“What do you need, Rachel?” I’d kept my tone businesslike this last week because I could hide behind it so easily.
She slowly sat in the chair beside me. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a brat.”
I nodded, tempted but not quite willing to put salt in the wound. “Running a business isn’t easy. I don’t make these decisions because it’s fun for me.”
“God, do I know that. I know you’ve given so much and Margaret has, too, and I was just a baby when it came time for me to give.”
“Stuff happens. Now we move on.”
“You aren’t mad?”
Margaret’s revelations about Susie had stuck with me throughout the last week and a half. I knew the rift between Rachel and I would ease, as would the work. I had choices and freedom where Susie had not. “No.”
Rachel started to cry. “You should be.”
I tensed. “Why?”
“Because I was a PMSing bitch who couldn’t let go of a few lousy menu items Mike added. God, I don’t even like the molasses cookies.”
I laughed. “We’ve all been there.”
She swiped away a tear. “Maybe you have but I haven’t. I’m the nice, reasonable one.”
“And I’m not.”
She sniffed and brushed away tears with the cuff of her sleeve. “Not usually. I mean, you are but if anyone is going to dig in their heels and play hardball, it’s you. Not me.”
“You weren’t playing hardball, Rachel. More like softball.”
“Really?”
“I’ve dealt with worse.”
She rose. “Well, I am sorry.”
“No worries.”
She held out her arms. “Hug?”
“What?”
“Hug. We need to hug.”
“Rachel.”
She waggled her fingers. “Now.”
“Fine.” I rose and stood and stiffened only a little when she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed.
“Hug back, Daisy.”
Shoving out a breath, I patted her on the back as she squeezed me tight. “You’re the best sister.”
“I know.”
She released me and stepped back. “You’re still a crappy hugger.”
“Not my thing. Nothing personal but I just don’t hug well.”
“Now that we’re speaking again, we’ll work on that.”
“No, we won’t.”
She smiled. “Yes, we will.”
“Fine.”
“We’re really good?”
“We’re great.” And we were. The non-hugging policy of mine had more to do with my own quirks rather than any grudge.
She smoothed her hands over her crisp apron. “I have to get going. School thing.”
“Is Anna in trouble again?”
“I think she’s made another unfortunate choice of words again.”
Grimacing, I said, “Should I ask?”
“It was the Sh word. And the D word.”
“All together?”
“Apparently.” She waved her hand as if shooing away a worry. “Enough about us. What are you going to do?”
“Don’t know. This is my first afternoon with no work.”
“Ah, freedom! What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“If it were me it would involve a hot bath, a high-fashion magazine, and a beer.”
“Could be a plan.”
“Have fun.”
After she left, my smile waned. Now that I actually had free time in the daylight hours and I wasn’t exhausted, I considered my options. I could have gone to my room and unpacked the boxes and made my room more habitable, but that didn’t quite feel like a celebration of life.
I could have visited old friends, but I flashed to sitting in Tammy’s living room balancing a cup of tea or a glass of wine and listening to her tell me how wonderful her life has become. Pass.
As I pulled off my apron and hung it on my back office door, I thought about tracking down Mom or Dad. I could see what they were about. But hanging with Mom and Dad didn’t seem like the thing a single thirtysomething woman did. Rachel was with the girls. And Margaret was at the Archaeology Center conducting a tour for third graders.
A movie required driving. Shopping equated to spending money I did not have and I had never found a hobby that had appealed.
What the heck had I done with my free time in the past? The only time I remember really kicking back had been the months that I’d lived with Gordon. We often were just content to cocoon in his apartment and be together. Not much was ever said but that had seemed fine. I guess looking back there’d been a lot to talk about. Maybe if we had talked more, my insecurities and his worries wouldn’t have bubbled into the perfect storm. And then it occurred to me, I could stop by his shop and see what he was up to. We weren’t exactly friends either, but we weren’t enemies. Do you ever think about me?
Well, maybe, like right now. But it was not like I was pining for what we had. I just wanted to fill some spare time.
I pushed through the front door of the bakery, double-checked to make sure the CLOSED sign was in place and the door locked, and then headed down the uneven brick sidewalk. I shoved awkward hands in my pocket, then pulled them out and then . . . shit. This wasn’t a date, for God’s sake, it was a visit. I let my hands fall by my sides as I moved away from the river.
This close to rush hour, the streets were clogged with cars—tourists in for the day, commuters trying to get home, and the miscellaneous police car or delivery truck. As I approached Prince Street and the line of cars waiting at a red light, I ducked down a quiet side street. Lined with old oak trees, the residential street was too small for most commuters.
Halfway down the street, I spotted Florence coming out of a town house. She held a basket of wilted, brown flowers, which she carried down the front steps toward a row of scuffed plastic garbage bins. She wore her blue uniform as if saying to the world that the death of her employer wasn’t reason enough to break ranks.
She wrestled with the lid of the trash can and grumbled under her breath.
