Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) (29 page)

Tears burned my eyes and I felt sick. Like it or not, I had to talk to this woman. She might be bogus. She might have answers. But one way or another, I needed to know.

Picking up my cell, I dialed the contact number in the letter. My heart hammered in my chest as the phone rang once. Twice. Three times. And on the fourth ring, voice mail picked up. “
This is Terry Davis. I'm unable to answer my phone right now but leave a message, and you know I'll get back.
”

You know I'll get back.
I wanted to say that I do not know that. I wanted to say that I hated her for leaving and turning me into such a god damned basket case. I also wanted to tell her I loved her and I wanted her to say the same to me.

But instead of going into a long explanation, I let my breath trickle and leak slowly from my lungs before I said, “This is Daisy McCrae. I believe you sent a letter to my mother, Sheila McCrae.” Pause. Crap. Now what do I say? “I'm familiar with the little girl you mentioned. We might be able to help each other.”

I left my number, and then quickly hit End. I held the phone to my racing heart, wondering how long it would take her to return my call. What if she never called me back? What if she was a con artist who'd dug up old newspaper articles? What if she missed me all these years and was sorry?

I had no idea what to expect.

“Shit.”

Chapter Seventeen

I
obsessively checked my voice mail each and every morning . . . oh, hell, I checked on the hour, every hour each day of the following few days. Now I was not only waiting for Ralph to call but Terry. There was no message or text from Ralph or Terry, however. Nothing. Nada. Two simple phone calls could have made my life so much easier and yet neither came.

I did check in with Florence and learned Mabel's nephews were indeed in town. They'd hired an appraiser and were trying to figure out the value of the furnishings. Neither nephew was happy about the fact that the house couldn't be sold but for now they'd accepted the terms of the will. I told Florence to call me if they got nasty. I knew attorneys. Margaret went through the letters one by one and had reported it was slow going. Time had faded the ink, and the attic heat had left many of the pages brittle. Many crumbled in her hands when she tried to open them so she'd contacted a preservationist.

As much as I wanted to care about the letters, I couldn't sum up any real interest. Even my interview with Ralph had faded to the background. My thoughts stayed glued on Terry.

I did an Internet search. Three times. I got a few hits on the name, but with no pictures I really couldn't tell definitively who was who. I even pulled up Facebook and searched through every Terry Davis shown, thinking I'd spot someone who looked like me. I got nothing.

Frustrated, I shut off the computer, annoyed that I was sacrificing good sleep to chase down this woman who remained only a brief letter and a voice on an answering machine.
You know I'll get back.

And through all my emotional crap, the bakery business, unmindful of me, moved on as it always did. Customers. Orders. Deliveries. Repeat. Rachel and I dropped off more samples at the office buildings on Duke. We gave out quotes for parties. We booked two more weddings.

By Friday, I'd still heard nothing from Terry or Ralph, and my nerves surrendered to anger. Ralph owed me a damn call as did Terry, who had dropped a freaking grenade in my life and hadn't bothered to return the call. Just my luck. Shit.

So I decided to take the bull by the horns. I went out to the back alley behind the Dumpster and called Ralph, the lesser of the two evils. I got his secretary first, who put me on hold. I wasn't sure if she was going to put the call through when Ralph got on the line.

“Daisy,” he said. “I am so sorry I've not called you. It's been a damn nightmare here.”

I forced a smile in my voice. “Hey, I know you've got to be swamped but I'm getting to the point where I either commit to you or the home business.” And that was true. I couldn't keep accepting orders and marketing if I intended to bolt.

“It's been a bitch getting the board of directors together so we can look at your resume.”

The committee hadn't even looked at my resume? I'm not sure why that would have caused me to snap but it did. I was damn tired of being ignored and though I couldn't do something about Terry, I could handle Ralph. “Ralph, take my name out of the hat. I don't want the job.”

“Daisy, it's just a matter of days.”

Maybe. Maybe not. “Either way, I appreciate the offer but I'm staying put.”

