Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) (27 page)

“That's tomorrow. And I don't order food.” He surveyed our wares and frowned, clearly in no mood for any distraction. “I don't have time for this. I need the financials on Morrison on my desk in five minutes.”

Davenport and I had attended the same meetings over the years. We'd shaken hands and spoken to each other. Once he'd even complimented me on an observation I'd made about a particular bond. But now his assessment of me had stopped at the uniform.

I should be grateful that the receptionist loved our stuff and that we had made real headway. I just needed to stay quiet and leave. But common sense had not been my best friend lately.

I moved toward Davenport, my hand extended. “Mr. Davenport, Daisy McCrae.”

He glanced at my hand but did not take it. “Who?”

“Daisy McCrae. I used to be with Suburban Enterprises.”

The dark gaze narrowed before recognition flickered in his gaze. “You worked with Gordon Singletary.”

“I did.”

“Your team was fired.”

I tossed him a bright smile. “Yes, we were.”

“Is this some kind of ploy to get a job here?”

“As the uniform suggests, I am no longer in finance. I'm working at my parents' bakery.”

“Quaint. Good for you.”

I wasn't accustomed to being dismissed. Who was he to look down on my family and the family business? Sure, I'd looked down on them at times but they were my family, and I had the right. He did not. My smile widened to the point of brittleness. “Would you like a cake?”

“No.”

I thrust a napkin and cake in his hand. “Why not? They are great.”

“I don't eat sugar.” He made “sugar” sound as
if it were a dirty word. “You and Barbie Baker need to leave.”

“What did you call my sister?” I said.

Davenport glared at his receptionist. “Why are we here having this conversation with these people?”

She paled. “I'll call security.”

“No need,” Rachel said. “We're going.”

“Right,” I said. “No need to call a man in to do what you can't. Take care, Davenport. Oh, and too bad about the Waterford property. I read a few weeks ago that the banks are calling in the loan.”

As the elevator doors closed, Davenport glared at us as if we were something the cat had thrown up. I waved. So did Rachel.

“Call us if you need a bakery.”

The doors dinged closed and Rachel shook her head. “Way to go, Daisy.”

“The guy's a dick.”

Laughter erupted from Rachel. “Daisy!”

•   •   •

Thoughts of Simon and the other nine business calls we made today dug at me. All in all, the visits had been good. Everyone loved the cakes, and I was sure we'd see orders. But Simon's sneer still tugged at my ego.

Ass. Dick. Jerk. I was just as good as I was a year ago. Hell, I'd argue I was better and smarter about finance and life in general. And my sister was a goddess in the kitchen.

“You look like you could kill.” Margaret peered over the top of a buttercream cake that I was desperately trying to crumb coat before I had to leave for my eight
P.M.
interview. My clothes were in a green garbage bag and I knew if I could get out of here by six thirty I had time to change.

But I was so annoyed I was ruining the cake with my crumb coating. All crumb coating required was a thin layer of icing to seal in the crumbs. It took a delicate touch, something that did not come naturally to me so I had to concentrate. Tomorrow Rachel would come behind me and smooth out my rough patches and cover the cake with a white layer of icing smoother than glass. She'd have been here now but had a thing with the girls.

“What?” I glared at Margaret.

“You look murderous. I mean, more murderous than usual. Did your ghostly friend reappear?”

“Maybe.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“He didn't say anything, just knocked a few things over. You found out anything about the guy? I think he still wants me to leave.”

“I've got the word out on the street so I can get a 411.”

That made me laugh. “You have a 411 on the street? What is this,
Cops
?”

She grabbed a tasting spoon and scooped up some icing. “We history geeks have our mean streets just like everyone else. If there is something to be found on mystery man, I'll find it.” She sucked on an icing spoon. “So how was your marketing adventure?”

I tried to smooth more icing on the cake but found I was excavating more crumbs than sealing them. “Oh, it was good.”

“Then why so glum?”

