn’t sure how long I sat on that bench. I think I’d have stayed all night—but then a fat raindrop plopped down on the seat beside me. Another and then another fell. The sky was about to open up. And as much as I wanted to remain, I had to get back. Like it or not, I had a life that needed tending.
Halfway back up the street, the rain started to fall faster and faster and by the time I reached the shop, I was soaked. Water dripped from my sweatshirt, my hair, and my eyelids. My shoes squished and slurped with each step. It was past three and the front café was quiet. The shop was closed for the day. The front window sparkled, the floor swept, and the display case cleaned out and ready for tomorrow’s baking.
I’d forgotten how peaceful the place could be at this time of day. This morning had been chaos and tomorrow would bring the same bedlam but for now it was so orderly and perfect. When I was a kid, I’d snag several cookies that had not sold, and I’d slip into the closed café after school and just read. Breathing deeply, I had to concede the bakery wasn’t all bad. It did have its moments.
I moved past the trash can toward the counter. There was a blue plate sitting on the counter, which held two carrot cake cupcakes. A smile teased my lips as I moved behind the counter and picked up a cupcake. Carefully, I peeled away the baking paper and bit into the moist cake, savoring the bits of raisins, carrots, and the cream cheese icing. Rachel knew her carrot cake cupcakes were my cure-all.
Halfway through the cupcake, I glanced toward the trash can.
Shit. I’d made such a show of ripping up and tossing away the letter. At that moment I really didn’t want anything to do with it or the sender. But now that a little time had passed I wasn’t sure of anything. What if . . . ?
The trash bags should have been dumped in the Dumpster in the back alley. It wouldn’t be too hard to dive in and find the bag.
I glanced toward the back door, which led to the alley. “Damn.”
No, look. It’s still here.
The feeling made no sense and still I set the cupcake down on the plate, glanced around the café, and out to the street to see that no one was watching. Then I moved toward the can, half hoping it had been dumped and half praying it had not. I peeked inside the lid.
The can was full and untouched. The other can was empty and had a fresh garbage bag liner but this one was as I left it.
Mom and my sisters. They hadn’t dumped the trash, and, knowing them, they’d have left the can untouched and un-dumped for days. They knew that eventually, despite protests, I’d want the letter.
I lifted the lid and found the pieces of the letter lying on top. Carefully, I collected them and folded them into a neat square, before I shoved it into my back pocket. The bulk pressed into my backside as I crossed the café and ducked behind the counter to wash my hands in the sink and grab the plate of carrot cake cupcakes.
In my room, I sat on my pull-out sofa and ate, uncaring of calories or protein exchanges or how much exercise it would take to mend the damage. I just didn’t care right now.
I spotted Susie’s journal sitting on the center of my unmade bed. I didn’t remember leaving it there.
Dealing with anyone’s past life or secrets right now felt too overwhelming. I just didn’t want to deal.
Quietly, I picked up the book, which felt heavy and awkward in my hands. I carried it to a small box of books that remained packed in a copy box and stowed in a dim corner. I pulled off the lid and gently set the journal on the stack. I dug the torn letter from my back pocket and laid it in the box as well. The journal had been hidden for over 150 years and Terry has waited thirty years to write her letter. Leaving it unread a little longer wouldn’t matter in the big scheme of things.
I closed the lid and backed away, carefully and slowly as if I’
d just witnessed a great car accident. “Not today, ladies. Not today.”
Sinking down onto the mattress, I barely noticed the squeak of the bedsprings or jab of the spring in my fanny. Already the mattress and I were becoming far too familiar with each other.
I plucked the last cupcake from the plate and bit into it. Carefully I peeled the pink paper from the cake and then gently licked icing from around the edges. Though it was my second cupcake, it still tasted as sweet and sinful as the first.
It also tasted of denial and fear.
At best, eating was a temporary fix. I knew, like the journal and letter, my problems waited for me, like specters in the shadows.
But for now I was willing to settle for some sweet denial and benign procrastination.