“You're sure?”

No. “Yes.”

“If you change your mind . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Thanks.”

Carefully I closed the phone and kicked the Dumpster in a rush of frustration. “Damn. Damn. Damn.”

“You interview for a job?” Margaret's voice echoed through the alley.

I started and turned and found her holding a bag of trash. Her expression was a mixture of shock and disbelief. “I just turned it down.”

“Why?”

I pressed my phone against my temple. “Because I have lost my mind.”

“Did you have a shot at it?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

I shoved out a breath. “Because the guy I interviewed with was supposed to call me back and he didn't and I just kind of decided if he didn't have the manners to call he could bite it.”

Margaret crossed to the Dumpster and tossed in the trash. “Let me guess. You called Terry and she didn't call you back.”

“How did you know?”

“You can't get a hold of her so you're going to hammer the next closest person—interview guy.”

I shoved fingers through my hair. “Crap. I just gave up a dream job.”

“Dreamier than this place?” she said with a smile.

“If the Smithsonian came to you with curator position, would you take it?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Well, I just passed on a job like that.”

Worry creased her forehead as the analogy took root. “Maybe if you call him back, you could tell him you went insane for a minute or two.”

“I thought you wanted me to stay.”

“If it's the Smithsonian of the finance world, I can't keep you from that.”

“Thanks. That means a lot.” I swallowed a lump in my throat. “But I'm supposed to be here. I don't know why, but I am.”

We stood there for a few minutes, saying nothing. Around the rumble of car engines, the blare of a police siren and rush of wind swirled around us.

“On a lighter note,” Margaret said, “I've been reading Sally's letters.”

I softened the edges of my voice. “What have you found?”

“You're probably not going to like it.”

I sighed. “Try me.”

“In the earliest letters, the girl mentions missing her mother often. She wishes she could see and hold her mother again. She was homesick for Virginia.”

My stomach burned with frustration. I did not want to feel so awful. “Sally was from Alexandria.”

“She never said exactly where, and I've found no record of her.” Margaret leaned against the brick wall of the bakery and folded her arms over her chest. “But that's not a huge surprise. Lots of people vanished into history.”

“Anything else?”

“She speaks of her studies and of Jenna's health, which improves and slides with the seasons. No more mention of Susie.”

“Why would she talk more about Susie?”

“I don't know. Just thought she would. The trail on Susie went cold shortly before Sally's first letter.”

“And the trail on Terry is cold.” The irony of the whole mess was not lost on me. I couldn't connect with a birth mother or a damn kid from the past.

“Have you talked to Mom? I mean, she's been pretty cool about this whole Terry thing.”

“I know I should. She is chomping at the bit about the whole thing. But I need neutral. I need Switzerland. A place without drama or emotion.”

A breeze teased the whips of hair framing her face. “I can see that.”

“I don't have too many options.”

“Florence?” she suggested.

“The nephews have arrived.”

“I saw movers hauling furniture and boxes out. And when I caught glimpses of her in the front window, she was always talking to someone.”

I thought about the photo of Mabel and her nephew Thomas, who had eyes like mine. Dead Thomas. I wondered if there was another nephew who looked like me? Maybe I should go back and introduce myself.

That's when I decided I was losing it.

“You got any friends?” Margaret said.

I laughed. “You mean other than Tammy?”

She rolled her eyes. “Right. I forgot. You didn't make that many friends in high school.”

Perhaps it was my lack of choices that made me think about Gordon. “Mind if I take a break? I've mixed all your icings so you've got all you need for the cakes.”

“I got this,” she said.

“Rachel should have the girls settled from school in the next half hour, and she'll help finish up.”

“I got this.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

I walked quickly up Union Street but slowed my pace when I saw the new bike shop sign dangling above the brick building's door.

Through the big picture window now displaying bikes, I could see Gordon standing behind his counter surrounded by dozens of half-opened boxes. He was talking on his cell phone and gauging by the frown wrinkling his forehead he didn't look happy. Good. We were a matched set.

