Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) (28 page)

“Not really.”

Margaret pushed past me and weaved through the boxes toward the back wall. “It would be so cool if he showed today. So cool.”

She'd yet to feel the thickening of the air, the rush of adrenaline and a racing heart as she pulled in a breath. “Yeah, cool.” Crouching, I followed. “So where do we start this time?”

“Like all good archaeologists. The top layer.” She set her light down on a box and opened the one next to it. “We'll start with a general sort. See what's in the boxes. If it's of general interest, we'll dig a little deeper. If it makes the cut, we'll haul it downstairs.”

It was a plan, and I can do anything if I had a plan. Logic. Numbers. Plans. That was me. “Tell me what to do, boss.”

Margaret raised her head and smiled. “Boss. I do love the sound of that.”

There were only a few times in my life that I'd really appreciated Margaret. She had, after all, been put on this earth to torture me. But in this moment, I did appreciate her. I'd be a little bewildered without her. And life was never quite as interesting when she wasn't around. “Don't let it swell your head.”

“No. Never.” She dropped her gaze to the box and began to plow through what looked like clothes. Not ancient clothes but like a- couple-of-decades-old clothes. “This box is a no; 1960s stuff. We want much older.” She handed me the box. “Put it on the other side of the attic. We want to be methodical about this.”

I took the box. “Margaret and methodical. I never would have thought I could use those two words together.”

“Hey, you see me at my worst every morning. Most nights I'm up till two doing real work, and then I have to drag my carcass out of the bed to ring that register. Not my best time.”

“It's a paycheck.”

She snorted. “Believe me, there are better ways to earn a living.”

I raised a brow. “Then why do you do it?”

For a moment, her hands stilled. “Same reason as you, Rachel, Mom, and Dad. You and I are more alike than you realize.”

An uneasy knot formed in my gut. “Please.”

“We've both given up lives we loved to work in the bakery.”

“I lost my job.”

“Don't bullshit me or yourself. If you'd really wanted to stay in the industry, you could have gone to another city. There is work out there, but you're not willing to relocate. You are tied to this area, like it or not.” She rummaged through the next box and closed it. “This is a no. More '60s shit.”

I put the box aside. “I'm not saying you're right about me. But you're not exactly wrong, either. If ever I got back into the industry, I'd stay local.”

“If ever?” she said.

“Just saying.”

If not for the attic's treasures, she might have picked up on the guilty tension rising in my body. Interviewing with Ralph was feeling akin to adultery.

But she was too lost in the past and kept digging into boxes and rejecting them. After about thirty minutes, I could feel the sweat trickling down my back and the dense, dusty air clinging to my skin.

“So how is it that Mabel would have had Susie's diary? I haven't seen the connection.”

“Remember, this is the Randolph house. More than likely, Susie hid the diary and someone along the way found it. Maybe it was Mabel.”

“Okay. Then what is the connection to us? It's got to be more than she liked the bakery's sweet buns.”

“I think that is the puzzle Mabel has left for us.”

I brushed my hair out of my eyes with the back of my hand. “Why not just tell us?”

“Where is the fun in that?”

“Would she really do that? Turn this into a game?”

“Maybe. Maybe she figured you wouldn't sit and listen to what she said but you'd care more if you had to dig. Maybe she just couldn't remember as well as she used to. Who knows?”

Despite it all, the search grew boring for me over the next hour. My back hurt and I was getting hungry. Margaret, on the other hand, was energized despite the mountain of misses. If I'd been alone, I'd have given up by the third box, but with her I was willing to stick it out—if not for my sake then for hers.

Twenty minutes and five boxes later, Margaret let out a low whistle that had me turning. “What does that mean?”

“It means I just found a box of letters that date back to the nineteenth century. They are from a woman named Sally Good, and she's writing the letters to Shaun McCrae.”

“Our Shaun?”

“It's addressed to McCrae Bakery.”

“Sally Good, the woman he married.”

