Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) (12 page)

“Hey, don't you want to read it?” Margaret asked. All traces of humor had vanished from her voice.

“I've had all the history I can stomach for today.”

“Then why don't you let me take that pesky book off your hands and I'll take it back to the center, where I can read it carefully? I'll have a full report for you in the morning.”

“No. Sorry. But I don't want to deal with anything extra or out of the ordinary right now.” A counselor had once told me that negative emotions collected in us like droppings in a litter box. If I didn't keep the box scooped and let emotions build up, the stench would drive me out of the house. My litter box had driven me out of the bakery seventeen years ago. And out of Gordon's life.

I realized my litter box was once again full.

The problem was that I just didn't know how to scoop it out.

Chapter Seven

I
was in the center of a cornfield. The stalks were tall and thick and everything was so green and so identical. I began to push through the thick stalks, which brushed against my skin. The air grew hotter, heavier, and was so suffocating that panic rose into my chest. I moved faster and faster, hoping if I could just keep moving I'd find my way home. But all I saw were stalks, which now scraped against my face and arms. Dread thickened with the foliage until finally, I couldn't put one more foot in front of the other.

Helpless, I stopped and buried my face in my hands.

“Mom.” The word rose in my throat but remained unspoken.

And then a little girl's unexpected laughter drifted and danced on a cool breeze, skimming the top of the stalks. Like wind chimes or the jingle of Christmas bells, the joyous sound soothed the ache in my chest.

I swiped fingers over my moist cheeks. “Hello?”

More laughter drifted and floated around me. “Daisy. Daisy. Daisy.”

I searched the dense field. “Where are you?”

The little girl giggled. “Star bright, starlight. I wish I may. I wish I might.”

I listened. “I can't see you.”

And then she emerged from the stalks. She wore a simple blue cotton dress that brushed knobby knees and tight braids that accentuated bright skin and shining green eyes, the color of spring grass. “Daisy. Daisy. Daisy.”

My name had a singsong quality that coaxed away the remaining loneliness. “Who are you?”

“You remember me.”

“I don't.”

She giggled. “Look closer.”

Her round face was familiar, and in a flash, I remembered.

•   •   •

The alarm shrilled at 3:30
A.M.
on day three, and I jerked awake and sat bolt upright in the bed. Brushing the hair from my eyes, I stared into the darkness and struggled to get my bearings. My heart pounded and for a terrifying moment, I didn't recognize anything. As the seconds ticked by, my rattled brain cleared and identified what was now becoming the familiar. The unpacked boxes, the garbage bags full of clothes, and the books that I'd yet to even unpack.

I was still in the attic, and it was yet again dark outside. Always up before dawn, a baker's life was bathed in shadows.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I buried my face in my hands. As I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, a breeze from the window blew cold gusts across the back of my neck. A shiver snaked down my spine.

Shuddering, I rose and shuffled in socked feet across the wooden floor toward the window, ready to secure the latch when I discovered it was locked tight. I searched for a hole or crack, knowing old homes shift, separate, and often give way. But this window was airtight. Fresh caulking proved Dad had been in the room recently, mending and fixing.

How many things had Dad had to fix and tinker with over the years to keep this home and business afloat? I'd not given his puttering much thought until yesterday when the new hot water heater in the kitchen went on the fritz. I'd stared haplessly at the round heater for several minutes and all but begged it to start working again. No hot water meant no clean hands, which meant trouble with the health department. I'd thought about calling Dad but had been determined to keep him out of the loop and away from stress as much as possible. Finally, frustrated and angry, I'd whacked the heater once or twice with the flat of my hand. To my great relief the heater had started to hum again. I'd accepted the miracle, which would buy me time while I searched for a warranty. I had the sinking feeling that whatever underlying problems lurked inside the steel drum would return.

I ran my hand over the windowpanes one last time. Secure. Whatever chill had found its way into the room had come from somewhere else. For a moment my skin prickled and puckered and I had the sensation that I wasn't alone. It was almost as if someone was standing right behind me, just centimeters away. My heartbeat quickened and I turned around and searched the dark. Of course I was alone.

Turning from the window, I moved back toward my bed. I had enough real problems on my hands to worry about. Phantom gusts of air and dark tingly sensations would have to move to the back of the line. The dough waited.

Dressing and then slipping my feet into worn clogs, I started toward the bathroom. As I reached the sink, another breeze blew across the room and the skin on the back of my neck tingled more. I glared back at the window but the curtains lay still against the panes.

I was alone. I could see that with my own eyes. But still I got the sense that someone was there, lurking in the shadows, staring at me.

Since I was a kid, the stairs leading to the third floor had squeaked and groaned with each footfall. I'd always considered the quirk my personal early warning system. Like NORAD, the missile defense system in Colorado, my creaking steps warned when sisters and parents approached.

But this sensation was different. This sensation burrowed down to my bones.

For several seconds I stared into the shadows, waiting—for what I didn't know. The inky darkness danced and swayed along the edges of the wall, moving in time to an imaginary song I couldn't hear. I leaned closer, squinted, waited. My heart thumped. And then at the edge of the darkness, I saw the outline of a man.

Most would have freaked at such a sight, but for reasons I couldn't explain I stood my ground. The man's black hair was combed back and accentuated dark and expressive eyes. His partial grin revealed crooked, small teeth. His dark suit appeared hand tailored as did his shirt and vest.

He shook his head.

I shook mine. “Do I know you?”

He stared as if assessing me. And for reasons I could not fathom, I sensed I came up short in his book.

I dug my fingers through my hair. “What's this about?”

He eased toward me, assessing.

“This is about the journal?”

He nodded.

“I didn't read it last night. I was too tired and annoyed. I suppose you're here to tell me not to read it.”

