The Bakery Sisters (5 page)

“Your opinion of who and what you
think
I am,” Claire told her. “You don't actually know me.”

“One of the few blessings in my life.”

Claire ignored that. “I'm here now and you obviously need help. I don't see anyone else lining up for the job. Looks like you're stuck.”

Nicole's expression tightened. “I have friends I could call.”

“But you won't. You hate owing anyone anything.”

“Like you said, you don't actually know me.”

“I can guess.” Claire hated being obligated, too.

“Don't pretend we have anything in common,” Nicole snapped. “You're no one to me. Fine, if you think you can help, help. I don't care. The good news is I don't think you're capable of anything beyond being served, so my expectations are fairly low.”

This was so not what she'd imagined, Claire thought sadly. She'd hoped they would be able to find their way back to each other. She and Nicole were twins…fraternal, but connected from conception. Had all the time apart, the anger and misunderstandings really broken that bond?

She was here to find out.

“You probably want to rest,” Claire said. “I'll get out of your way.”

“If only.”

She ignored that and started to leave, then paused. “Do you have a cleaning service you use?”

“For the house? No. I managed to scrub it all by myself.”

“Oh. Okay. I didn't mean…Never mind.”

Nicole stared at her. “What didn't you mean?” Her gaze dropped to the blouse in Claire's hand. “You mean a service to clean my clothes?”

Claire took a step back. “It's not important.”

“Yeah, right. Let me guess. A piano princess like you couldn't possibly be expected to take care of your own clothes. I'd tell you how to use the washer, but that's probably not going to help, is it? Too much silk and cashmere, I'll bet. Poor, poor Claire. Never owned a pair of jeans. You must cry yourself to sleep every night.”

Claire did her best to deflect the hurtful darts that jabbed at her. “I won't apologize for my life. It's different from yours, but that doesn't make it any less valuable. You've changed, Nicole. I've always remembered you being angry before, but I don't remember you being mean. When did that happen?”

“Get the hell out of here.”

Claire nodded. “I'll be down the hall if you need me.”

“That is not going to happen. I'd rather starve than deal with you.”

“No, you wouldn't.”

Ignoring the burning in her eyes and sense of loss weighing her down, Claire returned to her room, determined to fix whatever had gone wrong.

 

T
HE ALARM WENT OFF
at three-forty-five in the morning. Claire turned it off and then stared at the unblinking red light. What had she been thinking? Who got up this early?

People who worked in a bakery, she reminded herself. She was one of the Keyes sisters. She had an obligation to the family business. As Nicole was in no position to check on things and Jesse had disappeared for reasons still not clear, it was left to Claire.

She got up and pulled on clothes. Wrinkled clothes made only marginally better by their time in a steamy bathroom. She washed her face, applied some light makeup, pulled her long hair back in a ponytail and quietly crept downstairs. Less than fifteen minutes later, she had arrived at the bakery and parked in the back by the other employee cars.

There were lights on in the building. Claire hurried to the rear door and walked inside.

The space was warm and bright, smelling of sugar and cinnamon. Equipment filled counters and lined walls. Huge ovens radiated an impressive amount of heat. There were deep fryers and massive mixers, stacks of flour and sugar and what smelled like the richest chocolate in the world.

Claire paused and breathed in the delicious scents. She'd only been able to fix soup again the previous night, not that Nicole had been all that interested in eating. But three days of a nearly liquid diet had left Claire starving.

A middle-aged man dressed entirely in white saw her and frowned. “Hey, you. Get out of here. The bakery opens at six.”

She gave him her best smile. “Hi. I'm Claire Keyes. Nicole's sister. I flew in because of her surgery. I'm helping out.”

“Sister? She doesn't—” The man was small—a couple of inches shorter than her, but built like a bull. He drew his bushy eyebrows together. “You're the one who plays the piano? The snooty one?”

“I do play the piano,” Claire said, wondering what Nicole had been telling people about her. “I'm not really snooty. Nicole, um, asked me to come by to help, what with her being laid up and all.”

The man frowned. “I don't think so. She doesn't like you.”

Something she'd apparently shared with the entire world. Claire had felt guilty about lying, but she didn't anymore. She was going to find a way to fit in and the bakery was the obvious place to start.

“We've come to an understanding,” she said, still forcing a smile. “There must be something I can do to help. I'm her sister. Baking is in my blood.”

Or it should be. Claire had never tested the theory by actually baking anything.

“Look, I don't know what's going on, but I don't like it. You need to leave.”

The man walked away. She trailed after him. “I can help. I'm a hard worker and I'm really good with my hands. There has to be something. I'm not asking to work on the famous Keyes chocolate cake or anything.”

The man spun back to face her. “You stay away from the chocolate cake, you hear me? Only Nicole and I do that. I've been here fifteen years and I know what I'm doing. Now get out of here.”

“Hey, Sid? Come here for a sec.”

The voice calling came from behind a wall of ovens. Sid gave her a scowl, then hurried off in the direction of the voice. Claire used the alone time to explore the inner workings of a real bakery a little more. She smiled at a woman injecting yummy-looking filling into pastry shells. The woman ignored her. Claire kept moving.

She found another woman working a machine that applied frosting to doughnuts. The smell was heavenly and Claire's stomach began to grumble in anticipation. She took a step toward the machine and bumped into a man carrying something.

