Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) (32 page)

“You never spoke to her. You didn't ask her if she knew anything about kids. You didn't know if she could afford a child. You only watched her for thirty minutes.”

“But Mabel sent me here. Mabel did everything for a reason.”

“What if she'd sent you to the Dairy Queen or McDonald's?”

Her grip on her purse tightened. “Don't be flip.”

“Don't be flip? I'm feeling like I've got a right to a lot of emotions. After thirty years of questions, I think I'm entitled to a little anger and frustration.”

She tapped her foot. “I came here in good faith. I didn't come to be attacked.”

“Why did you come? After all these years, it's clear you're doing well. Why now, after so much time?”

“Maybe I thought you had a right to know about your past.” I got the sense that Terry had rewritten much of what had happened. Somehow in her version, she'd not really done anything wrong. In fact, she'd been more than a tad virtuous when she sat in the café for a whole thirty minutes before walking out of my life.

“Or maybe Mabel contacted you and told you to contact me. She knew she didn't have much time and I'm guessing it bothered her just a little I didn't know the truth.”

Terry's jaw tensed and I knew I'd hit a nerve.

“Did she promise to upset that nice, neat world you have now? Did she threaten to call your husband?”

Terry tensed her jaw much like I did when I was angry. “She said it was time for me to clear my conscience. Time for me to make peace. She told me to get in touch with the bakery and find out what had happened to you.”

“And here you are?”

“Yes.” She leaned toward me. “I'm trying to do the right thing. You have a right to know where you came from and what is going on in your life. You have a right to know I had thyroid cancer two years ago.”

That caught me short and drained some of the fire from my belly. “I'm sorry.”

“Cancer is no walk in the park but I will be fine. But it's something you need to watch out for, though, when you get into your forties.”

“Okay.”

She pulled a file from her purse. “This is a complete medical history. There is also a copy of your original birth certificate.”

I opened the manila folder but didn't really focus on the words. I'd had precious morsels of my past over the years and had jealously guarded them. Now I had a feast to review but found I didn't know where to begin.

“So where do you live now?” I said.

“New York.”

I closed the file. I'd sift through it later but not now. “You look like you've done well for yourself.”

“After I left here I went home. My parents forgave me and helped me get my act together. I got my degree and a job in advertising. I'm married now. I have two boys, ages sixteen and seventeen.”

“Did your parents ask about me?”

“I told them I gave you up for adoption. They accepted it without explanation.”

And so Daisy the mistake had been brushed under the carpet and forgotten. “I've got to tell you, Terry, in all the years I've fantasized about this moment, this is not what I expected.”

She stared at me but didn't apologize.

I knitted my fingers together and set them in my lap. “So where do we go from here?”

“I'll be in town until the end of the week. I'm staying at the Armistead in Alexandria. This is your time to ask your questions.”

“And then?”

“Then I go home. You go back to your life and I go back to mine.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes.” She rose. “Look, I think we've covered a lot today.”

Standing, I couldn't help but smile at the absolute insanity of this day. “You are never going to tell your husband and sons about me, are you?”

“No.”

“Did you know child abandonment is a class-six felony?”

She pulled in a steady breath. “My attorney is willing to argue that the bakery was safe harbor.”

Of course. “You've covered your bases.”

Her lips thinned. “I've got to protect my family.”

And yourself. I had always received unconditional love from Mom and Dad. They'd sacrificed a lot for my sisters and me and I'd never once heard them complain. It was their love that made it so very hard for me to understand how a mother could put herself so easily before her child. Or how she could reject one child and adore others.

I'd look back on this moment and wish I'd said a million other things but I could not summon another word from my stunned brain.

“Call me at the hotel if you want to talk more,” she said.

“Sure.” I could barely think straight right now and hoped I could calm enough to see her again.

I followed her down the hallway into the bakery and to the front door. She unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door. The bells jingled. For a moment, I thought she'd say something else but then she left, vanishing around the corner just as she'd done thirty years ago.

Numbly, I closed the door and locked it. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry or call Mom. I just couldn't move.

Finally, I moved toward the door that led to my apartment. I wanted nothing more than to lie down and curl up into a ball.

When I opened the door, I nearly screamed when I discovered my entire family huddled on the stairs. Dad was at the top, then Mom, then Margaret and Rachel. They made no effort to hide their eavesdropping.

