Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) (26 page)

Chapter Sixteen

C
hop-chop,” Rachel yelled into my office. “We got us some marketing to do.”

“Right.”

I dashed up the back stairs, passing Mom and Dad, who made their way to the bakery, ready as all agreed, to man the shop for the remaining two business hours. The last few days had been insane. Not only did I have my everyday routine but I was making a website for the bakery and putting together cards and a brochure. No one would ever accuse me of being a graphics expert but the work was simple, informative, and would do the job for now. And in my very spare moments I was in my office online and reading all I could about United. Each time I searched for information on the company, I felt a gnawing guilt. I'd not told anybody about the job interview, knowing it would not go over well.

I focused on getting the United job, garnering a great salary, setting up sales contracts for the bakery, and then pitching my manager idea to the family.

Dad glanced at his watch. “Hurry up, kiddo.”

“I know. I know.”

I was pulling off my flour-dusted, sweaty-stained T-shirt as I moved toward the bathroom. Turning on the shower, I kicked off my shoes and pushed my jeans to the floor. Last night I'd dug out my interview clothes for my meeting with Ralph and hid them in my closet. The plan was to slip out the back with my clothes in hand and change somewhere else. There was no sense raising questions until I had answers.

Jumping under the spray, I intended to be done in seconds. But the rush of warm water felt so damn good. And so I stood under the shower, savoring the hot steam and the beads of water as they hit the tense muscles in my neck.

With regret, I finally shut off the tap, toweled off, and dressed in dark pants and a chef's jacket that had once belonged to my mother. When we'd told her of our marketing plans a few days ago, she'd dug out the jacket, washed, and pressed it. I'd tried to explain that I wasn't a chef like Rachel but Mom said none of that mattered. I ran the Union Street Bakery and I'd earned the right to wear the jacket. I smoothed my hand over the jacket's smooth worn cotton and thought about the thousands of times I'd seen Mom wear this when I was a kid. Pride welled inside me and my throat tightened with emotion.

I cleared my throat. “Stop it.”

With no time to dry my hair, I combed it out and tied it back at the nape of my neck in a neat bun. A little lip gloss and a touch of blush and I was ready, if you could call it that. I feared I'd never be the neat, buttoned-up old Daisy, and for the first time wondered if I still had the chops for United.

“Shit.” I headed down the stairs and found Rachel surveying our trays of cookies and looking clean and as fresh as spring.

“How the hell do you do it?” I asked.

She glanced up. “What?”

“You look great. Always.”

“Thanks, I think.” She cocked her head. “Was that a compliment?”

“Yes. Damn it. How do you always look so pulled together?”

A hint of color rose in her cheeks. “Glue and spitballs and prayers.”

I laughed. “Say again?”

“Don't be fooled, Daisy. It's all smoke and mirrors. Now, are you ready to hit the road?”

“Ready and willing.”

We found Mom and Dad, standing behind the display case. Seeing them in their Union Street Bakery T-shirts and white pants really took me back to when I was a kid. When I was in elementary school, I'd come home in the afternoons, snag several cookies, and sit behind the counter while I did my homework. Margaret and Rachel always headed to their rooms, but I liked being around my parents and the day's last burst of activity. Back then, I thought my parents could do just about anything, and they'd be around forever.

Now, as I stared at Dad's stooped shoulders and the streaks of gray in Mom's hair, I realized that forever wasn't as long as I'd first thought. Hell, I was reading the journal of a girl, who even if she went on to a full life, had been dead over a hundred years. Time waited for no one.

“Daisy.” The edge in Rachel's tone had me turning.

“Yeah?”

“Grab a platter.” Annoyance snapped in Rachel's eyes. The cheerleader did have a temper. Good.

“I'm coming.” I lifted a tray filled with little cakes covered in chocolate, vanilla, lemon, and what I thought was apple-flavored icing. Rachel had carved the plain squares into triangles and dusted them with sparkling sugars. The display was a work of art and I could tell Rachel had put her heart and soul into the confections. “You didn't sleep much last night, did you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“This is fabulous, and you're in a foul mood. And I believe your foundation is a shade thicker under your eyes.”

The compliment coaxed a hint of a smile. “I'll get to bed extra early tonight.”

“You girls look as pretty as pictures.” Mom pointed the digital camera I gave her for Christmas and snapped. “Now, stand together real quick and let me shoot a picture.”

“Mom, we've got to go,” I said.

“Smile,” Mom warned.

Dad glared at us. “Do as your mother says.”

We stood side by side, our platters waist high and grinning into the camera. Mom snapped a picture and then a second and, yes, a third for luck.

We started for the back door and Dad looked as if he wanted to follow.

“Don't you dare, Frank,” Mom said. “This trip is the girls' job.”

He grunted and winked at us. “They are prettier than me.”

“Where are you going today?” Mom said.

“Duke Street, to the 1212 Building.” Remembering Brad's comment about Simon Davenport I'd also researched his company last night. Davenport was hiring and gearing up for a big development. Developments required meetings and openings and ribbon cuttings. And all those events were more palatable with baked goods.

Dad frowned. “I thought no solicitation in that area.”

“I'm banking on the fact that no one is going to stop us once they see Rachel's creations.”

“They might throw you out,” Mom said.

“So be it.”

We loaded up our trays in the back of the bakery's delivery van and drove the ten blocks to the city's business district. Tall twenty-story buildings, built in the last twenty years, were stacked end to end within a few blocks. These buildings were home to endless associations, nonprofits, and other businesses that I was sure could have used a good dessert caterer. We were less than a couple of miles away but none of the folks who worked here would make the trek to us. Until we got a website, if we wanted them, we had to travel.

