When he’d left Suburban, he’d sold what he had. Car. Condo. Art. Furniture. Basically whatever he could find a market for, he sold. In the last decade, he’d made millions and spent and lost millions.
He’d ridden across country, pumping his pedals, staring at asphalt and dodging cars for four months. There’d been time to work his body to exhaustion, talk to the demons, and beg for forgiveness. He’d slept in bad motels, churches, and the homes of random family members and friends.
His body had gotten stronger on the trip. He’d argued and talked to the demons until he was hoarse but forgiveness was something that still eluded him. No matter how many miles he put on the road, he still would be the guy who blew up Suburban.
Scraping together the bits of money that remained after the trip, he’d had just enough for a year’s rent on this place and the remodel job. The marketing plan would be word of mouth and beating the pavement.
The bells chimed and he turned to see Daisy walking into his shop. She’d twisted her dark hair up into a curly topknot. Clogs, faded jeans, and a Union Street Bakery T-shirt had replaced her trademark sleek heels and suits. Her body still snapped with energy but it didn’t feel as frenetic as he remembered. Since her Suburban days, she’d put on a few pounds but he found the extra curves appealing.
She carried a large white box tied with a red bow and marked with a gold sticker. “I have your order,” she said.
For a moment, he didn’t know what she was talking about. And then he remembered: He’d gone by the bakery hoping to see someone who could tell him something about her. All he’d known about Daisy’s past was the photo of her parents standing in front of the Union Street Bakery.
When he’d come face-to-face with Daisy, he’d been stumped. Caught short. So he’d placed an order. What had he said? Investors coming by the shop?
“Right on time,” he said. No investors were coming.
“We aim to please.” She set the box down on the front counter and handed him a sealed envelope. “Your invoice.”
“Thanks. Can I drop off a check tomorrow?”
“Sure.” She glanced around the shop. “This is a surprise.”
He glanced around, suddenly finding himself analyzing her tone. Was it a good surprise or a bad one? “Time to start over.”
She skimmed her fingers over the chrome set of handlebars of a beach bike. “Ready or not, right?”
“Your job at the bakery isn’t a new start?”
She shrugged. “More like back at square one.”
She was a hard woman to know. She kept her barriers fully intact every waking minute as if she expected an attack. When he’d first met her, he’d been intrigued by her coolness and drawn to the challenges she presented. Most women he’d met fell for him fairly easily. He was the golden boy with the golden touch and women flocked.
But not Daisy. Never Daisy. She seemed to have cared less if he lived or died when they’d first met. She was focused on work and work alone. And for several years, they’d worked side by side. He’d dated other women. She’d dated a couple of guys. And their paths had just never crossed.
And then they’d been at the Christmas party a year and a half ago and he’d been just buzzed enough to ask her why she’d never hit on him. She’d laughed. And walked away.
And of course he had followed and asked the question again.
“Why don’t you hit on me?”
There’d been a hint of glitter in her makeup. “Because you expect it.”
He grinned, his reserve relaxed by a couple of beers. “What if I wanted to ask you out? Would you say yes?”
Boredom not interest sparked in her gaze. “Ask and you shall see.”
He’d felt so clever, as if he’d breached the outer shell. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Will you go out with me?”
She sipped her wine and glanced around the room as if she was on the lookout for someone more interesting. “Where?”
“I don’t know.”
She paused, the glass just below her lips. “I guess you assume that most chicks will gladly go out with you.”
His ego had taken the first jab then. “Most do.”
She sipped her drink, making him wait. “I don’t do half-assed requests.”
“I’m asking you out,” he said, as if those words had been explanation enough.
“Really? Because I’m feeling a little like sloppy seconds.” She shook her head. “I don’t like sloppy seconds, so if and when you want to ask me out like you mean it, I might consider it.”
And she’d walked away, not even bothering a glance back in his direction. Two days later, he showed up in her office with tickets to a concert and dinner reservations. She’d agreed to go out with him. Their relationship quickly exploded with great sex. Within a month of their first date, they’d moved in together.
Now, Daisy glanced around the shop at the collection of boxes, her gaze searching and critical. “Looks like you’ve got work ahead of you.”
“I do. But I’m glad for it. Feels like I’m really doing something these days. Not just pushing paper anymore.” He didn’t want to talk about himself. His interest was in her. “Do you still have that bike I gave you?”
“I do. Though I’ve not ridden it much.”
“Bring it by; I’ll tune it up for free.”
“Thanks.” Absently, she spun a bike wheel.
“So when did you move back into town?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
He half waited for her to ask him about his return and when she didn’t, he said, “I’ve been back about a month. Kinda odd we’d both end up here.”
“Not for me. I grew up here.”
That was part of the reason he’d chosen Alexandria. He’d sensed that if he’d opened his shop here that sooner or later he’d see her. “So are you here to stay?”