“Honey, are you all right?” Mom said.

“I'm fine.”

Margaret stood. “I hate that word.
Fine.
What the hell does that mean?
Fine.
You look like a truck hit you.”

“I'm fine.”

“You cannot be
fine
,” Mom said. She threaded her way through my sisters so that she stood on the step above me, which put us at eye level. “I heard what she said. And I know I wouldn't be fine. I'd be so pissed I'd be throwing pots and pans.”

My knees wanted to buckle and I wasn't sure how much longer I could stand there. Depressing emotions clawed at my insides and I knew they were going to burst forth like the Hulk. And I didn't want an audience present when the green monster tore its way out of me. “I just need a moment alone.”

Mom laid her hands on my shoulders and the gentleness made me flinch. “No more alone time for you, Daisy. I let you sulk in that room of yours far too much when you were a kid. We are going to do this together.”

“Together? How can we do this together? You can't know what it feels like to be left. You had your parents. You've got Dad and your kids. Everyone in your life is here.”

Tears filled her eyes. “Everyone who is important in your life is here, honey.”

“I know what you're saying. You are here for me. And I love you for it. But right now I just want to go to my room.”

“You need us,” Dad said.

“I know that. I do.” Without warning tears spilled down my face. “But the fact is that the woman who gave birth to me just left me again. Shit. What does that say about me?”

Mom traced a tear from my cheek. “It doesn't say anything about you. This is about her and her shortcomings. You did nothing wrong.”

Margaret swiped a tear from her face. “Mom's right, Daisy. Don't carry her shit on your back.”

“I get that, in my head. I really do.”

“Then, what?” Rachel said.

“Did you hear her say she had two boys? She's raising her boys. She's being a mother to them. But not me.”

“As angry as I am about what she did, I do feel sorry for her,” Rachel said.

“How can you feel sorry?”

“She made a really bad choice thirty years ago. And no matter what she says, she feels it every day. You can't be human and not feel that kind of choice.”

“I don't think she does feel—at least for me.”

“She's here, isn't she?” Mom said.

“Because Mabel threatened her.”

“She could have rolled the dice on that one, Daisy,” Dad said. “We all knew Mabel did not have much time. Terry strikes me as a very clever girl. She'd have figured a way around Mabel.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“Honey,” Mom said, “Terry fucked up big time when she walked away from you. But I've got to say, the selfish side of me is glad that she did. Otherwise, I wouldn't have had you in my life.”

I laughed and swiped away another tear. “Mom, you just said ‘fucked up.'”

“Yes, I did. And I meant it.”

“I've driven you crazy.”

“And so has Margaret and so has Rachel. You each have your own set of issues.”

The logic of her words did not connect with the emotions. Maybe one day. But not today. “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“I hear you. I do. But I just can't think anymore. I just can't. I'll see everyone in the morning.” I climbed my way through my family and up the stairs to my room and went to the window that overlooked the café below. I wondered if Terry had paused and remembered when she'd arrived today or had simply breezed past the chairs and tables outside.

I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window. “Shit. Now what?”

And as if by providence, my cell in my back pocket rang. I dug down and glanced at the number, half hoping and half dreading it was Terry. It was Henri.

I cleared my throat and hit Send. “Henri.”

“I am in the bakery. We need to talk.”

“About?”

“Not on the phone. In the back alley.”

I closed my eyes. “I'll be right down.”

•   •   •

I moved down the stairs, gave a quick easy wave to everyone, and then cut through the saloon doors. In the bright light of the alley, Henri's wrinkles looked deeper and his skin more sallow. I knew I'd be lucky if he made it out the month.

“Henri.” I drew in a measured breath, oddly grateful to have a problem that could be solved. Losing Henri would take a toll on us, but we'd survive. The bakery would continue.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. Instead of waiting for me, he moved down the alley away from the bakery. I followed.

He flipped a lighter open and lighted the tip of his cigarette. White smoke curled around his squinting eyes.

“Your father knows, I believe.”

“Yes, he knows. I didn't say anything. He guessed.”

“He is a smart man. I've always respected him.”

“Me, too.”

He studied the glowing tip of his cigarette held between his gnarled thumb and index finger.