I picked up my pace and called out. “Hey, Mrs. Tillman.”
Before she could answer I lifted the lid free and she dumped the flowers into the bin. “Thank you, Daisy. That trash can is dancing on my last nerve. And you can call me Florence.”
“They can be tricky.”
She studied me with a narrowed gaze. “So what brings you here today?”
“Well, nothing really. I had some free time so I thought I’d take a walk. I saw you and thought I’d help.”
“A walk is the best you can come up with? Young girl like you should be spending time with a nice young man.”
The same advice from my mother would have had me bristling, but from Florence I took it in stride. “My nice young man and I have had our share of issues.”
Florence chuckled. “Making up is half the fun.”
Gordon and I had never really fought back in the day. And the unspoken emotions had been like a bucket of cold water on our sex life. “I’m not so sure about that this time.”
“Well, if you’ve got a minute I could use a hand with more dead flowers. The house is just about full of them and I need to get them out before they drive me nuts.”
“Be glad to help.” I followed her inside and hesitated at the threshold as my eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. The interior was a good bit warmer than the outside, a reminder that the ladies who lived here were old and fragile.
I spent the next twenty minutes hauling out all manner of dying or near-dead floral arrangements. There were flowers from the historical society, the library friends, the church, and even the local Rotary club. Everyone seemed to have known and missed Miss Mabel and they expressed their grief with flowers. By the last load, Florence was no
longer climbing down the front steps but waiting for me inside the door.
“So what do you think Miss Mabel would have thought about all these flowers?” I brushed the dirt from my hands as I climbed the brick front steps.
Florence shook her head. “She’d have complained about the waste but she’d have liked the attention. She always enjoyed the attention.”
Florence moved down a long, dark center hallway. She’d not invited me in to stay but I found myself drawn to this house. I figured she’d tell me to leave if I’d overstepped so I followed her down the hallway, pausing often to look at the endless rows of framed pictures on the wall. Most of them had been taken at least fifty years ago. There was a picture of a young bride and her groom, which appeared to have been taken in the ’30s. A closer look and I guessed the bride was Mabel. I’d seen a similar portrait at the funeral but it was still odd to see the old woman as a bright-eyed young girl. There was hope and laughter in this girl’s face and the way she’d hooked her arm around her husband’s spoke of love and devotion. I didn’t want to think how time had transformed such a lovely girl into a withered old woman.
“She was a beauty back in the day.” Florence’s voice echoed from somewhere inside the house “Come on back here and let me pour you a lemonade.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” I followed, aware I wasn’t ready to leave just yet.
“Sure I do. You hauled those nasty, dirty flowers outside and saved me from having to haul my carcass up and down those stairs.” In the background, a gospel singer crooned something about Jesus and eternal salvation.
“Glad to help.” As I stared at the older pictures of Mabel, I found myself searching for features similar to mine. Searching the face of strangers was something I’d done most of my life. I didn’t look like any McCrae but knew I must look like someone. Who?
As a younger woman, Mabel had dark hair; clear, bright eyes; and an odd little crease at the corner of her mouth when she smiled. I raised my fingers to my lips and smiled almost half expecting to feel that same indentation. But the skin was smooth.
“She lived a long and full life.” Florence turned toward the counter, opened the can of powdered lemonade, and scooped several spoonfuls in a glass pitcher.
“Looks like it. How many children did she have?”
“None. Only lots of nieces and nephews. She wrote to them often enough.”
“They were there for the funeral on Monday?” I moved into the kitchen. The bank of windows to the right of the sink let in a stream of warm sunlight.
“Some were. They sat up front. Several just didn’t want to make the trip from California.”
“We were standing to the side and I couldn’t see who was in the front row.”
She filled the pitcher with water and with an old wooden spoon started to stir. “They didn’t stay long. Came back to the house, talked about what furniture they wanted, and then headed back to their hotel. Mabel’s oldest brother will be back in the next couple of weeks to close up the house.”
As Florence stirred the wooden spoon in the pitcher, I watched as the yellow lemonade crystals melted and blended into the water. In a few weeks, the house would be emptied out and all traces of Mabel would be gone. “So what are you going to do?”
“Miss Mabel left it in her will that I could stay here until I die. And that is what I’m going to do. It don’t matter to me what furniture the family takes. Fact, I’m looking forward to it. Will be nice to have a few of my own things in the place. Mabel always said the house was my home but I felt like a boarder.”
“Speaking as an adult boarder living in her parents’ home now, I feel ya.”
A smile tipped the edge of her lips as she pulled two glasses from the cabinet. She went to an old refrigerator and pulled out an ice tray. She twisted the plastic tray over the sink until the ice cracked free. Fishing out several cubes, she filled the glasses and then poured lemonade.
I accepted the ice-cold lemonade and took a long sip. The tart sweetness cut through the drying in my mouth. I didn’t know Florence and was hesitant to discuss the journal with her but I had an opportunity to get information that might vanish overnight. “You know that book Miss Mabel left me?”
