Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) (18 page)

Margaret arched a brow. “Would you like knowing your new husband was sleeping with a teenaged girl who lived right under your roof?”

“Point taken.”

“History may change but emotions don't.”

I frowned. “How did Susie's mother get so badly burned?”

“Hard to say. Kitchens were a dangerous place in those days.” She sighed. “I want to dig deeper and I'm hoping the journal will tell me who owned Susie. If I can figure that out, then maybe I can link the tapes to the journal. And if I can do that . . . I might finally have a dissertation that I can sink my teeth into.”

“What do you know about Mabel?”

“Not much. She didn't like talking about her life so I never pried.”

I'd not seen Margaret this excited in a very long time. “You said there are more tapes.”

“Yes. They don't all have to do with the slaves, but I'll listen again to be sure.”

“Well, the journal is all yours. Have at it.” I'd taken the time to wrap it in cloth and then slip it into a gallon-sized zip-top bag. Preservationists likely would have cried their outrage at the book's treatment.

Nodding, Margaret wiped her hands again on her napkin and jeans and pulled a set of cloth gloves from her pocket. “Smart move.”

“Do you always carry cloth gloves?”

“Not always.” She grinned and then took the book and reverently held it between her palms. She studied the first pages. “Looks like everyday life.”

“So no great epiphanies.”

She arched a brow. “The epiphanies are in the everyday notes. How people lived, what they did during their regular lives is what fascinates me. I'm only concerned about the big moments in history when they affected everyday life.”

“I don't care about piecing history together. I just want to know what happened to Susie.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.” Staring at the worn book, I tried to picture the little girl who had held it more than 150 years ago. “I just feel like I need to know—that I'm supposed to know.”

“Supposed to know? Why?”

Somehow talking to Margaret about my ghostly/imaginary friend sounded ludicrous. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Margaret gently turned the pages as she scanned the scripted words. “The journal only covers a year. And then it just ends.”

“There are a lot of blank pages remaining. Why would she just stop?”

“Back then, who knows? Maybe she died. Maybe she was sold. Could be a lot of things.” Her frown deepened as she read more. “I doubt things went well for her.”

“Why would you say that?” I was really rooting for this kid now.

“It was 1852. She was a slave. A female. The cards were stacked against her.”

“Do you think you can find her?”

Margaret sat back on her couch, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “Let me read all the entries and see what I can figure out.”

“But you can find her.”

“That's one hell of a needle in the mystery haystack.”

It wouldn't take much to get Margaret to bite on this job. This kind of detective work was what she lived for. “So you are saying that you cannot find her?”

Margaret stared at the journal, her gaze a mixture of excitement and joy. “Please. You are dealing with the master when it comes to this kind of stuff. I will find her.”

•   •   •

Waking ten minutes before my alarm was becoming the norm. My eyes popped open and my mind was sharp with a maddening clarity. It could just as well have been the middle of the day and I could have been sitting at my desk at Suburban. Only I was being weighed down by a sleeping bag and backstabbed by a sofa spring. Both were reminders of where I really was, and that realization drained the spark of energy from my bones. And suddenly all I wanted to do was go back to sleep.

I blinked, rolled on my back, stared at the cracked plaster of the ceiling and practiced the deep breathing my therapist had mentioned to me on several occasions. I'd not seen Dr. Myers in five months and I did miss his calm, sane approach to life. Like so many other luxuries, he was another casualty of my job loss and vanishing benefits.

“Daisy why do you feel like you have to fix the world?” Dr. Myers said.

“I don't know. I just know it needs to be fixed.”

In and out I breathed. One. Two. Three. Seconds passed. I breathed more, but nothing happened. The clock read 3:22. One minute had passed.

“I am the glue,” I said to Dr. Myers.

“What do you mean?”

“I am the one who must keep my family together.”

“Why is it your job to keep the family together?”

“I don't know. I've always felt in charge of keeping Team McCrae on task.”

“Margaret doesn't fret over the details. Rachel doesn't get mired down in this burden.”