“Has anyone said anything to you? Has Dad said something?”

“He understands I will come to him when I'm ready.”

“No offense, Henri, but you're looking pretty ready.”

He smiled . . . a first in my lifetime. “Perhaps I am.”

The smoke curled around his face then rose in the air. “So what is the deal with your cousin?”

I leaned against the brick wall and watched as he took a long drag on his cigarette, savoring the way the smoke rolled out of his nose and lungs. I'd watched him smoke since I was a kid and he made it all look so exotic. When I was fourteen, I'd even stolen one of his cigarettes and lighted it up. I'd felt so grown-up and so sure. Until I inhaled a lungful of smoke. So lightheaded I had to sit down, I'd coughed and sputtered for an hour. Henri had seen me coughing but had never said a word.

“He said he would work for you for two months. If he likes it here, he will stay. If he does not he will leave.”

“Not exactly the solution I was looking for.”

“He will like it here.”

“How do you know?” A good old-fashioned guarantee would have been real nice now.

“Je sais.”
I know.

“How old is he now?”

“Thirty. Maybe more.”

“Where did he study?”

A grunt told me he did not think much of my question. He inhaled again. “He is like me. He worked in a bakery and learned as he went.”

No formal training. Of course. But customers did not care about degrees and certificates. They cared about food.

Choosing the bakery's primary baker was not a decision to make lightly. I was literally allowing Henri to perform a heart transplant for this place. Without the bread baker, we'd die. Two weeks ago, I'd have insisted on a resume. I'd have worried about immigration paperwork. Work visas. Did the guy even speak English?

But now, I could only run my fingers through my hair and ask, “When will he be here?”

Chapter Nineteen

M
y phone rang a lot over the next two days. Most of the calls were from Gordon. A couple calls were from Ralph and Brad. I let all of them go to voice mail.

I just didn't have room in my head or heart for anything emotional or troublesome. Gordon wanted more from me; I could hear it in his voice. And Brad, well, he would want to know why I'd walked away from a great job. But I had no answers for anyone.

Noticeably absent from my message bank was a call from Terry. She'd said she was in town all week and I could call her. But it hadn't taken long for hurt feelings to sour into anger. Why should I have to chase after her? She was the one who should be coming to me, hat in hand.

And, just like the little three-year-old who'd waited for nights and nights for her mother to return, I waited for Terry to call me.

Rachel stepped out of the kitchen, her gaze a little wild. “The cake is done.”

I continued to count the change in the till. “For Davenport?”

Rachel blew out a breath. “I feel like I just gave birth.”

I grinned. “You look like it.”

She pushed her hair away from her face. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

She plucked a sugar cookie from the case and bit into it. “God, I hope Davenport loves that cake.”

“I've never known you to doubt your cakes. What gives?”

“Something about the guy screams,
Prove to me you are good enough
. I hate that.”

“Your cake will be good. You've nothing to worry about. Is the cake loaded in the van?”

“It is. Can you drive me?”

“Where's Margaret?”

“MIA.”

“Shit.”

“I'd drive myself but someone has to sit in the back and steady the cake.”

“Right. Fine. And because Margaret is not here we'll have to close the bakery.” I yanked off my apron and tossed it in the corner.

“Boy, you're in a lovely mood today. In fact, I think you've been an all-around delight since Terry's visit.”

“Sorry.”

“Why don't you just call her? Talk to her more. Maybe there is more to learn.”

“She pretty much said what she needed to say.”

Rachel pulled off her apron, neatly folded it, and laid it on a nearby chair. “I never figured you for a victim, Daisy. You always seemed so strong.”

“I am strong.”

“Marshmallow.”

“Stop it.”

“Then get over yourself and call.”

Margaret pushed through the front door. “You will never believe what I have.”

“Where have you been?” I shouted.

“And good afternoon to you, darling.” Margaret wore her hair down and a blue peasant blouse that billowed when she moved.

“Bite me.”

“Ah, there's my Daisy.”

Rachel groaned. “Look, as much as I'd love to stand here and watch you two gripe, I have a cake to deliver. And might I add the client is paying a fortune and please don't forget the fact that I was up all night working on the damn thing!”

Margaret and I had never heard Rachel yell. And it caught us both off guard. I closed the register and really looked at her. Face flushed, eyes bright blue, she looked ready to explode.