Chapter Eight
Over the next few days, the bakery’s hectic pace made it easy to almost forget Terry’s letter and Susie’s journal. Gallons of buttercream blended with endless columns of red and black numbers and temporarily quieted the jabbing thoughts during the daylight hours.
On Saturday, Brad Foster, my pal from Suburban, pushed through the front door of the bakery. He wore a pink polo, collar popped up, ironed jeans, and shiny loafers without socks. This morning I’d managed to brush my teeth and hair and was feeling pretty snappy until I saw him. I longed for the days when I wore pressed jeans, heels, and makeup.
I tossed him a bright smile as I came around the counter and gave him a hug. The soft scent of Armani aftershave drifted around me. “Brad. What a nice surprise.”
He hugged me back. “You smell like cinnamon.”
I tucked a curl behind my ear. “Hazard of the trade.”
“I like it.”
“What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
“Had to see how the other half is living. Plus, I told you I’m addicted to those carrot cake cupcakes.”
I waggled my eyebrows. “They are still as great as you remember.”
“Good. Set me up with a dozen.”
I strolled around the counter. I was the only one manning the fort today. Rachel had a kid thing and Margaret had a cemetery tour that she’d been planning for months. It took some hustling to get the customers served this morning but I was amazed at how fast I’d settled back into my bakery groove.
Pulling a box from under the counter I reached for the first cake. “A dozen cupcakes, Brad? You won’t be keeping that girlish figure of yours if you eat twelve.”
“I’m having a party this evening. It’s for Dan, the account rep who got laid off last month. He bought a one-way ticket to Alaska and is starting over.”
“Wow. Alaska.” I pictured massive snowcapped mountains, cold, and elk. “That’s a do-over.”
“Tell me about it.”
I carefully aligned each cupcake, knowing presentation was almost as important as taste. “You said you wanted to be an ice road trucker. Ever considered joining him?”
He laughed. “I talk a mean game, but I’m too much of an office boy. You hear Roger moved to China?”
Mention of Roger had me cringing. I never liked that guy. “Yeah. Teacher, right?”
“Yeah. Looks like I’m going to leave the bold moves to you, Dan, and Roger.”
Bold moves were often born of desperation rather than a quest for adventure. “That’s nice you’re giving him a party.”
“Thought the cupcakes would be a nice surprise. It will remind him of what he’s leaving, plus it will give me a chance to let folks know how you are doing.”
I carefully folded the cupcake box closed and tucked in the flaps. “I doubt any will ask, Brad. The Suburban blow-up is already old history.”
“Don’t count on it. Gordon’s fuck-ups were spectacular. Legendary. Everyone felt like you really got reamed.”
My hand stilled for a moment. It was one thing for me to bitch to myself about Gordon but to bad-mouth him to others, especially chatterboxes like Brad, didn’t set well. “It wasn’t all Gordon.”
“Hey, I know you two had a thing, but the guy f-ed up.”
Brad hadn’t done the closed-end fund sector any favors in the last six months. Word was he’d had significant losses. I thought about Gordon down the street in his bike shop and understood now why he didn’t bother with newspapers or contacts with the old world.
“One day I expect we will open a dictionary and see the word Suburbanized. Meaning to blow up or destroy. You were right to dump him when you did. Did you ever hear what happened to the guy? He just fell off the radar.”
Carefully, I placed a gold USB sticker on the box. I’m sure Gordon did not need my protection from the likes of Brad. Gordon was fully capable of taking care of himself, but I did feel something for the guy. Soon enough, folks would know about his new business. “I’ve got my hands full with my own life, Brad. That will be thirty dollars.”
He pulled out two twenties and laid them on the counter. His buffed nails caught the morning light, and I found myself curling my own dried and cracked fingertips away from him.
“So are you loving this place?” he said.
“It’s a lot of work, but it has its moments.” I made change and placed it in his palm.