I pushed through the front door, wincing as a doorbell jangled. Two rows of bikes took up a good chunk of the room. A neon sign in the back blinked
RACE
. A poster on the wall featured a Tour de France rider blazing through a field of sunflowers.

The bells caused him to lift his head. He winked and some of the ice in my chest melted. I flexed my fingers, aware I'd arrived empty-handed and I wished I'd brought something. Cookies. Cupcakes—something to give me an excuse for being here. Pushing my hands into my jeans pockets, I wondered why I felt like a teenager. As he spoke on the phone, I pretended to care about a bike hanging from the wall.

When he hung up, he ran long fingers through his hair. “Hey.”

“So who's chewing on you?” I said.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “What makes you think someone is chewing on me?”

“You run your hands through your hair when you are upset. And right now your hair is standing on top of your head, Gordon. What gives? And don't lie, I know you.”

That coaxed a grin. “Attorneys.”

“Good ones or bad ones? And yes, there are both kinds in the world.”

“Good ones, for now. They represent Suburban in a lawsuit from a former client.”

It made sense that some of Suburban's clients would eventually sue. Billions had been lost while Gordon had been at the helm. “Do they represent you?”

“That was my question.”

“And?”

The frown returned. “Still waiting on that one.”

“Who is suing?” And then I held up my hand. “Let me guess. Consolidated, Travers, or Carpone.” I'd just rattled off the three biggest losers in the market crash.

“Travers. And they want a pound of flesh.”

I sighed. Everyone had been advised of the risks and still they'd kept their very big bets on the table. They'd known that Gordon's lucky streak, like even the best poker players', could end at any time. But they kept letting their bets ride. “The president at Travers is trying to save face with his board.”

“You were always clear with him about the risks and you stayed within the client's investment guidelines.” Which was true. Gordon had never sugarcoated the fact that he was a high-stakes gambler.

“Thanks for saying that. It's good to hear. Sometimes it's hard to get past all the losses.”

“The market went sour. A lot of people got burned.” I'd been one of those who'd been burned and yet here I stood, consoling him.

“I might have talked about risks but I was arrogant. A decade of winning made me believe I was flameproof, and I got scorched.”

Talking about Suburban three months ago would have really ramped up my blood pressure. The losses, the work, and the people were all still so fresh in my mind. The time at the bakery, however, had given me some distance. I'd transformed from a fast-burning fuse into a slower version. “You and half the industry. Yep, you fucked up, Gordon. No secret there. You took risks and lost. But it's time to come down off the cross.”

He frowned. “I'm not on the cross.”

“Oh, please. You are so up on the cross. If that winter bike trip wasn't penitence, then I don't know what is. Fact, let's face it. You've been up there for a couple of years.”

He frowned. “Not true.”

I'd cracked open a door that I'd wanted to open for a long time. Even if I could have taken back my last words and slammed the door closed, I wouldn't. “All those nights you worked late. The missed meals. The weekend dates we had that always fell apart. When I tried to talk to you about all that, you called me ungrateful and childish. Once, you even said that if I really understood, I'd back off.”

His brow furrowed as if he recalled the incident. “You left shortly after that comment.”

I was surprised he'd even remembered. “I did understand. I wanted to help. But you were determined to go it alone. I felt rejected.” Tears pooled in my eyes. “And if you haven't noticed, I don't do rejection well.”

For a long, tense moment he stared at me. “I never wanted you to leave.”

“I couldn't stay. I felt so useless.”

“You were never useless.”

I swiped away a tear. “Yes, I was.”

“No, you weren't, Daisy. If not for you, I'd never have made it that last year. I'm sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah. I really, really am.”

I'd had dozens of reasons, which rationalized our breakup. Now it seemed they all could have been neutralized with a simple conversation.

I should have just pushed and used this moment of openness to air out all our past grievances. But I did what I did best: I backed away from the problem. “Well, that level of deep was not what I expected when I came today. Honestly.”