“I'll get my keys,” I said.

“Doesn't anybody want to hear what I have to say?” Margaret protested.

“Got to drive Rachel across town.”

“Fine, I'll come with you.”

“You have to babysit the shop.”

Margaret went to the door leading upstairs. “
Mom!”

“What?”

“We have phones, Margaret,” I said.

She waved me away.
“Can you work the bakery for an hour? We have a delivery.”

“Sure, honey.”

Margaret smiled. “Let's go.”

Five minutes later, I was behind the wheel of the truck that Dad bought in the early eighties. The buttons on the radio had broken at least a decade ago and duct tape covered several cracks and splits in the front seat. Margaret rode shotgun while Rachel sat in the back, guarding her cake as if it were a child.

“So why are you here?” I asked Margaret. The engine started on the first.

She twisted in the seat and faced me. “You are going to be sorry for your attitude, missy.”

“Right. Sure.” I pulled out of the alley and onto a side street.

“I found out what happened to Susie.”

Susie had hovered behind Terry thoughts, but she never quite made it to the front of my mind. “Great.”

“You don't look impressed,” Margaret said.

I put on my blinker, turned onto Duke Street, and wove into traffic. “I am. Really. Really,” I added with more meaning. “Tell me.”

“I found out she was sold at Bruin's in January 1853 to a man named Murdock. I started doing a little digging on Murdock and discovered he owned a house of prostitution in New Orleans.”

I gripped the wheel, feeling a sense of injustice for the girl. “Basically she was sold as a sex slave.”

She twirled her hair around her finger. “‘Fancy house' makes it sound nicer but yeah, that is exactly what happened.”

“That just breaks my heart,” Rachel said softly from the back. “I think of my girls, and it makes me sick.”

Hearing of Susie's bleak life shook away some of my own melancholy. “So what happened after she got to New Orleans?”

“Well, there's the thing. There was no record of her arriving in Murdock's cathouse.”

“What do you mean?”

“Susie was put aboard the ship called the
Diamond
. Murdock bought six slaves that day and he was using the ship to transport them south. The trip by water took a third of the time as it did by land and I guess the way he looked at it, time was money.”

I rounded a corner and had to brake suddenly when the car in front of me stopped to let someone off. Rachel held onto the cake while I honked the horn. “So what happened?”

“Well, I went to the archives and found the manifest for the
Diamond.
Sure enough, six slaves were loaded onto the ship. But only five were delivered to New Orleans.”

I glanced at her. “They lost one along the way?”

“She was listed as lost at sea,” Margaret said.

“Maybe she jumped overboard and swam to shore,” I said.

“It was January. Even if she did jump and even if she could swim, she'd have frozen in the waters.”

Before I could answer, we arrived at the office building and I parked out front in a
NO PARKING
zone. While Margaret sat behind the wheel, Rachel and I yanked out the folding stainless steel delivery cart and set it up. We loaded the cake on top and pushed. Rachel then grabbed a pink makeup bag, which was really chock-full of all kinds of cake repair tools. She also stuffed a piping bag full of icing in her pocket.

As we pushed the cart, the front wheel wobbled and squeaked. This was the part I hated the most: the long walk up the service ramp to the elevators. We'd never lost a cake in my memory but Dad always told the tale of the time he dropped a cake.
Splattered into one holy goddamn mess.
I'd heard the story a thousand times. And it had left its mark on me.

“You know this fee is going to really help,” I said.

“Good.” Rachel gritted her teeth as we moved along the concrete. “It damn near killed me.”

The wobbly wheel stuck in a crack in the sidewalk and the cake lurched forward. Rachel caught it but judging by the paleness of her face, the near-miss shaved years off her life. “Shit.”

I shook my head. “There are easier ways to earn a buck, Rachel. You know that, right?”

She blew a blond lock out of her eyes. “I've heard rumors.”

“So why are we doing this?” Why did I give Ralph the big kiss-off?

“You've got to admit, there is never a dull moment. You know what you need to do in the morning and you know if you've done it or not by night.”

I laughed. “My pushing-paper days were never clear-cut.”

“Or satisfying.” She hesitated. “Margaret told me about the job offer you turned down.”

