Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) (25 page)

“Really? You don't look hungry. You look like someone just walked on your grave.” She flipped the picture over. “Ruth and John Samson, 1902, on their wedding day. They must be Mabel's parents.”

I took the picture from my sister and studied the stern line of John's face. Mabel looked a good deal like her father. She had his firm jaw.

Setting the picture aside, I pulled another picture from the box. This time it was a very old photo of a man. In his mid-thirties, he stared directly into the camera, his gaze hard and defiant as any prizefighter's. I traced the line of his jaw and the bridge of his crooked nose, which appeared to have been broken a couple of times. His clenched hands rested in his lap, and his back was ramrod straight.

My breath caught in my throat and I glanced toward the shadows. Whatever had been there was gone . . . and he was also the guy in this photo. “Who is this guy?” I flipped over the picture but there was no inscription.

“I dunno,” Margaret said.

The more I stared at it the more certain I was that he was the ghost who wasn't happy with me. But why the heck should he care about me? What the hell had I done to a dude who had been dead for more than a hundred years?

“This guy gives me the creeps.”

“Why? He's been dead over 150 years.”

“If I told you he might be haunting our house, would you think I'd gone off the deep end?”

“Seriously?”

“Totally.”

Her eyes brightened. “Then I'd say way cool and I'd start digging into mystery man's past ASAP.”

Hugo nodded. “So cool.”

Within the half hour, we three were exhausted and hungry (me more than the other two) and we found our way into Florence's kitchen. After washing our hands and faces, the four of us sat down to a feast of fried steaks, mashed potatoes, biscuits, and green beans that looked like they'd been cooking since yesterday. There wasn't a fresh vegetable or lean protein in sight and I'd faint if I analyzed the fat grams.

But it was a hot meal, something I'd not had in weeks and I was so hungry I promised yet again that tomorrow would be different as I bit into my first creamy bite of potatoes.

The dinner conversation started with Hugo, who after some prompting said he was working on a dissertation on George Washington. Margaret argued that he should have picked a topic that hadn't been covered so extensively but Hugo remained steadfast and determined to shed light on our country's first president.

Florence turned the conversation to Margaret. “Baby, you ever find a use for those conversations you had with Mabel?”

“For the longest time I had no idea what to do with them. And then you gave Daisy Susie's journal and we embarked on this historical adventure. I'm not sure how all the dots connect, but I think I've got the makings of a great dissertation.” She poked her fork in what remained of her fried steak. “I really thought this dissertation was the end of me and I'd never get it right. Now I just know that I'm on track.”

Florence piled another heaping spoon of mashed potatoes on her plate as she said, “Well, you kids can dig in this house as much as you can until the nephews arrive. There just might be more stuff up in the attic.”

“That would be great,” Margaret said.

Florence spooned mashed potatoes on my plate. “And how do you like working in that bakery, Miss Daisy?”

“It's not bad. I'm getting the hang of it. Like Margaret, I've got an idea sparking. A website. An online store. More catering. There's so much I can do, it's just a matter of time and money.”

Margaret stared at me with a mixture of shock and admiration. “I didn't know you were getting into the business thing so much.”

“If you're not moving forward, you're falling back,” I said.

She nodded and pushed bits of steak around her plate. “So Florence, we found these pictures of Mabel's parents, John and Ruth.”

Florence sipped her sweet tea. “She didn't know her folks so well. They died when she was young and she was raised mostly by her grandmother.”

“Do you know anything about them?”

“No. I asked her a couple of times but it seemed to pain her. Seems they were madly in love and when Ruth died, John couldn't hold on. He died about a year later.”

Margaret set her fork down. “Could we come back on Sunday?”

“Sure,” Florence said.

Hugo had to beg off, something about a trip to Virginia Beach. But when Margaret's gaze locked on mine, I grinned. “Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

Chapter Fifteen

B
y Saturday afternoon when we flipped the
OPEN
sign to
CLOSED
, my body and head throbbed. We'd had very brisk business the last few days, and though we weren't even close to paying off my loan, hitting break-even would count as a victory in my book.