“I do. She was right to give it to you before her brothers and nephews arrived. They’re already worrying about losing something valuable. Meaning, I’d be careful who you tell about the book.”
Water dripped down the side of the glass and over my fingers. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll watch what I say.”
She sat across from me, adjusting her girth on the chair until she found a comfortable spot. “It’s your book as far as Mabel was concerned and that’s good enough for me.”
“Thanks.” I traced my finger on the lip of the glass. “I read the book.”
Charcoal-dark eyes stared at me. “Did you?”
“It’s a journal. Written by a young girl living here in the 1850s. She was a slave.”
Florence arched a brow as she sipped her lemonade. “That so?”
“I can’t for the life of me figure out why Mabel gave me that book. Margaret is still convinced it was a mistake and that Mabel meant for her to have it. She is the history guru in the family. Did you know she and Mabel spoke for hours and hours about the history of the area and her family?”
“I know Miss Margaret visited and they’d talk.”
“We think that Mabel’s grandmother might have known the girl who wrote the diary.”
“Well, isn’t that something.” Florence shook her head. “Miss Mabel was as clear as a bell when she told me to give you that book. She knew exactly what she was doing.”
Curiosity had me leaning forward. “But why?”
“Honey, I stopped trying to figure out Miss Mabel a long time ago. She does what she does and never had a need to explain herself.”
“I barely knew the woman. But she did seem to remember me. She recalled my last day in the bakery when I was a teenager.”
Her nose wrinkled, drawing my attention to a sprinkle of freckles on her nose. “I didn’t have to tote her everywhere then so I wasn’t there. I can’t say much on that.”
I shrugged. “It was not one of my finer moments. I made a real fool out of myself.”
She chuckled. “Baby, we’ve all done that.”
I traced my finger down the side of the glass, through the condensation. “Somehow I can’t imagine you or Mabel reduced to blubbering tears.”
She arched a brow. “That’s because all you see is old.”
I straightened, ready to protest but she held up her hand.
“You see the wrinkles and the gray hair. You see the slow walks and the bent backs. It’s easy to forget that we was both once young girls with more emotion than sense. It’s easy not to think that we loved men, giggled like girls, or let foolishness take over our lives.”
She was right. I was guilty of thinking just that. I hadn’t thought beyond what I saw. “Sorry.”
“You wouldn’t be the first or the last, honey.”
I traced the rim of the lemonade glass, letting it circle several times before I found my voice, which still sounded a little too quiet and weak for my taste. “So you never saw this book before?”
“Not until she had me dig it out of the trunk that last night she was alive. She was quite insistent you have it.”
“The book was given to Susie by someone by the name of J. Don’t suppose you got any info on J.?”
“Sorry. Maybe Miss Mabel mentioned J to Margaret in their talks?”
“No, no word. But Margaret is on her trail.”
“Then I reckon she’ll find her.”
Frustration churned in my gut. I’d been given a puzzle with only half the pieces and was beginning to wonder why I bothered. I already had a real everyday puzzle to contend with: Terry. Maybe it would be best to forget about Su
sie and deal with Terry. I could call this Terry chick today and ask her what she wanted. A DNA test would answer a lot of questions. I could, should, do a lot of things.
A heavy silence nestled between us, each of us drawn in by our own thoughts and worries. Finally, Florence took a long slurping sip of lemonade. She set the glass down slowly and carefully. “I will say that I got to be cleaning out Miss Mabel’s papers over the next few weeks. The brothers don’t have much interest in family history unless it can be sold. They offered to pay me extra if I’d start cleaning out her things.”
“Are you going to take on the job?”
“Wasn’t so sure I wanted to fuss with it. Mabel said everyone could take whatever they wanted after she was gone. She said she’d be far away and not caring so much if people read her old letters. But now that we’ve had this little chat, I’ve a mind to sift through the papers. You never know what will be found.” She smiled. “But those boxes are gonna be mighty heavy and it gets real hot in that attic. I don’t know about lifting so much with my old back the way it is, especially in the heat.”
I straightened. “I’ve a strong back and so does Margaret.” It made perfect sense to include my sister on this treasure hunt. “We can lift a good amount of weight. And heat is par for the course in a bakery.”
Florence’s belly rose and fell as she took a few long, deep breaths. “Well, then, maybe we can help each other. You get those boxes down for me, I earn a little extra money, and we can dig through and see if there is more to be found about that little girl.”
A part of me wanted to climb the attic stairs now and start digging, but I could see the dark circles under Florence’s eyes and hear the laboring in her breathing. “I have evenings off and Sundays.”
“Well, I got my church on Sunday mornings but we could plan to meet sometime this Thursday and see what we see.”
“How long do we have before the brothers roll through and start cleaning out the joint?”
“About two weeks, but maybe a little longer if I tell them I’m sifting through clutter.”
“I appreciate this, Florence.”
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