We parked and unloaded the trays. As we approached the first glass tower, Rachel nodded toward a
NO SOLICITING
sign on the front door. “They are going to kick us out.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Worry creased her forehead. “Yeah, but the sign reads ‘No Soliciting.'”

“Please. If I were afraid of the word
no
, I'd never have earned a living in my past life.”

“I hate ‘no.'”

“I welcome ‘no.' It's a challenge for me.” Why I couldn't translate that sentiment to Terry escaped me. “Just follow my lead and smile.”

We shoved through the front door. From the directory, I snagged a few names of companies I'd remembered from my finance days and then walked up to the security desk. The guard, an older balding guy in his fifties, lifted his gaze from a
National Enquirer
magazine. “What can I do for you ladies?”

“We're here to see Simon Davenport.” I couldn't say for sure if Davenport had a meeting today but chances were he did. He was a bit of a control freak and stayed on top of his employees' work.

“No one goes directly to Davenport.”

Good, because I really wanted the office manager or the gatekeeper, or the one who wielded the company's food purchasing power. Simon was really just a name to get us past the guard.

The old man's gaze flickered over the dessert trays as if they were a juicy bit of porn. “Are they expecting you?”

I held the tray up so he could get a better look. “Cakes are for his meeting.”

“He's never ordered food before.”

Rachel shifted uncomfortably.

I grinned. “Hey, in this financial market, wouldn't you want something sweet to eat while you heard the latest news?”

A half smile tipped the edge of his mouth. “Yeah. Yeah.”

Rachel pulled out a napkin and plucked a cake from the tray. “Would you like a snack?”

He glanced from side to side. “We're not supposed to take anything.”

Rachel, taking her lead from me, set the cake in front of him. “I won't tell.”

Like an errant child, he snatched the cake. “Fancy.”

“Melts in your mouth.” I was the devil, recruiting another sinner.

He pinched a piece of icing and then took a bite. “My God.”

Chalk another one up to the dark side. “I know, I know. Sin.” People could talk for hours about low-fat, high-protein, or fat-free, but in practice few stuck to it. Americans spent billions on diets and all kinds of devices to give them rock-hard bodies, but the reality was they wanted the gooey, sweet, fattening stuff that they knew in their heart of hearts was bad.

The guard shoved the rest of the cake in his mouth. “Davenport Property is on the sixth floor.”

I set another cake in front of him. “Thanks.”

When the elevator doors closed, Rachel's nerves bubbled up in giggles. “I can't believe we made it this far.”

Elevator music hummed above our heads. “Stick with me, kid.”

“So who is Simon Davenport?” she said.

“A dude we really have no intention of seeing. He is our ticket to the receptionist/office manager. Chances are, he's locked behind closed doors and we'll never see him. When the secretary announces she placed no order, we'll feel bad and leave samples behind.”

“And cards?”

“You're catching on, grasshopper.”

“What if they throw us out?”

Of all the things Rachel had endured in the last year and a half, and she was afraid of this. “Then they throw us out.”

“How did you get so brave?”

Once your mother left you on a patio at age three to fend for yourself, the rest just didn't seem so bad. “Genetics.”

The doors opened to chrome, glass, and muted tones of blue and gray with accents of black. All very tasteful. The cool, clean lines coupled with sleek furniture, and the gentle hum of fluorescents took me back to Suburban Enterprises. It had been less than three months since I'd worked in a place like this, and yet it felt like a million miles away. Were United's offices this nice? I hoped they would be but would have been happy with a cubicle at this point.

“Can I help you?”

The question came from an efficient woman who sat behind a tall receptionist desk. She wore an earpiece that connected to a phone bank, which must have had thirty lines.

Suddenly, the bravado wilted a fraction. I'd been a part of this world, and now I was the outsider. Shit. I hated being the outsider. Feeling defensive quickly morphed to anger, which motivated me to speak. “We have a delivery for Mr. Davenport's quarterly meeting.”

Plucked black eyebrows rose. “I didn't order anything.”

“Really?” I tried to look confused. “You sure? The delivery slip says today. The twenty-first.”

She drummed manicured fingers on her desk. “I can promise you that I did not order any refreshments for tomorrow's meeting.”

“Wow.” I nibbled my lip. “We goofed.”

“I never placed an order.”

I shook my head. “Hey, it's not my job to sort the mysteries. Only to deliver the goods.” I glanced at the tray. “We're here. And the boss will flip if I bring these back. Would you like them?”

“I'm not paying.”

“Free of charge. A gift from Union Street Bakery.” I set the tray on the receptionist desk along with a few dozen cards. “Enjoy.”

She rose and inspected the confections. Rachel was an artist and her creations were hard for even the hardest-core purist to resist.

“Take just one.” My voice was soft and inviting as the Serpent's was to Eve. “You won't be sorry.”

She smiled a conspirator's smile and took a chocolate cake with vanilla icing. She bit and her eyes closed in pure pleasure. She couldn't speak.

Bingo. Hooked.

“Well, we better get going,” I said.

She opened her eyes as if she'd just enjoyed a great round of sex. “Perhaps we can drop the tray in the break room.”

“Sure, fine.”

The door to the conference room opened and a tall, lean man with eyes the color of coal appeared. He wore a dark suit, white tailored shirt, and gold cufflinks that caught the light. His gaze landed on Rachel, and then me and then, back on Rachel. “What's this?”

The receptionist hid her remaining cake behind her console. “They are with the Union Street Bakery. They had a delivery on their books for your quarterly meeting.”