“Guess the whole adventure was too much of a reminder of where I was and where I am.”

“Sucks to see what you want and know you can't get it.”

The tone of her voice caught my attention. Was there a hint of sadness there? “Everything all right?”

She brushed away my concern with a casual wave. “Yeah, of course. It's just since I didn't get that job at Tulane or Boston I've been a little out of sorts.”

“What jobs?”

“I asked Mom not to tell. I was up for two full-time teaching positions. Neither panned out. But I've got more irons in the fire.”

“I never put much stock in a job because I'd always had the one I wanted. I get now what it feels like to lose a job you love. It kinda sucks.”

Margaret shook her head. “It sucks balls.”

We both burst out laughing.

“So you think you could get another job in finance?” she said.

A knot formed in my stomach and for a second I wondered if she'd guessed I had an interview. “I went a long way to pissing off a big fish today. It's a small community and word spreads.”

Margaret snorted. “Rachel told me about Barbie Baker. I think I'd have punched him.”

“It did cross my mind.”

•   •   •

I couldn't decide if I was a traitor, a sneak, or a savior as I hustled down the back stairs of the bakery, my hefty bag of work clothes clutched close. I stopped in a local fast-food place and changed in the ladies' room. As I struggled with panty hose for the first time in three months, I really had to question my sanity. Real women did not have to go through this kind of BS to sit in on a job interview. But apparently women who were afraid of disappointing family and losing their love did.

Shoving swollen feet into heels, I winced and then straightened my skirt. I hustled out of the stall to the mirror and applied my makeup. Smoothing my hands over my skirt again, I looked in the mirror. For a moment I just stared a bit befuddled by the person looking back. It was the Old Daisy—or at least as close proximity as I could manage in a ladies' room. I liked what I saw and that went a long way to calming my nerves.

A quick cab ride later and I was standing in the lobby of United Capital on Duke Street. My heels clicked on the marble floor as I moved toward the elevator and hit the Up button. Butterflies gnawed at my stomach as I thought about what I was going to say. I'd done my homework. I knew Ralph. I could make small talk, even regale him with stories from the bakery. It was all good. I felt great. Pretty much.

When the doors dinged open, I stepped inside the car, hit 10, and rode up in silence as the car rushed past the floors. Ten arrived, the doors opened, and I crossed plush carpet to a receptionist desk, where a young woman sat.

She smiled up at me. “Ms. McCrae.”

I was expected. A small detail that I'd taken for granted in my old life—but not now. “Yes. I'm here to see Ralph Denton.”

“He's waiting for you in the conference room.”

“Thank you.” My portfolio tucked under my arm I followed the receptionist down the hallway. I moved deliberately slowly, shoulders back and chin tilted up. She stopped, nodded to an impressive door and left me alone. I knocked on the conference room door and Ralph, head bent over spreadsheets looked up. He grinned and motioned me inside.

I entered and smiled as he rose. “Ralph. It's good to see you.”

He was a tall, lean man with thinning red hair and a ruddy complexion. One of the smartest guys in the industry, it did not surprise me that he'd landed a job after Suburban's crash.

“Daisy. You are looking great.” He extended his hand. “Brad tells me you are managing your folks' bakery?”

“I am.” I learned long ago, less was more. Ralph didn't need to know I'd been drunk when I said yes or that I'd no longer been able to make my rent payment when Mom had called.

“And it's going well.”

“It's been great. Kinda takes me back to the days when I was a kid.”

He nodded. We made a little more small talk. I gave him my resume and a bakery card and then we discussed the particulars of the job: lots of travel, client servicing, long hours. And though we didn't discuss salary, he hinted that it would be in the six-figure range.

“I like you, Daisy. I've always had nothing but great respect for you and if it were up to me you'd have a job offer now. But I've got partners and I'm going to need to talk to them.”

I'd have been shocked if I had walked out of there with a job. “That's reasonable.”

“I'll call you in a couple of days.”

“Great.”