As Rachel cleaned out the cases, I retreated to the office to tally the money. An hour later, she was in my doorway. Her apron off and draped over her shoulder, her hair hung loose around her shoulders. “How does it look, boss?”

“Better. And please don't call me ‘boss.'”

She strolled into the office and took a seat by my desk. “You are the boss, babe. Own it. Love it.”

A small part of me resented being the one thrust into the leadership position. Why me? “We covered our costs this week.”

Rachel shoved her hands in the air and gave out a hoot of laughter. “Score!”

“That's hardly getting rich,” I cautioned.

Her eyes danced with excitement. “No, but it's better than sliding into the depths of financial hell, as we had been.”

“True. But we're going to have to start generating more dough. No pun. Have you considered catering?”

“Sure, I've thought about it a lot. The corporate sector pays well. But I've just not had the time to market. The extra wedding cakes have been about all I can handle.”

“We're going to have to make the time.” I glanced at the calendar on my desk; it was the same one that had sat on my desk at Suburban Enterprises and was my record of everything—including the very empty months of February and March. Flour and sugar distributors had replaced investment committees and conference calls, but the white boxes marking the days were again filled with notes and meetings. “Tuesdays are our slow days.”

“I'd agree.”

“Good. Then next Tuesday, we're hitting the streets with trays of cookies. There are several large office buildings on Duke. If we could drop off samples with cards, we might get lucky.”

She sat back and threaded her fingers together in her lap. “Mike had just started marketing before he died, but afterward I'd never had the nerve or the time.”

“I've got more than enough nerve.” I was good at sales and hearing no from strangers didn't bother me.

“After lunch is a great time. People are craving that sugar fix and it's our slow time of day.”

“Cookies?”

“Why don't I make some magic with my apple cakes. I froze them after bridezilla left. They are just waiting to be iced and eaten.”

“Good thinking. Are they all apple flavored?”

“Chocolate, vanilla, and apple spice. Flavors to temp all taste buds.”

It felt good to be planning and not just reacting. “So we hit the offices next Tuesday at two.”

She rubbed her hands together. “I'll ice them with something sinful.”

“Make it extra sinful. I'm looking to create a full-on addiction with these folks.”

“That I can do. I've got a chocolate icing that is very, very good.”

“I will leave that to you. My job is to scrounge some kind of brochure or card. The quick-print place can help me out.”

She pressed her hands together. “What about Mom and Dad? They could help cover ground.”

“I thought about them. But since this is our first time, we'll go it alone. Just to test the waters. We'll get them to hold down the fort here.”

She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. The gesture was pure Mom, and it struck me how much she'd inherited from Mom not just in looks, but also in mannerisms. But I had Mom's mannerisms, too. Our hardwiring was different, but we both shared a love of a good kosher pickle. We both were a little OCD about making sure the back door was locked at night. And we both weren't afraid to do whatever it took to care for this family.

“Point taken. Mom can talk way too much.”

“Just a little.”

She pressed her long fingers against her thighs and pushed up to a standing position. “So what are you doing tomorrow afternoon?”

“Running errands and then digging through Florence's attic again with Margaret.”

“You two are a regular Thelma and Louise.”

I shrugged. “It's kinda cool seeing a more human side of Margaret. You can come with us if you like.”

“Thanks, but Sunday is my day with the girls. We're going to the park. Then it's our favorite DVD of the month,
Beauty and the Beast
, and ice cream. A kick back, no-agenda kind of day.”

“Enjoy.”

“Why don't you call Gordon? See if he's up for an attic adventure.” She wagged her eyebrows in such an obvious and goofy way that I had to laugh.

“Maybe I will.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure.”

She cocked her head. “You're not going to call him.”

“I might.” But I wouldn't. Not because I didn't want to see him, but because I didn't want to get into why I hadn't called Terry.

“Well, all right, sister.” She tossed a last grin and left.