I shrugged. “I guess because I can't lose another one.”

“Another what?”

“Another family.”

He stared at me directly. “Daisy, you are not the reason your birth mother walked away. You could not have stopped her.”

“Maybe if I'd been a better kid, she'd have stayed.”

Annoyed at the thoughts, I rolled on my side, hoping to look out the window and catch a glimpse of the stars and moon. Instead of light, I saw a dark figure standing by my bed.

I bolted upright and tensed. It was the other one. The bad one had returned.

The figure had no defined face or structure but I knew it was a man. And though he stared toward the window, hands clasped behind his back, he was here for me. He possessed great patience . . . and great anger.

I blinked, hoping he was the residue from a dream I'd already forgotten. He would vanish once I stopped clinging to the warmth of my bed and let the morning cold bring me to full consciousness. I shoved long fingers through my hair, cleared my throat, and stood slowly. The sleeping bag dropped away and the cold floor made my toes curl. “I'm awake now. You can go.”

But he didn't fade, even as a chill puckered my skin with gooseflesh. The figure didn't turn or speak, but continued to stare, the silent sentinel. No words were uttered and I tried not to let crushing fear take root. “You are the one who was here before. You were angry.”

He did not acknowledge my comment.

“So you want to tell me what this is about? Or better yet, who you might be?” My hoarse whisper cut through the morning stillness and sounded a bit ridiculous.

My bike started to rattle and shake and then fell to the ground. Books flew off the shelves.

Stomach churning, I glanced toward the door. “What the hell is this about?”

Silent and still, the figure continued to stare forward and without a word spoken I knew he wanted me to leave.
Get out.
I could almost taste his impatience.

“When or if I leave, it will be on my terms, not yours.”

And then in a blink, he faded, like a cloud caught in a heavy wind, scattering and fading so quickly that I would have doubted his presence if not for the tumbled bike and books.

Heart racing, I dug fingers through my hair. No threats or declarations were needed to rattle my cage.

I hurried toward the window where he'd stood. The air was cold and the glass icy to the touch. I padded back toward my bed and clicked on the side lamp. I winced at the light and waited as my eyes slowly adjusted and focused. My back and shoulder ached from sleeping on the sofa and I felt scared and annoyed. The alarm on my cell shrilled and I quickly grabbed it and shut it off.

The presence of this ghost left me with a clear message:
Tread carefully.

Chapter Ten

T
uesday morning, Gordon stood in the center of the bike shop surrounded by dozens of unpacked boxes. The store wasn't slated to open for a couple of weeks but at the rate he was going he'd be lucky to make the deadline. He wanted to hire help to finish with the unpacking and the stocking of inventory, but he flat-out couldn't afford it.

The front money he'd sunk into this business represented the last of his net worth, and he'd be damned if he'd borrow a dime to make this dream happen. He'd invested and lost fortunes in the last year. His decisions, which he'd thought so sound and solid at the time, had lost untold amounts of investors' funds, jobs, and ultimately the company. He'd fucked up so much.

Too many nights, he'd lain awake in bed staring at the shadows dancing on the ceiling, bargaining with God for a reprieve.
Take whatever you want from me. Just get me out of this fix. You can take my sight if you can save the others. You can . . . if only . . .

The bargaining, worrying, and gut-wrenching panic had gone on for nearly a year. And in the end, God had not swooped in and saved him. God had left him out on a limb as if to say, You made the mess so you can clean it up.

He could argue that everyone who entered the stock market assumed risk. It wasn't like investing in a bank account. It wasn't safe. But after so many years of wins and gains, he, like everyone else, had forgotten just how easily and cruelly the market could turn. Too much success had allowed them all to lower their guards.

He'd left Suburban knowing the owners could sell to buyers who could infuse enough cash in the company so that the employees would have some kind of severance and his clients' accounts would not be completely gutted.

He'd paid the price for his choices—both professionally and personally. He'd kept the “patient” from dying, so to speak, but the “cure” had caused untold pain and suffering that would never be forgotten.

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.”