“And if you're wondering about timetables, be ready to start in a week or two.”

Next week: the Kushman wedding cake, the meeting with the oven mason, and the health inspector. And after that, Henri's replacement, finding a manager who didn't mind Dad's hovering, Mom rearranging cookies, Margaret's tardiness, and Rachel's inability to remember where she put the latest receipt. “I'll need time to wrap up bakery details so I'll need some notice.”

He grinned. “That's what I always liked about you, Daisy. You never leave a loose thread.”

“Thanks, Ralph.” I rose, shook his hand, and made as dignified an exit as I could. As I stepped onto the elevator, I smiled at the receptionist and watched the doors
ding
closed in front of me.

•   •   •

Ralph had said he'd call within a couple of days but he didn't. It really wasn't surprising, I kept telling myself. He was swamped. He was setting up a whole new company and he didn't have time for every personnel issue. Whereas days could pass before he even thought about me, I thought about him every hour on the hour.

In the days since my interview, I had gone from excited to guilt-ridden to anxious to pissed. And by the time I met Margaret at Florence's at precisely two
P.M.
on Sunday, I had decided Ralph wasn't going to call. It was business, I told myself. It wasn't personal. It was karma. I was willing to leave the bakery and my family. Damn.

Unlike me, Margaret was grinning from ear to ear and her cheeks were flushed. Her aura buzzed with excitement and I had to admit it felt good to see my sister happy.

Florence greeted us at the door as if we were old friends. “Well, isn't this nice.”

She wore a white dress that gathered at the neck and then opened over her large breasts and full body. From a gold chain, a long thick cross dangled at her neckline.

Stockings remained in place but she'd kicked off her shoes.

“Excuse me, ladies, I'm running a bit late from a church luncheon. The deacon wanted to hold a prayer session for Miss Mabel, and it wouldn't have been right for me to leave early.”

“Is this still a good time?” This was my attempt at politeness; in my heart of hearts, though, I didn't care if the time was good or not. I wanted to go up into the attic and dive back into the past, which for now felt like the safest place to be. And I could sense by Margaret's shifting stance behind me she was just as anxious. We both smiled, waited patiently just as Mom had raised us.

“The time is fine.” She peered around me at Margaret. “And seeing as you brought your sister again, you won't need me climbing up in that attic to help. That young man coming again?”

Margaret grinned. “No. Hugo had some other gig today but he wished us luck. Daisy and I have strong backs and can manage the dirty work, Miss Florence. Why don't you sit and rest a bit? We'll give a shout if we find anything.”

“Suits me just fine, girls. My butt is still too fat and old to climb those stairs anyway. Care for some lemonade before you go up there?”

“Maybe after?” I suggested.

“Sounds good, baby. You two know the way.” She moved up the stairs to the second floor and opened the door that led to the attic staircase. “Call out if you need me. Oh, and you may want to do some of your hunting in the back right corner. For some reason, I'm thinking that's where you'll find stuff of interest.”

“Thanks,” I said.

The instant the door to the attic was opened, a rush of musty, warm air washed over us. I didn't get the sense of being greeted but of being warned that I don't belong up here. The sensation almost made me smile. If something was up there looking for a fight, I was more than ready to mix it up.

We climbed the stairs and I jerked the chain and the bulb flickered on.

Margaret reached in her knapsack and pulled out two scuffed silver flashlights. “I assumed you forgot your light again.”

“Guilty.” I accepted the light. “Two points to the history geek.”

She clicked on her light. “I want to start digging.”

“Will do.”

A quick pass with the flashlights revealed the area that we'd cleared out the other day and then the other side that remained stuffed. We'd stayed away from that side the other day because the area was small with barely enough clearance for our heads. Clothes hung from the rafters and boxes, trunks and old furniture ate up just about all the floor space.

My light skimmed over more boxes. “So you think we'll find more pictures?” I said.

“Worried about old Simon?”

“Not worried but curious.”

“No more woo-woo stuff at the bakery.”