She tapped her finger on the side of the wooden box. “That is correct.”

“How did they get here?”

“I don't know. Yet.” Gingerly, she thumbed through the collection of yellowed envelopes. “I don't think I can get back to my office fast enough to read these.”

“Don't forget that Mabel's nephews are rolling into town this week. This might be our only chance to dig and get what we can. Is there anything else in this area? That might be the first of several items.”

“Good point. You're thinking like an archaeologist now. Very good.”

“I like to think I can adapt.” My energy returning, I held out my hands for the box. “Give that to me and keep digging.”

We rummaged for another two hours but most of what we found was furniture, knickknacks, lanterns, and picture frames.

When we came down the attic stairs after too many dusty hours, we'd hauled down all the boxes we'd inspected and then found Florence sitting at the kitchen table sipping her lemonade. She'd changed into a blue housecoat and traded her white low heels for house slippers. A small television on the kitchen counter blared a televangelist's sermon. When the floorboards creaked under our feet, she glanced up from the screen.

With a groan, she pushed to her feet. “I was thinking you two might have gotten lost up there.”

“Lots of stuff up there,” I said. “We hauled down a good many boxes and left them in the hallway.”

“Good. Got to be a lot. There's a lifetime or two of memories.” Florence's gaze dropped to the box in Margaret's hands. “Looks like you found something.”

“We did,” I said. “A box of letters from a woman named Sally Good.”

Florence shook her head. “Can't say as I know that name.”

“We've not had time to read them,” Margaret said. “But we think she was the woman who married our great-great-grandfather.”

Dark brows rose in interest. “That so?”

Margaret's blue shirt was covered in dust and sweat. I glanced in the glass-paneled door and caught a hint of my reflection. Like Margaret, I looked like I'd been dragged through the mud. My hair stuck up and my shirt was covered in dirt smudges. We resembled Thelma and Louise after their lives had gone wrong.

“I was hoping you would allow us to take them back to the center so we can read them properly,” Margaret said.

“Keep them for all I care,” she said. “Those nephews are gonna toss or sell what's in this house, and I'd rather know that they went to someone who cares about them.”

“Thanks,” I said. I thought about all that was up in that attic. “When did you say the boys were coming?”

“Tuesday.”

“I don't think we'll be able to get by again,” I said.

Margaret knitted her hands as if in prayer. “Yeah. Darn.”

“Well, if they happen to haul anything down of interest, I'll pull it aside.”

“Thanks,” Margaret said.

“I do appreciate it.”

“Mabel wanted you digging for a reason, so it seems right I should help if I can.” She clapped her hands together. “Now, let me get you girls lemonade and sandwiches. You've got to be hungry. Maybe you could read me one of those letters.”

My stomach grumbled.

Florence laughed. “Sit yourselves down.”

As Florence poured the lemonade, I watched as Margaret gingerly pulled out a letter. The faded ivory envelope was yellowed around the edges and the pages crinkled when she pulled out the first page.

“I really shouldn't be touching this,” she said. “I should have gloves.”

“I got my white church gloves,” Florence offered as she stirred the lemonade in the glass pitcher.

“Actually, that would be great,” Margaret said.

“In my handbag, by the front door. They're lying right on top.”

Margaret glanced at me as if to say,
You do it
. My knee-jerk response was to argue but she'd earned big-time brownie points so I headed down the hallway. I spotted the white patent leather purse on a small mahogany table by the door and the gloves draped over it. As I snatched up the gloves, I happened to glimpse a picture of Mabel taken with a young man. The photo looked to have been taken in the early '60s. Mabel stood straight, and her dark hair was teased high on her head. She wore funky catlike glasses and a flowered dress. She would have been in her mid to early fifties when the photo was snapped. My gaze drifted to the guy who was in his mid-twenties, wore a checkered short-sleeved shirt and short hair parted on the right. Tall and lanky, he had his arm around Mabel and was grinning.