In the silence of the office, I thought about Gordon. I wanted to see him. In fact, I'd thought about him a lot in the last few days. No, I'd not called Terry but why should that get in the way of me seeing Gordon? I'd put enough of my life on hold because of my birth mother and it was time I broke the habit. Before I overanalyzed the situation too much, I pulled my cell from my back pocket and fired off a text.

Rachel just pulled out a batch of chocolate chip cookies. Any takers?

Rachel had pulled out a batch a couple of hours ago and they really were sinful. I hit Send and set the phone on my desk, determined not to stare at the screen like a fool.

When a message blinked back seconds later, I grinned, more pleased than I should be.
“Can't. HUGE deadline. Rain check?”

Typical Gordon. Business first. And as an admitted workaholic, I couldn't fault him for that.
“Yes.”

“Terry?”

“Not yet.”

“Bad girl.”

“True. But still eating chocolate chip cookies.”

The cursor blinked once and then twice.
“Have a few for me.”

Smiling, I texted,
“Will do.”

I rose and pulled off my apron. As I hung it on the back of my office door, a cold burst of air shot across the room and swirled around me. For a moment, I stood very still as goose bumps puckered the skin on my arms. A glass of water on my desk tipped to the floor and shattered. Images of mystery man's stern gaze flashed in my mind, and I had the distinct sense he was really pissed.

Since we'd left Florence's on Thursday, Margaret hadn't had time to do much historical digging. Her two day jobs had taken up most of her waking moments, but she'd promised to dig up what she could early next week.

“Hello?” I said.

My heart pulsed in my chest as I waited for what I did not know. When nothing happened, I felt just a little damn foolish. I was talking to thin air. Ghosts, no less.

Chuckling at the absurdity of the moment, I turned to leave when my cell phone rang. I jumped, startled by the sound. “Union Street Bakery.”

“Daisy?”

“Yes.” I'd answered by personal phone as if it belonged to the bakery.

“It's Brad Foster.”

I released a breath. “Brad. How did those carrot cake cupcakes go over at your party?”

“A huge hit. In fact, it got us all to talking about you. Were your ears burning?”

“Like an inferno.” I laughed. “I hope it was all good stuff.”

“Absolutely. In fact, Ralph Denton was there. He worked with us and now he's at United Capital.”

“Got himself a sweet deal. Equities, right?” I liked Ralph and was glad he'd landed on his feet.

“Not much gets past you.”

That information was over two months old. Ask me what had happened in finance last week and I'd have been at a loss. “So why the call?”

“Ralph wants to talk to you about a job. He's looking for a marketer. He'll have his hands full managing the funds but he'd like someone who knows the business selling his product.”

“Really?” God, but I wanted out of this bakery and this life right now.

“Got a pencil and paper?”

I grabbed a pen from my desk and uncapped it. “Shoot.”

Brad rattled off Ralph's new information and I scribbled it down. Ralph was looking to move fast, according to Brad. I was to give Ralph a call and set something up for next week.

“You are going to call him?”

“Sure, why not, sounds great.”

“Good. Let me know how it goes.”

“Will do.”

I hung up the phone and sat down to my computer. I switched it back on and waited for it to reboot and then searched out Ralph and United. I could feel the blood pumping in my veins as I read through the company information. God, this gig sounded like it would be perfect for me. I could so take this company to the next level.

My mind still buzzing, I called Ralph. We exchanged pleasantries and set a date for Tuesday evening. It was one of the rare moments during the week that I had off and Ralph said he was working just about twenty-four/seven these days so the late time worked for him.

I hung up the phone, my hands tingling. My chair squeaked as I leaned back and stared at the ceiling. This kind of job would pay good money. I'd get benefits. A paycheck every two weeks and not have to worry about water heaters and old mixers. It was all perfect.

Except. I'd made a promise to my family to run this business. Suddenly, I felt like a creep and a traitor and every variety of pond scum. How could I leave Rachel and Margaret? Weren't they depending on me? They needed a manager.

A manager. If I got the job at United, I'd be living in a less emotionally charged place, but I'd be making good money and I could hire a manager and pay them out of my own pocket. My heart raced faster. Maybe we could have our cake and eat it, too.