The man's expression darkened and the shadows around us thickened. The walls undulated and moaned, and suddenly the air in the room smelled of rotting eggs.

Fear dug into my gut and triggered a set of worries I never had considered. I'd never been afraid of any bump or squeak in the night in my attic room, but I was now. “Just leave.”

For seconds, maybe minutes, we stood staring at each other. And in the next instant, he was gone.

My heart thumped in my chest as my breathing quickened. I felt as confined and afraid as I had in the cornfield.

The presence's essence was filled with enough anger and fury to send fear snaking up my spine. Several books piled high on a table tumbled to the floor, making me jump. This presence wanted me to leave.

And that pissed me off.

A sane person would have gotten the hell out of the attic. But I was too tired and annoyed to heed common sense.

“Get the hell out of my room. When I leave, it'll be on my terms.” My hoarse whisper bounced against dark walls and seemed to boomerang back to me.

Get the hell out of my room.

I clenched chilled fingertips and swallowed. Seconds ticked as watching eyes stared at me.

“Beat it.”

The air thickened and then in a blink cleared. Whatever it was had gone. The shadows lightened as the clouds covering the moon drifted away.

For a second I wasn't sure what to think. My heart was pounding and my hands sweaty. I'd never felt unwelcome in this house, but I did now.

•   •   •

Ike the deliveryman stared at the Union Street Bakery check I'd just handed him. “How many days do I have to hold it?” In his mid-forties, Ike had a thick muscled body created from years of heavy lifting; dark, thinning hair, and a square face. His brown scuffed boots were clean, his uniform crisp, and his belt buckle actually shone. Judging by the body language, I guessed he was ex-army or Marines.

“You could try to cash it tomorrow, but waiting two would be best,” I said.

“You do understand that your sister hasn't paid a bill in months.”

“Her last check to you was December 1 of last year. I know she's way behind on the bills, Ike. But I'm not my sister. I'm back to run the business and see that our bills get paid on time.”

He raised a brow.

“I know how to run a business. That check will be good in two days and we will be making our payments on time going forward.”

“How do I know that?”

“My dad never stiffed you.”

“Your sister has.”

“You won't be officially stiffed any more when that check clears. She's just a mess when it comes to the office.”

He flicked the check against his open palm. “I got bills to pay, too. I can't carry you anymore.”

“You won't. The money is good by Friday, Ike. I swear.”

He sniffed the check and studied my dark, bold signature. “I don't know.”

I'd been in a few bargaining spots before when the odds weren't in my favor. At this point, I guessed he might need us as much as we needed him. “Then give me the check back, Ike. I'll find another supplier.”

“Good luck. The word is out that Union Street Bakery is a sinking ship.”

I looked at him as if he were a multimillion-dollar investor. “Whoever said that is wrong. We might have had a bad patch but we're on the upswing. We've been here over 150 years and we'll be here another hundred.”

He shook his head as a grin played with the edges of his mouth. “You got balls, Daisy.”

“I like to think so, Ike.”

He studied me and then looked down at the check again. Finally after a heavy pause, he neatly folded the check and tucked it in his breast pocket. “If this check bounces, I'm coming back.”

“It won't bounce.” I held out my hand. “And you know where to find me. I'm not going anywhere. Believe me.”

He wrapped long rough fingers around my hand. “Your dad's handshake was always good enough for me.”

“And you'll see mine is, too.”

He nodded. “I can see you are a chip off the old block.”

I helped him unload the flour, butter, sugar, and other necessities, gave him a freshly baked pie, and watched him drive off with a fifth of the money I'd invested in the bakery.

Still, for the first time in a few days, I thought I just might be making headway. With smart, careful management, I just might turn this ship around and make a success of it.

After the morning rush, Mom pushed through the shop's front door. Sheila McCrae always prided herself on making an entrance. It wasn't enough to walk into a room, she had to make a
statement
.

Me, I could cheerfully have slipped in and out of any venue unnoticed and be perfectly happy. Not Mom. No entrance was too small for a show.

Margaret also liked the attention. If her work weren't garnering her accolades then she'd seek out negative attention—like showing up late to work with a shitty attitude. Either way, Margaret found a way to get noticed.

And though tragedy had pulled Rachel from center stage, she'd been head cheerleader in high school. Before Mike's death, she'd entered cooking contests and longed for a feature spot on the Food Network. Given a little time, Rachel would tap back into the inner showman that I did not possess.

I'd always attributed our differences to genetics.

Mom was wearing her rhinestone reading glasses, baggy jeans, and a T-shirt that read
RUNS WITH SCISSORS
. Mom did a half step and shuffled toward the counter as she hummed.

She cleaned a smudge from the display case with the hem of her T-shirt and inspected the trays. A frown creased her forehead, and I imagined her mentally rearranging the baked goods. Part of me was miffed that she was checking up on me and another part touched. Good or bad, she was always there.

“It looks like you gals had another good morning,” she said.

“Not bad,” I said.

She peered into the display case and frowned. “The sugar cookies could use a little straightening.”

I looked down. “They're fine.”

“Maybe just a little tightening up.” She started to move behind the counter when I shook my head. “Mom.”

She smiled. “What?”

I blocked her path. “What are you doing?”

“I'm going to tweak the sugar cookie display.”

“No.”

“It will just take a minute.”

“No.”

She pouted. “Daisy, I worked in this bakery before you were born.”

I sighed. “And now it's my turn.”

“Yes but—”

“Have you seen Mrs. Tillman?” I said. “How are the funeral plans progressing?”

She tossed a fleeting glance at the sugar cookies one more time and then stepped back. “She told me Mabel wanted a simple ceremony. I just wish I'd visited her more, but life just got away from me.”