He stepped back and scanned the cupcake clock and the display case filled with goodies. “I should try something like this. Maybe not as extreme as Dan’s move north but I should do something.”
I wondered if he saw the walls needed a paint job, small crack in the display case glass, and the cupcake clock was ten minutes slow. “Are the new Suburban owners making noises about more changes?”
“No. They seem happy to keep me and the remaining skeleton crew around.”
“So you’re not under the gun.”
“No, thank God.” He looked at me. “I mean, I’m not as adaptable as you.”
“You might surprise yourself.” Especially if you get fired.
He accepted the box. “I just might try something new one day.”
“Well, if you do go into business for yourself, the new paycheck just might give you sticker shock.” I’d doled out paychecks yesterday to Rachel and Margaret but had held mine so the money could go toward the plumber who’d come to look at the water heater.
“Yeah, got to be rough. You were making good dough before.”
“They say you can’t put a price on love and they are right.”
He laughed. “Don’t suppose you’d be interested in another job in finance.”
“Who’s asking?”
“I heard Simon Davenport is looking for finance people.”
“Really?” He was a new developer on the scene and had offices near Old Town. “I’ve heard he is a ballbuster—not that that is necessarily a bad thing.”
“He’s got one of the few growing businesses in the area.”
“You should apply.”
“I did. Didn’t get the job.” He grinned. “So much for my big stab at independence.” The faint scent of his Armani aftershave mingled with the aroma of confections. “But he might have something for you.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
“A job with Davenport would have put you back in the old grind, just like the old days.”
“Yeah.” I couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. “Thanks again.”
He lowered his voice a notch. “Did you get your money okay?”
“I did. Thanks.”
He studied the café, and again his gaze grew wistful and lost. “Hey, if you need more help financially, I could help you out.”
I held up my hand. I was flattered, hurt, and pissed all in a flash. “Thanks, Brad but we’re good. Things are really clicking along now.”
• • •
That night, a hot bath eased my strained and tired muscles and sent me into an initial deep, druglike sleep. These blissful hours were as close as I came to peace. Sleep l
ately was short lived, however, and never lasted until the alarm clock.
At two A.M. I sprung up fully awake, my heart racing, the panic rising up in my chest hot and furious. When I’d been at Suburban and it was all falling apart I often woke in the middle of the night. In this witching hour, my mind revved on overdrive and I thought first about the business. Had we sold enough the day before? Was the new sound in the oven just a rattle that comes with the temperature change outside or was it a harbinger of something more sinister? Was I too abrupt when I said no to the lady with red hair who’d wanted a wedding cake in two days?
And then I thought about Brad’s job tip about Simon Davenport. If Davenport was hiring, could I juggle working with him and the bakery? Margaret juggled. God knows Rachel juggled. Why couldn’t I?
I turned on my side, adjusted my pillow, and curled up in a C-shape, staring out the window toward the bright stars. The daily worries gave way to older ones. With a one-two quickstep, my brain jumped back to the long-ago day in the bakery when I’d sat alone, half-eaten sugar cookies on a plate and red sprinkles dotting my yellow skirt.
“Damn.” I rolled on my side and readjusted sheets, vowing never to drink coffee after three P.M. again.
Why had Terry written now? Thirty years and now she wanted to connect? Was she dying? Did she need a kidney? Was she sorry? Of course, I had no answers but right now stewing was preferable to knowing, which might bring more pain than I could handle.
“Why haven’t you read my book?”
“Because it’s next to that woman’s letter, and I don’t want to see it.”
A presence in the room gained strength, and I felt a warm breath on my ear, and the tap, tap of her finger on my shoulder. I smelled honeysuckle.
“Read it.”
“I don’t have time to read your book.”
“You are avoiding me.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Not until you read my story.” She pinched my arm. Hard.
I flinched and rubbed the flesh of my arm, amazed that it hurt so much. My brain buzzed and ticked through the details of the coming day as I glanced at the clock hoping it read 3:44. Nope. It read 2:44.
Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) Page 12