As they struggled to get their balance, the bag he'd been carrying flew up in the air. Claire instinctively reached for it. But instead of catching it, she only bumped the side, sending it tumbling, sprinkling its contents on them, the floor and onto the already frosted doughnuts moving on the narrow conveyor belt. It spun and spun before landing, open end up, in a massive vat of dough.

“What the hell did you do?” the man demanded, as he began to swear in a language she didn't recognize.

Sid came running. “You! You're still here?”

The woman managing the doughnuts flipped off the belt and hurried over to inspect them. “Salt,” she muttered. “It's everywhere. They're ruined.”

Claire wished she could slink away. “I'm sorry,” she began. “We ran into each other and—”

“You're not supposed to be here,” Sid yelled. “Did I tell you to leave? Did you listen? Jesus, no wonder Nicole talks about you the way she does.” He leaned over the vat of dough and swore. “Salt,” he yelled. “There's a five-pound bag of salt in the French bread dough. You think anyone's going to want that? It's our batch for the day. The
day.
”

Oh, no. “Can't you make some more?” she asked in a tiny voice, feeling so awful.

“Do you understand anything about making bread from scratch? What am I asking? Of course you don't. Get out. Just get out. We can't afford any more disasters this morning.”

Claire wanted to say something to make it better, but what was the point? All four of them stared at her as if she was the lowest form of life they'd ever seen. They wouldn't care that she'd only been trying to help. That she hadn't meant to run into the other guy. That it had only been an accident.

Not knowing what else to do, she turned and left.

It was after five when she arrived back at the house. Claire checked on Nicole, who was still sleeping, then went down to the kitchen and made coffee. The first pot smelled funny and tasted worse. She threw it out and started over.

The second batch was drinkable. She poured herself a cup and sank into a chair at the table.

How could her day have started so horribly? How could she have messed up so badly without even trying? It wasn't fair. She wasn't a bad person. Okay, yes, she lived a strange, twisted life that most people couldn't relate to, but that didn't change who she was on the inside.

But it seemed existing outside of her gilded cage was going to be harder than she'd first realized.

“I'm not giving up,” she said aloud. “I'm going to figure this out.”

She didn't have much choice. If she couldn't play the piano anymore, she was going to need to have a life without music.

No music. The thought of it made her sad. Music was everything to her. It was her reason for breathing.

“I'll find another reason,” she told herself. “I have unexplored depths.” At least she hoped she did.

A little after six, she went looking for the toaster. There was plenty of bread in the freezer. She managed to burn the first three slices she put in before getting the adjustment right. She was digging around for a tray when the back door opened.

She straightened and saw Wyatt walking into the kitchen. Wyatt, who hated her nearly as much as Nicole. Wyatt, who'd made her hand tingle so strangely the previous day.

But before she could wonder what that all meant, she saw the pretty little girl who trailed behind him.

Wyatt set several grocery bags on the counter. “Something smells bad.”

“I burned some toast.” Claire couldn't look away from the girl. “Your daughter?” she asked. Wyatt had a daughter? Which meant he had a wife.

The realization caused her to take a step back, although she couldn't say why. Still, she wanted to meet the girl. Claire had always liked children and dreamed of a family of her own.

“This is Amy,” he said, moving his hands as he spoke. “Amy, this is Claire.” He used his fingers in an odd way. “Amy's deaf.”

“Oh.” She looked at the child and noticed hearing aids in both ears.

She'd never known a deaf person before. No sound. What would that be like? Never to hear a Mozart concerto or a symphony? No melody or rhythm. Her whole body clenched at the thought.

“How horrible.”

Wyatt glared at her. “We don't think so, but thanks for sharing your enlightened and sensitive opinion. When you see a one-legged guy walking down the street, do you kick it out from under him?”

She blushed and glanced at his daughter. “No. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. I was thinking about music and how…” There was no recovery from this, she thought as guilt swamped her. “I didn't mean anything bad.”

“People like you never do.”

He wouldn't understand, mostly because he didn't want to. He assumed the worst about her and she seemed to do nothing but prove his point.

He began taking groceries out of the bags. She thought about offering to help, but knew he would refuse. Instead, she retreated to the living room and wondered if she should simply hire a nurse for Nicole and escape back to New York. At least there she fit in.

She sank onto one of the sofas and did her best not to cry. Why was everything going so wrong? How could she make things better? Because as easy as escaping would be, she didn't want to be a quitter. She'd never quit. Not once—no matter how hard things got.

But this situation was impossible.

Amy walked into the room. Claire started to apologize for what she'd said, only to realize the child probably hadn't heard her. Which meant she would have to explain why she was apologizing, assuming she could even get her point across. She sat there, feeling both stupid and awkward, not sure which was worse.

Amy didn't seem to pick up on any of that. Instead she walked over to a bookshelf in the corner and picked up a large picture book. She carried it back to the sofa and handed it to Claire.

“You want me to read to you?” Claire asked, looking at the book. “Aren't you too old for this book?”

Amy waved her hands to get Claire's attention, then touched her chin. She motioned to her lips, then her eyes.

“See you speak.”

The words were spoken slowly, with exaggerated pronunciation.

Claire's eyes widened. “You can talk?”

Amy raised her right hand and waggled it sideways, then held her thumb and index finger an inch or so apart.

“A little,” Claire said, feeling triumphant. “You can speak a little.”