A small smile tugged the edge of her lips. “I’m out of here as soon as I can get help for Rachel.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t happen to know anyone who would like to work long hours at the bakery for free, do you?”
He tried not to smile. “No. Sorry.”
She shrugged. “If you do, let me know. Until then I’m stuck.”
“I’ll keep my ears open.”
“And if you need more cookies, let us know. We deliver.”
“Thanks.”
She started toward the door. It was almost like when they first met. Him curious, her aloof. It didn’t matter that they’d lived together for six months, talked of marriage, made love. He could almost say they’d landed back at square one.
But they’d never really see square one again. There was nothing fresh or new about their relationship now. It was tarnished and piled high with baggage. He could have kept playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game, but they weren’t in middle school. And he was too old or tired to play games. “Do you ever think about me?”
She turned and faced him. Curling wisps of hair had escaped the topknot and framed her face. She looked younger without makeup. “I try not to.”
He folded his arms over his chest, unable to let this go. “But you do?”
“Sure.” She shoved out a sigh. “We had a good thing for a while.”
Anger he’d long buried under so many other emotions clawed to the surface. “I never figured being engaged would scare you so much.”
She was silent for a moment. “I didn’t realize how bad I was with long-term commitments until then.”
“You’ve never made a long-term commitment?”
“Never. I dated you longer than I dated anyone else.”
He leaned toward her. “You’re the one who first mentioned marriage.”
She nodded, glanced at the ceiling and then at him. “I know. I know. I thought if I could do it
with anybody it would be with you. But I’m not so sure it’s in my DNA to marry.”
“That sounds like bullshit.”
She swiped a stray strand from her eyes. “Nothing lasts forever, Gordon. Nothing. I realized that to promise love and fidelity forever was foolish and unrealistic. I couldn’t make a promise I couldn’t keep and knew it was better to just cut ties. Believe me, I did us a favor. Five or ten years down the road, when it all blew up, it would have been more painful.”
He offered a wan smile that likely showed more bitterness and hurt than joy or acceptance. “Anything can last if you want it to.”
A bitter smile tipped the edge of her lips. “Wanting, praying, hoping, working, is never enough. Believe me, I know.”
• • •
Do you think about me?
Gordon’s words lingered in my head for days, revisiting and buzzing around at the most inopportune times. Why would he ask me something like that? We’d been over for almost a year, which was longer than when we were together.
His question had caught me off guard like a right hook to a glass jaw. I try not to.
As I sat back in my office chair, the words were an admission that I had thought about him. And I had. I did. A lot. What I hadn’t told him was that not thinking about him was much like stopping a moving train. It couldn’t be done, no matter how hard I tried or no matter how much I wanted it. And when we first broke up, I didn’t have the energy to stop the rumbling thoughts that just bowled right over me. In those weeks and months, all I could do was curl up on my rented couch and cry. I’d left him and yet I’d felt abandoned. Had I expected him to follow? That had been one of Dr. Myers’s questions when I’d sat on his couch sobbing.
Finally, memories of Gordon had lost their sharpness and eased into a dull ache. In the last few months, thoughts of him still could be prickly but they no longer knocked the wind out of me. They’d become like buzzing bees and I’d learned if I was very careful, I could swat them away without being stung.
Do you think about me?
It was the question I’d wanted to ask him for almost a year. But I never had and I never would. The wounds were nearly healed and I didn’t want to open them again.
“You wanted to see me?” Rachel said.
“Yeah,” I said, straightening. “We need to talk about the bakery product list.”
She stiffened. “What about it?”
I reached for my spreadsheet. “I’ve had Margaret tracking what sells and what doesn’t.”
She frowned as she took the seat next to my desk. “I noticed that.”
“We’ve got to cut 15 percent off the menu. And based on the numbers, I’d say we have to cut the pumpkin bread, molasses cookies, and prune tarts.”
Her face paled. “So you’re just going to cut just like that.”
“No. You are the baker so it makes sense that you should decide. I’m just reporting what products are the least productive.”
Rachel folded her arms over her chest. She shook her head. “We can’t cut anything.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s all great stuff.”
“I agree that it all tastes great. But we need to cut costs. We can’t support an expanded menu right now. Period.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Rachel, why are you so upset? This is business.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Those were selections that Mike added. He was very proud of them.”
I had just stumbled into a minefield. “Don’t you think Mike would be looking at these numbers now?”
“This whole place would be different if he were here.”
“But he’s not, honey. We’ve got to decide.”
“Not me. I can’t cut.”
I pulled off my glasses. “Well, if you don’t want to cut menu items we could always buy less expensive ingredients such as margarine.” The latter amounted to sacrilege in Rachel’s mind.
Her mouth dropped open and her eyes spit fire. “What!”
“I don’t like it any better than you, Rachel, but we have to cut something. The overhead is too high, and seeing as I can’t cut staff I’ve got to look at the menu or the ingredients.”
She rose to her feet her fists clenched. “This is bullshit, Daisy. You have no right to mess with Mike’s and my bakery.”
