Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) (21 page)

“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 Susie 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.”

She sipped her lemonade. “Got to say, I'm a bit curious about Susie and J. I'll be sure to keep an eye out for both initials when I start sifting through the papers on her desk tomorrow morning.”

I set down my glass. “Do you know of anyone named Terry in Mabel's family?” An anxious, needy tone that I did not like slipped into my voice.

“Honey, that family has more cousins and nieces than you can shake a stick at. There could be, but I just don't know. But I don't think there was anyone by that name in the receiving line after the funeral.” She sat back and studied me with brown eyes that peered over the top of her glasses. “We could spend the next couple of weeks digging through old papers. Maybe we'll find Terry. Maybe not. But we can try.”

It felt good to talk to someone who didn't double-think everything I said. “Thanks.”

“Go on home and get your rest. I'll be sure to save anything I find, and we'll start doing the real digging on Thursday.”

“About six?”

“Sounds good. Now if you don't mind,
Oprah
will be on soon, and I don't like to miss.”

I rose. “See you on Thursday.”

•   •   •

That night, I fell into bed just before nine. My body ached and my head throbbed from energy overload. I sensed I was on the edge of something huge. It was something that felt dark and dangerous and like it or not would change my life forever. And as much as I wanted to turn back and run to my old life, I knew that a door had shut and a dead bolt thrown. I could remain in limbo, churning and fearful, but I was ready to creep closer to the edge.

I nestled in my bed, which my mother had fitted with real sheets and a blanket. The sleeping bag was now rolled up and tucked next to the stack of unpacked boxes. As I slid under the sheets and lowered toward the pillow, I noted Mom had also gathered my dirty laundry today, washed, and left it folded in a neat stack at the foot of my bed. She loved me. She was doing her best to take care of me. And I loved her for it. So if I loved Mom so much, why did I care about Terry? Why wasn't Mom enough?

Because she just wasn't.

The frenetic pace I'd maintained all my life—the boyfriends, the demanding jobs, the trips—they'd all been about filling a hole I didn't even want to acknowledge. And no matter how much I crammed inside my days, nothing was ever quite enough.

I really welcomed sleep tonight. I needed a quiet refuge from the day's demands.

“You're such a baby, Daisy.” Susie wore a white dress and dark braids secured with blue bows. She twirled in circles, waving her arms in an odd dance.

“I am not a baby.”

“Then prove it. Jump.”

I glanced over the edge of a cliff, which seemed to have no bottom. “I don't have to prove anything to you.”

“Baby, baby, baby. Jump. Jump. Jump.”

Her teasing stoked frustration and anger. “Leave me alone.”

“Not until you jump!”

Irritated and angry, I gritted my teeth and with my gaze on the girl, I jumped.

•   •   •

Just after six the next morning, Henri stumbled while he was carrying a tray of unleavened bread. I heard the
woof
of air come from his lungs and turned in time to see him teeter forward. Thankfully I was close enough to grab the tray, save the dough, and steady him.

He met my gaze, and I saw a worried old man wildly searching the room, fearful that someone besides me might have seen his misstep.

I set the tray on the worktable. “She's out front. She didn't see.”

He righted himself and moved a trembling hand through thick, graying hair. For a moment, he did not say anything. Finally, he said, “She worries.”

A half smile tipped my lips. “I worry, too.”

“You are different.”

“Different? That has been the underlying theme in my life.”

“In your case, different is good. You are stronger.”

“I don't feel so strong.”

He picked up the tray from the counter and carefully carried it toward the ovens. “I have contacted my cousin.”

I opened the latch to the oven. He slid the tray inside. “Your cousin?”

“From France.” He dropped his voice a notch, mindful that Rachel was just on the other side of the door. “Lyon.”

“Does he bake?”

“
Oui.
He bakes.”

“Did you tell him about this job?”

“I have not spoken to him yet. I have left word with his sister to call me. Sometimes he is hard to find.”

“What does that mean?”

“He travels.” His even tone didn't hold the least hint of frustration.

I tried to maintain the same equilibrium. “So when do you think he'll call you back?”

“Soon.”

“As in?”

“Soon.”

I ran nervous hands over my apron-clad hips. “Great.”

Henri met my gaze. “He will call.”

“Let's hope, because I got nothing on my end when it comes to finding another baker.”

By ten
A.M.
, the morning rush had left the store, and we could enjoy a small lull until the prelunch crowd showed. I'd grown to expect this quiet time and use it to check the register, restock, or take out trash. So when I heard the front bell jingle, I glanced up with more than just a little annoyance thumping in the back of my head.

It was Dad. He wore jeans, a white T-shirt that read
UNION STREET BAKERY
, a ball cap, and tennis shoes with new inserts ordered by Mom. I knew Dad didn't like the shoes but he'd relented when Mom told him the shoes would ease the pinched nerves in his feet.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Kiddo, thought things would be slow. No matter how many years I work here, this is always the slow time.”

“Yeah. It's nice.”

“How about you pour me a cup of coffee and give me a few cookies?”

“You're not supposed to eat sweets.”

He winked. “I won't tell if you don't.”

“Sure.”

I filled a mug with hot robust coffee and plunked two sugar cubes and a dollop of cream into the mug. I slid it across the counter. “There ya go.”

He took the cup and sipped. “Thanks. I see you made changes to the menu.”

“Rachel was not pleased.”

“So I gathered.”

“Did she come running to you?”

“No, but it doesn't take much to figure out what's going on in this place.”

I grabbed a piece of paper and snapped up two sugar cookies, which I knew were his favorite. I handed them to him. “I told her she could cut whatever she wanted as long as she cut the line up by 15 percent. She did a good job but still kept that pumpkin bread, which never sells well.”

“It was one of Mike's specialties.”

“Maybe in time she'll learn to let it go.”

He bit into the cookie. “You're an angel.”

I grinned. “That's not what Margaret called me this morning.”

“She can be prickly when you pull her away from her books and broken pieces of pottery.”

“So I've noticed.”

He came around the counter and I had the odd sense that he'd just invaded my domain. I'd made the back office mine almost immediately but wasn't sure when I'd decided the bakery had become mine as well.

“Why don't you sit?” he said.

“I can talk and work.”

“You should sit.”

“Drives me nuts.” I grabbed a bottle of Windex and a handful of paper towels as I moved around the front of the display case. My old friend Tammy had come in again this morning, dragging a couple of kids who'd smeared my clean glass with their pudgy little fingers. “And as I remember, Mom could never get you to sit.”

“That was different. I had a family to support.”

“So do I.” I sprayed the cleaner on the blurry glass.

Dad frowned as he moved back around the counter. “I didn't mean for you to take on all this. I know it's not what you wanted.”

“It was never in the plan.” I wiped the smudge away with unnecessary ferocity. Maybe if I made the smudges go away, I could make Dad's worried expression disappear. I didn't like seeing him upset. “But plans change.”