I'm not sure what it was about him that caught my attention but I found myself leaning in for a better look. His hair was as dark as mine, and his skin had an olive tint. As I looked at him, I had the odd sensation that I was looking at myself. This wasn't the first time this had happened to me, so instantly my guard rose. I did not want to start daydreaming about how another stranger might somehow be related to me. I didn't need that drama.

Irritated, I turned from the photo and carried the gloves into the kitchen.

Impatience and annoyance snapped in Margaret's eyes. “Did you get lost?”

I had, when I'd stared into eyes that had reminded me of me. “Sorry.”

The weak attempt at an apology grabbed Margaret's attention. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah, sure.” Florence handed me the lemonade and before I thought to ask I said, “Who is in that picture with Mabel by the front door?”

“The young man with that checked shirt?”

“Yeah.” Today the lemonade tasted bitter.

“That's one of her nephews. Thomas. He was one of her favorites.”

“Was Thomas in for the funeral?”

“No. Thomas passed about ten years ago. Had a heart attack, I think. He has a sister but she didn't come to the funeral.”

Disappointment slammed and bounced around my chest. I had never met this guy, and I still felt as if I'd lost something. Stupid. “So let's have a look at that letter.”

Margaret seemed to understand that something was up but she didn't say a word. Instead she slipped on the far-too-large gloves, pulled the letter out of the envelope, and gently opened it. Paper creaked and cracked.

April 3, 1856

Dear Mr. McCrae,

I've decided that I am not well suited for boarding school. The girls here continue to be far too silly, and I've no desire to sit and stitch for hours on end. I am doing as you advised and keeping my thoughts to myself but my frustration bubbles when the other girls giggle at my cross-stitch patterns. The world is full of far more important issues than the petty dramas that erupt in dance or French lessons.

Jenna continues to thrive and she seems to love her art classes the most. I do worry about the spring cold that she caught. Though she is mended now, it took her some time to recover. Do not tell her I've told you this. She does not want you worrying about her.

How does work at the bakery progress? Will you be buying that new oven? How is Hennie doing? Does she still miss her Susie? My heart goes out to her. Tell her I understand her loss, and that I too miss my own mother terribly. Send her my love. Please send word of real news soon.

Your friend,

Sally

“Susie,” I said. “Sally knew Susie and Hennie.”

Margaret laid the letter down. “Remember Mabel said her grandmother told her stories about a young slave girl?”

Keeping all the family connections straight was a challenge. “Sally was Mabel's grandmother, and Mabel is a distant cousin of ours.”

“I don't know,” Margaret said. “She never said a word to me about family connections. And Mom and Dad never said anything, either.”

“Well, Dad never talks about family. Losing his dad was painful so he just avoided the whole family tree thing altogether,” I said. And if Mom knew something she'd never really mentioned it. She knew I was a bit touchy when it came to discussing past relations seeing as I didn't know mine.

We both reread the letter. “It sounds like Sally lost or had been separated from her mother, and that she understood what Hennie might be feeling.”

Susie. Jenna. Sally. All girls who'd lost their mothers. Like me.

Their losses made me take a hard look at mine. I could contact mine. She'd written me a letter—and I hadn't done a damn thing about it but whine and worry. It was time to stop and rip the Band-Aid off. There was a woman out there who had answers, and I was ignoring her because I was afraid. Suddenly, my fear smelled like a big load of bullshit.

An hour later, I left the letters with an excited Margaret in her apartment and made my way back to the bakery. After a quick check of inventory and supplies, I headed up to my room and dug Terry's letter out of the box where I'd stashed it weeks ago.

It wasn't like me to run from trouble. In fact, I was the kid who ran
toward
it. My coworkers at Suburban often said Daisy never met a problem she didn't like to ratchet up.

And here I'd been acting like the small child on the bakery patio eating her cookie and waiting more and more desperately for her mother to return.

As carefully as Margaret opened Sally's letter, I opened Terry's letter. My hands trembled and my breath grew shallow as I read the words:
Thirty years ago . . .