Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) (15 page)

But for now I was willing to settle for some sweet denial and benign procrastination.

Chapter Eight

O
ver 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 lately 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.

No wait. It's Sunday. I don't have to be anywhere. Crap.

Irritation snapped. I had hours of more sleep to enjoy. I needed sleep. I needed to shut down. I laid back and closed my eyes. I did deep breathing exercises. Counted sheep. Punched my pillow and rolled on my side. But nothing coaxed me back to sleep. I was too jazzed.

“Read my book!”

“Leave me alone.”

“Not until you read.”

Muttering a curse, I sat up and clicked on a side table light, and padded over to the box I'd not opened in three days.

I reached inside for the book, careful not to let my fingers skim Terry's letter. I was still not ready to open that Pandora's box, but I could look at the journal.

Sitting back on my bed cross-legged, I gently opened the front cover.

To S. With love, J.

Over 150 years and so many lifetimes separated me from S and J. I still didn't understand why Mrs. Woodrow would want me to have this mystery. Clearly the old woman had made a mistake. Better to just read the journal and give it to Margaret.

I knew your mama . . . your other mama.

The words clanged and rattled in my head. If only the old lady had lived a few more days. Then I could have taken Terry's letter to her and asked more questions: Was Terry my mother? Was she the woman you saw me with all those years ago? If only Mrs. Woodrow had mentioned my other mother's name. Just a name would have clarified so very much. If only . . .

I glared at the journal, which I now associated with the letter. There was no logic in this thought process. One had nothing to do with the other. But that didn't make it any easier for me to separate the two.

I opened to a random page.

It's hot work by the stove in the cookhouse behind the master's house. This morning, I was put in charge of making breakfast for the house. Even as I struggled to coax the embers to life and bank the fire, I was grateful I knew how the oven worked. Mistress says I am of good use to her for the first time ever and that I might be worth keeping.

I burned my arm on the cast-iron pan as the flat cakes cooked. The injury stung something awful even after I rushed outside and pumped cool water on it. The cakes burned and, nursing my burn, I had to scrape hard to get them off the pan's bottom.

When Mama got home long after the sunset, I followed her into the kitchen and showed her my burn. I wanted a bit of sympathy, a hug, or praise for the work I did in the master's house. But she had none to spare.

I cried and wailed and tried to show Mama my burn again and again, but she wasn't the least bit kind about my injury.

In fact the red burn that slashed across my forearm seemed to make her angry. She says Master will have more reason to sell me if I am so clumsy around the stoves. And if the wound were to go sour, I could lose my arm or die.

Then she did unwrap my bandage and take a look at the burn. She promised to find herbs tomorrow and make a poultice.

When I repeated what the mistress said about me being of use, she tossed me a bitter smile. “Make no mistake, girl, she would sell me or you in a heartbeat. The woman has not liked either of us since the day she first stepped over the front threshold.”

I pressed for her to explain but she would not. She slumped in the wooden kitchen chair and in silence ate her hardtack smeared with bacon grease. Whatever had happened that day had drained her of all energy and vigor. I asked her about her day but she said it was none of my concern.

For the first time, my mama looked old.

The kid had been having trouble with her mother. Not what I needed right now. I replaced the journal in the box, dressed, and headed downstairs to the bakery. Fuck it. It was Sunday but there was always work to be done. At least I knew I could get a little peace of mind working.