I knitted my fingers together and kept my voice low. “Why are you so upset?”
“You are cutting into my life now. And I resent the hell out of it.”
Fatigue, irritation, and my own insecurities had me rising to her challenge. “I wouldn’t be doing this if you’d managed it properly. But you’ve damn near driven this place into the ground, and Mom and Dad have brought me in to fix it and I am going to fix it.”
Her lips thinned. “I can’t believe you are being such a bitch.”
“I’m treating this place like a business, not a day-care center where the kids get to play with any toy they want. If we don’t make changes, we won’t survive.”
She raised her chin. “When Mike and I ran this place, we made the menu work.”
“Did you? That’s great.” I refused to mention that I’d had to make the bakery a loan eighteen months ago after Mike’s death because the numbers were hemorrhaging even then. “Rachel, Mike is gone and it’s my job to clean up the mess.”
“This is bullshit.”
I’d never seen Rachel so emotional or upset. “Grow up, Rachel. Choose what needs to be cut or I will.”
“I could quit.”
“Really? And where would you go? Face it, sister, we’re all shackled to this place and we better start bailing because the boat is going to sink if we don’t. Do you want to move and take Ellie and Anna from their only home?”
Tears glistened in her eyes. “No, of course not.”
“Then start making decisions.”
She studied me. “Is this what you were like at Suburban?”
“At times.” I put on my glasses. “I’m not having fun here, Rachel. This isn’t exactly my idea of an ideal day.”
“Fine.”
“Fine what?”
“I’ll cut 10 percent.”
“Fifteen.”
“Fine!”
She stalked out of my office in such a huff I couldn’t decide if I should laugh or cry. Rachel and I had always gotten along and given the sacrifices I’d made, I was surprised by her reaction to my request. “Shit.”
Another knock on the door had me turning to find Mom. Crap. Not now.
“Have you read the letter yet?” Mom’s voice reverberated from my office door.
I focused back on the bakery ledgers, hoping somehow if I looked at the numbers long enough she’d disappear.
“Daisy.”
“Mom, I have to finish my work.”
My work. My invoice piles. My office.
Somehow in the last ten days, the work and space had become mine. The tasks and space no longer felt foreign or like a shoe that didn’t fit. Bit by bit, paper by paper, as I organized Rachel’s chaotic mess, I made the space and duties mine. Rachel might have fought tooth and nail for her menu but she no longer even asked if she could help me sort through papers as she’d done the first days. Now she simply placed her receipts in my new inbox and tiptoed out.
Oddly, I’d organized it just as I had my desk at Suburban Enterprises: computer just right of center, calendar to my left, and pending files stacked like stair steps to my right.
Mom did not leave. She waited and hovered, relying on a lifetime of wearing me down with her stare.
“Mom, I am right in the middle of balancing the accountings.” And Rachel is pissed and I don’t need this right now.
“You are always busy. Every time I’ve tried to talk to you in the last couple of days, you hide behind work.”
&
nbsp; The air in my office suddenly felt old and stale. “I am keeping the place going, Mom. It’s not like I’m goofing.”
Mom’s stance was unflinching. She’s not going anywhere. “I get that honey, but you need to read that letter.”
I tossed down my pen. “You sound like Margaret. And Rachel.”
“And Dad. But he is not saying it to your face. We want you to read that letter.”
“Why?” The word telegraphed more meaning than it should. Do you want to get rid of me? Don’t you really love me? I thought I was a real McCrae.
“Honey.” She dropped her voice a notch. “Don’t you want to know what happened and why?”
My chair creaked loudly as I swiveled abruptly toward her. “What exactly do you think I’ll learn? Say the woman was my birth mother. Say she is legit. What would I say to her: Bitch, how could you leave a three-year-old alone in a crowded café? How could you just walk away from your kid?” Anger coated each syllable.
Mom nodded. “That would be a good start. But of course you could leave out the bitch part.”
“Why? She is a bitch.”
Mom eased into the seat next to my desk like a homesteader staking a claim. “For one, I raised you better than that. And two, she might not be a bitch. She might have been a scared kid.”
A ghost of a smile tipped the edge of my lips, however, I didn’t feel the least bit like laughing as my throat tightened with tears. “Mom, you and Dad raised me. You did not have to step up but you did, and though I don’t say or show it much, I know you did a good job. I don’t see the point in talking to this Terry chick.”
Mom ran her finger over the edge of my desk, brushing away the dust. “You need to face her, honey. She’s been a demon in the shadows too long.”
I thought about the real demon in the shadows that had visited me twice. “A demon in the shadows? Have you been watching Oprah again?”
“No. Well, maybe a little, and maybe I picked up a thing or two about adoptions and maybe I even read a couple of books on adult adoptees.”
“Why?”
“For the same reason I read about young widows and single girls in their late thirties who only care about history. Because you are my child and I care about you.”
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