A Measure of Happiness (3 page)

Barry set his black coffee on the counter, then dug into his snug jeans pocket and produced a crumpled dollar bill. Katherine smoothed and folded the bill and slipped it into her apron on the pretense she'd yet to open the register. Later she'd add the dollar to the envelope of singles in the safe, all from Barry's wallet.

Barry gazed around her, peering over her shoulder and into the kitchen. “Is that Celeste?”

So Katherine caved. God help her, but the man had a gift for drawing people out of their shells and into the open. Usually that gift didn't extend to her. Katherine set her palms atop the bakery case and lowered her voice. “Found her in the kitchen when I opened up. Looked like she'd been here for hours. Something's wrong. She drove all night from New York.”

“She misses her mother.”

“I'm not her mother,” Katherine said. “I'm not anybody's mother,” she added, a regret Barry should've known, better than anyone save herself. But when he gave her a sad smile, she shook it off. “Besides, Celeste is a grown woman.”

“You're mother enough. And you never outgrow needing your parents, no matter your age.” Barry stroked his beardless chin, a cliché shrink joke that hadn't lost its ability to charm Katherine. Worse, the gesture drew attention to a face—boyish looking at fifty—she still adored and those pale-blue eyes. “Hmm. Come to think of it, you never outgrow the need for your long-lost wife, either.”

“Ex,” Katherine reminded him. “And I'm not long lost, I'm right here.”

Barry laid his hand on hers. “You're three miles away,” he said, referring to the distance between Barry's house that had always been too big for two and her apartment on the first floor of a Victorian.

Celeste wheeled a speed tray through the kitchen doorway, and Katherine snatched her hand away from Barry.

“Morning, Celeste,” Barry said.

Celeste rewarded him with her first genuine smile of the day. “How's my favorite gym rat?”

“Couldn't be better. Bench-pressed two-fifty last night.”

“It shows.”

Barry had coped with their divorce by losing the weight that had crept up on him over the course of their ten-year marriage, a pound for each year, giving up his Volkswagen Golf in favor of biking to work, and lifting weights as though he were a man half his age. Katherine had coped with their divorce by gaining the weight Barry had lost.

Celeste filled the display case with blueberry muffins and came out from behind the counter. “Well?”

Barry smacked his head with the heel of his hand. “Almost forgot.” He shrugged out of his fleece. According to protocol, Celeste ran her hands up and down either biceps. “Nice!” she said. Then, throwing a look over her shoulder to Katherine, “He's going to make some lucky woman a fine husband someday.”

“Spare me,” Katherine said, although her heart, hard as stale bread, flickered in her chest. At least Celeste overstepping gifted Katherine a glimpse of the girl who'd stormed from the bakery months ago, too fast to let the door hit her.

Then Celeste scurried past Katherine and back into the kitchen, the joie de vivre drained from her face.

Katherine waited until Celeste disappeared into the far end of the kitchen. “Did you see that? Did you see that look on her face?” Katherine tried not to notice the way Barry's button-down gaped, pulled tight across his fit chest. She tried not to wonder whether his chest hair had grayed, along with the hair on his head. She tried not to remember how the curls tickled her lips when she took them between her teeth.

Barry aimed his shrink gaze at Katherine and nodded. “You're worried about your girl.”

Katherine aimed her best anti-shrink gaze at her ex. But, heaven help her, she still felt validated. The Stinker. “She drove all night, she barely slept.”

“She's passionate, like another woman I know.”

“She was passionate about leaving.”

“She changed her mind. Got there, and it wasn't what she'd expected. She was disappointed. Sound familiar?”

Katherine had never been disappointed in Barry. When they were married and trying to conceive, he'd been disappointed in her. She ignored the dig. “She's all wound up. Wound into herself.” Katherine huffed out a breath, looked to the pressed tin ceiling.

“Oy vay, Katherine. You are such a worrier. You sure you're not Jewish? An honorary Jew?”

“Not anymore.”

“Jewish by inoculation.” Barry waggled his brows over his coffee.

Heat pulsed from Katherine's cheeks. She hadn't been inoculated in quite some time, and she'd half a mind to tell Barry flu season was upon them. But then she remembered the reason she'd divorced him: to give him a chance for a family with someone else.

Despite showing up at her bakery six mornings a week, he dated most weekend nights. Barry would never say so; he'd never be that cruel. But town gossip wasn't known for its sensitivity.

Barry's playful grin turned serious. “Here's an idea. Have you asked Celeste why she's back?”

“Give me some credit.”

“Want me to read her mind?'

Katherine grinned. If Barry possessed that skill, he would've divorced her years before she'd gotten the nerve to do the deed.

“You found her hard at work, first thing this morning? I'd say Celeste must be the mind reader. She must've sensed you've been scrambling without her, searching high and low for a helper or two. She must've read it in the tarot.”

“Hush up.”

“Never mind. That would be you. So why didn't you sense her returning?”

“I'm sensing you leaving now. Am I right?”

“Got any mundel bread?” he said, referring to the Jewish pastry she made for him. Sad to say, when she'd tried the biscotti-like cookie at Lamontagne's, it didn't sell half as well as actual biscotti, but she hadn't minded the special request at-home cookie order. She hadn't minded any of his requests. With the exception of his determination to start a family, the man was too laid-back, too accommodating, too trusting.

Years ago, with Barry out of the room, Katherine's OB/GYN had asked whether she'd previously given birth. And even though the doctor had seen inside her, even though he was bound to keep her secret, she couldn't coax the truth past her lips.

To what end? What purpose would her admission serve? She'd gotten pregnant when she'd slept with a stranger. She'd gotten pregnant because back in the day, she used to sleep around. A generous serving of cake, a second glass of wine, a few mind-blowing orgasms? Why deny herself any form of pleasure?

And so, she'd lied to the doctor about whether she'd previously given birth. As far as Barry was concerned, the vague stretch marks on her stomach were easily explained, weight gained from donuts, not delivery. Sometimes she wanted to throttle Barry with the truth.

Divorce had been easier.

“Nope, no mundel bread. Care for a biscotti?”

“No thanks, I'm trying to cut down.” Barry smoothed a hand down his bulge-free belly, and Katherine imagined another woman cooling the ridges of his appendix scar with her fingers, warming the curved white line with her tongue. The image hurt, made Katherine's center cave in, like a cake at high altitude. She forced herself to hold the thought. Hold tight, so she could do the right thing and let him go.

C
HAPTER
2

T
hree weeks ago, Zach Fitzgerald's mother kicked him out of the house, changed the locks, and told her twenty-three-year-old son to stop acting like a teenager. That made sense, since the last time he'd really belonged anywhere he'd been twelve.

There were signs, of course, that he'd chosen not to notice. His height for one. Nearly five foot seven by the time he'd turned thirteen, he towered over all of the boys in eighth grade, most of the girls, and both of his parents. His younger brothers couldn't really be counted upon to measure up ahead of him, but their fair hair should've provided a clue. Zach's dark hair stood out in family photographs, as though he were destined to become the proverbial black sheep. As though he'd never had a choice. And then there was the singing. His parents had met in the Arlington, Massachusetts, Unitarian church choir, both of them soloists there to this day. Zach's brothers didn't care much for church, but Ryan studied voice at Berklee, and Donovan, now a senior in high school, was the lead singer for a rock band he'd formed freshman year: Prodigal Son. Even Zach had to admit, his brothers' singing didn't suck.

On the other hand, