Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) (31 page)

Davenport glanced at the children and then back at Rachel. She'd been told she didn't look old enough to have children, and she imagined that was what he was thinking. “See you then.”

She kept her back to them as she stood calmly and quietly until he left through the front door. He looked back through the large window-pane. She waved. Only when he walked away did she dare ask, “What does the kitchen look like?”

The girls looked at each other. “Bad,” Anna answered.

“Real bad,” Ellie said.

Rachel pushed an unsteady hand through her hair and glanced at the clock. Three
P.M.
She rushed to the front door and locked it, fearing Davenport would change his mind and return for a refund.

As she moved back across the bakery, she noted the girls' faces were filled with worry. As much as she dreaded the mess, she didn't have the heart to yell. “So we have some cleaning up to do?”

Anna nodded. “Yes. I got the broom out of the closet.”

“And I got the dustpan,” Ellie said.

“Then let's get to work.”

A knock at the front door had her tensing. Mr. Davenport had returned, no doubt rethinking the high cost of the cake. So much for paying off the electric bill.

A closer look and she was relieved to see that her latest visitor was not Davenport but a woman. The
CLOSED
sign blocked her face, but it was clear she was tall and lean. Rachel had never turned a customer away no matter how tempting . . . but it was so tempting now. She had a cake to deliver and girls to drop off at a birthday party.

But customers were money and money was a very necessary fact of life. “Girls, wipe off your hands and faces. We're going to need to hustle to get to the birthday party.”

“What about the mess?” Anna said.

“I'll get it later.” She crossed and opened the front door. The bells above her head jingled and danced as the woman in profile stared at the street, a curtain of dark hair obscuring her features. She was nicely dressed in a cream-colored suit and suede high heels. She wore a thick gold bracelet on her wrist and sported a huge diamond band on her ring finger.

“Can I help you?” Rachel said.

The woman turned and offered a chilly smile. “I hope so.”

Rachel took immediate note of the woman's trim figure, smooth olive skin, and angled chin. Gray streaks at her temples suggested she was in her fifties. But what struck Rachel the most was the woman's gray-green eyes. How many times had she seen those same eyes filled with sadness, anger and, on rare occasions, laughter?

She knew those eyes because they were Daisy's eyes.

Her sister, who had never looked like anyone in the family, who had been the odd duck, the fish out of water, now had a doppelgänger.

Anxiety clenched Rachel's spine. “You must be Terry.”

Chapter Eighteen

I
was surprised to see a customer in the store a half hour after closing. I knew Rachel had a birthday party with the girls and she'd been adamant about closing on time. The instant I pushed through the front door and saw the strain on Rachel's face, I knew something was wrong. Her expression mirrored the one she had at Mike's funeral. It was one of grief, anger, and dread.

My gaze flickered to the threat: the tall, nicely dressed woman who stood with her back to me. Instantly, fire stoked in my belly as I drew in a breath ready to battle this woman, whoever she might be. “What's up, Rachel?”

The woman turned and for a moment my mind did not register what I saw.

“Daisy.” Rachel's voice held the controlled calmness that had soothed many a family row. “This is Terry Davis.”

Renee. Terry. The author of the letter. My birth mother. The woman who had abandoned me on the patio so many years ago. I'd rarely been at a loss for words in my life but they failed me now. What the hell did someone say in a situation like this?
How's it going? Nice you could stop by? So, what's been doing the last thirty years?

Terry took a step toward me. Tension rippled through her body. “Daisy is still your name.”

“Yes.” Her fingers, I noticed, were just like mine. Long and lean with deep nail beds. And her face mirrored mine.

Even as I stared at a mid-fifties version of myself, I felt like a small child. For an instant, I flashed back to a moment when I sat in my birth mother's lanky lap trying to relax into her tense arms as she rocked back and forth. I was crying, hungry for comfort. She was also crying, seemingly just as starved for comfort.

The child in me was selfish indeed and had little care for the young mother who'd birthed her. That little girl wanted her mother—this woman—to take me in her arms and whisper words of apology as she sought forgiveness and explained everything. God, there was so much I wanted . . .

“Daisy.” Rachel's calm voice cut through the tension. “I just put on a pot of coffee. I thought you two might like a cup. Mom's run the kids to the party. I can stay if you want.”

I couldn't take my eyes off Terry. Growing up, I'd never looked like anybody and now I stood face-to-face with a near twin. “No, that's fine, Rachel. You go.”

The eerie calm in my voice had Rachel staring closely at me. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I'm fine.”

“Okay. But Mom will be coming back here soon.” I didn't miss the warning or the extra emphasis on “Mom.” “I've got my cell. I'm only ten minutes away.”

“Go. Please.”

Terry rubbed her thumb over the top of her Prada purse, which she held close to her cream jacket. A white silk blouse, fitted pants, and sleek suede shoes told me life had treated her pretty well. So much for all the dreams I'd had of a poor, destitute Renee.

When Rachel left, I moved toward the counter, needing a task to buy me a little time. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Sure. I've not reached my ten-cup quota yet.” Her smile was stiff and forced.

“You and me both.” In a family of tea drinkers, I'd never imagined a coffee junkie had birthed me. I poured two cups in USB mugs and nodded toward the back. “I've an office back there. It's quiet.”

“Sure.”

“Oh, cream or sugar?”

“No. Black is fine.”

Aware only of the coffee's heat warming my fingers and the click of Terry's heels, I made the short trek to my office with my birth mother. I set the mugs on the edge of my desk and then cleared bank statements and invoices from the one spare chair I had. I positioned it closer but not so close that our knees touched.

As I stared at the face that looked so much like mine, I thought about the lifetime of dreams I'd had about her. As much as I thought I knew her, I realized I didn't know her at all. She was a stranger. And I didn't warm up to strangers easily.

My chair squeaked and groaned as I settled and then debated the merits of leaning back, which denoted casual, then fearing that would appear indifferent, I thought about sitting forward and crossing my legs. Did that show interest or overeagerness? In the end, I didn't really move in either direction. I remained straight, feet flat on the floor.

Terry nestled her purse in her lap. Her long fingers traced and retraced the triangular Prada logo. “I wasn't sure if you'd talk to me when I didn't hear from you after I wrote the letters. I was just going to let the whole reunion thing go but then you called.”

I tugged at a loose thread on my jacket. “Yeah. I left a message on Sunday.”

A long, shuddering breath filled her lungs. “It took me a few days to arrange a getaway. I thought a face-to-face might be more effective than a call.”

“Honestly, a call would have been better. It would have given me a little more time to digest this whole thing. I had a friend of mine call your cell. I guess your husband answered.”

Color drained from her face. “What did your friend say?”

“He owns a bike shop and he inquired about your upcoming rental. We didn't want to blow your cover.”

A breath eased from her. “Thanks.”

“So your husband doesn't know you're here.”

“No.” She crossed and recrossed her legs. “I'm kind of an all-or-nothing person.”

“So I've noticed.” The words bit more than I'd intended. “Sorry.” Why was I the first to utter an apology?

She frowned. “I brought pictures for you. They are of you when you were born.” She fished the pictures out of her purse and handed them to me.

I took them and slowly thumbed through them. There were a half dozen in all and the first featured me as a newborn swaddled in a pink blanket. I had a scrunched face and from the looks, I'd been crying. The next picture was of Terry and me at a few months old. She held me close to her face and we both were smiling. In this photo, we looked so happy. I leaned into the pictures, studying her face. There was no hint of fear. No hint that she would run.

“Until now, my earliest pictures were taken when I was three. Can I keep these?”

“Yes, they are for you. I'm sorry there aren't more but I didn't have a camera then. These were all taken by friends and roommates.” She tapped her foot. “I know you've got to have questions for me.”

“I do.” I sipped the coffee but found it far harsher than Rachel's usual fare. Carefully, I set it on the desk, noting Terry had not touched hers. “But honestly, I'm not sure where to start.”

She sat back in her chair. “I suppose the day I left might be a good place.”

A numbing stillness settled in my chest. “That does top the list.”

For several moments, she did not speak as if she were flipping through a script she'd written and rewritten over the years. “I was a different person then. I was very young and was on a bad path. I was only seventeen when you were born. I wasn't married and my parents could not accept that I'd had an out-of-wedlock baby.”

So I had grandparents who also had not wanted me. Wonderful. “Who is my father?”

“When we met, he wasn't even old enough to have a driver's license. There was only the one night between us.”

“Wow.” Product of a one-night stand. “Did you tell him about me?”

“No.” She released a breath. “It wouldn't have worked even if I had told him. He was so young. From what he told me that night, he didn't get along with family either and I feared they'd take issue with a baby. I didn't want to end your life before it began.”

For that I was grateful. She'd given me what no one else on the planet could have: life.

“You didn't consider adoption?”

“I thought I could raise you by myself. But I had no idea how hard it would be to raise a child.”

Emotion tightened my throat. “Where was I born?”

“Baltimore. Do you have children?”

“No.”

“Well, in case you do, you might like to know that you were an easy pregnancy and delivery. Just a couple of pushes and you were out.”

Fertile stock. Great. “Did we stay in Baltimore?”

“Yes. I was living with cousins and then later, friends. And for a while it worked pretty well. I worked nights while you slept. My friends watched you at night and I took care of you during the day.”

“So what went wrong?”

“I woke up on my twentieth birthday and looked in the mirror. I looked twice my age and I felt so old. You were so full of energy and light and I did love you. But I realized we just weren't good for each other.”

“You just said I was doing well.”

“
I
wasn't doing so well.”

“So really what you're saying is that I wasn't good for you.” My voice remained low and controlled but sharp edges bracketed the words.

Her lips flattened. “I'm here to explain, not to justify or apologize. I don't expect you'll like everything I have to say but I believe you have a right to know.”

I leaned forward. “I'm thirty-four years old. Why now?”

She eased back in her chair. “About time, don't you think?”

I wasn't sure what it was that set my senses on alert. Was it the quick downturn of her gaze or the shift in her energy? Whatever it was, I knew she wasn't telling me everything. “Mabel Woodrow was an old lady who lived here in town. She died two weeks ago at the age of ninety-nine. She swore she saw us together before you took me to the bakery. Did she see us together?”

Her gaze widened. She opened her mouth. Closed it. And then finally said, “She did.”

I sat back in my chair, annoyance shattering the shaky reserve I clung to. “So all these years she knew who you were and she never came forward.”

“I don't know anything about that. I haven't spoken to Mabel in thirty years.”

The image of the young boy standing next to Mabel flashed in my head. Now I knew why he'd looked so familiar to me. He looked like me. He looked like Terry. “So she must have been your great-aunt or something?”

Her complexion paled. “How did you know?”

“There's a picture hanging in her hallway. She's standing next to a boy. I was there last week and the picture caught my attention. He looked like me. I'm guessing he was your dad.”

“Daddy was her favorite nephew.”

“He died.”

“Ten years ago. Heart attack.”

“Sorry.” Shit.
Stop apologizing.

“Thanks.”

Silence settled between us and I found myself again facing the question that had haunted me for thirty years. “Why did you just leave me?”

Terry moistened her lips. “I didn't just leave you.”

“You left me in a bakery, alone.” The calmness in my voice amazed me. In fact, the entire tone of this conversation was a wonder. So civilized. So contained. “I was three years old.”

“There were plenty of people. And I watched the lady running the bakery for a good half hour before I made my decision. She looked kind.”

My heart beat so loudly I folded my arms over my chest. “She is kind. She and her husband adopted me.”

“Really? I didn't know that. I only contacted the bakery because this was the last place I saw you.”

“Right.” I was trying hard to find something to like about her. I wanted a good reason for her abandonment.

She nodded, and I sensed if she'd had any lingering guilt over my abandonment, it vanished. “Then I made the right decision leaving you with her.”

“She could have been a serial killer for all you knew.”

Her gaze hardened. “That's not fair. I watched her for over a half hour.”

“That's right. A whole half hour. I heard that. So what led you to the decision to walk?” The question was soaked with anger.

“I went to see Mabel to ask her for money. I needed help.” She flexed her fingers. “I had a drug problem then. I wasn't doing well. She'd given me money before and I thought she'd do it again. When she wouldn't return my calls, we took the bus to Alexandria so I could see her. I thought if she saw me—and you, especially—she'd give me money.”

“Mabel didn't give you a dime.”

“She gave me two dollars and told me to go to the bakery. She said to feed you and to think about my life.”

She shook her head, as if the memory of Mabel's rejection had stalked her for years. “She told me that two dollars was the last bit of money I'd ever see from her again.”

“And you went to the bakery.”

“I bought you cookies.”

“Sugar with red sprinkles.”

“You remember?”

“I remember that and the scent of peppermints.”

“I ate a lot of candy then. The drugs made me crave sugar. They gave out peppermints where I worked and I was always snagging some.”

“Okay.”

“Daisy, I really did think you'd be better off. I believed Mabel had sent me to the bakery because she knew the lady who ran this place was a happy, giving person. And when I saw her, I thought she was the kind of mother I wanted for you.”