I wasn't surprised. There were no secrets in the bakery. “It's already ancient history.”

“Well, for the record, I'm beyond glad you're staying. You're the heart of USB now.”

“You're the heart. I'm the legs and maybe the hands.” The smell of cake swirled around me. There was a time when I adored the smells of confections. But lately I had been around it so much I'd lost my taste. “This year for my birthday, I know what I want.”

“Cake?”

“God, no. I want a bag of chips, a cheese pizza, and a day of dull moments.”

“At the rate things are going for us, you might have to settle for cake. We ain't gonna be earning big money.”

“Don't I know it.”

When we arrived on the eighteenth floor, the elevators opened to the quite sterile environment of Davenport Property. There wasn't the rush of customers coming and going, the
clang
of pots, or the gurgle of the espresso machine. I'd longed for this clean sterility just a month ago and now found it flat and dull.

A secretary, sleek and tall with smooth blond hair, rose from her station. “Union Street Bakery?”

Rachel, who'd been on fire in the kitchen, seemed to wilt under the woman's icy stare. She opened her mouth to speak and then glanced at me.

“That's us,” I said as cheerfully as I could manage. “We're here with Mr. Davenport's cake.”

“In the conference room. Follow me.”

As we followed, I glanced at Rachel and wagged my eyebrows. I mouthed the name
Cruella Deville
, which coaxed a little smile.

A long bank of windows, with its views of the Potomac River, dominated the room. It was impossible not to stop and stare at the stunning view. I was only sorry it was a cloudy day. No doubt on a sunny day, the views extended down to the river plantations nestled on the fingers of land jutting into the river.

Rachel carefully pulled the box off the cake and together we lifted it onto a credenza. The cake weighed a good fifty pounds and was a bit unwieldy. But when in place, it was a sight to behold. Rachel had outdone herself.

Even Cruella lifted an eyebrow as she picked up a phone receiver. “As soon as Mr. Davenport gives his final approval, I'll cut you a check.”

“Great.”

Rachel pulled a small digital camera from her pocket and snapped several pictures. “For our website.”

“Which I've got to do this weekend.” The to-do list only seemed to get longer.

Davenport appeared minutes later, cold, stern, and distant. Gordon had been much like Davenport when he'd worked at Suburban. Tight, controlled, and like ice. I'd liked that about him at the time. Untouchable had suited me just fine then. Now, I thought about Gordon's sun-brushed hair and easy smile. He was now so approachable, touchable . . . and frightening.

“The cake appears off center,” Davenport said. He must have been six or seven inches taller than Rachel. And his broad frame dwarfed her size.

Rachel tucked her camera in her pocket and studied the cake. “It is perfectly straight.”

He moved closer to her to study the cake from her vantage. “It tilts.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “It's not a skyscraper. It's a cake. And I promise you when you bite into it, you will feel as if you'd died and gone to heaven.”

“Doubtful.” He reached in his pocket and handed her a check. “But I've no doubt that it will do.”

“It. Will. Do. My cakes will do better than just do. They will make your event.”

Her tone had me straightening. You go, Mama Bear.

“I'm sure you believe that,” he said. “But it is just a cake.”

I really thought Rachel's eyes were going to pop out of her head so I hooked my arm in hers. “I promise you, Mr. Davenport, Rachel is an artist. You will not forget this cake.”

He checked his watch. “I'll forget the cake.”

I glanced at Rachel's face. His indifference had not only stunned her, it had offended her. She'd put her heart and soul into this cake and it was a masterpiece. And this guy didn't think it was much more than a Hostess Twinkie. I took the check from Rachel's clenched fist and tossed a fleeting look at the $1,400 windfall. This check was going to solve more than a few problems. It was hard cash we could really use.

“Take the check back,” I said.

He frowned but didn't reach for the check. “I pay my debts.”

I laid it on the credenza next to the cake. “If that is not the best cake you have ever eaten in your life, then don't pay us.”

“That's a lot of money, Ms. McCrae.”

“It is. But the way I see it, my money is safe.”

Rachel's eyes widened as her gaze darted between the check, Davenport, and me. For a moment I thought she'd cave and take the check but her voice was clear and strong when she said, “And when you discover that that cake is the best you've ever had, I expect you to make us your exclusive caterer.”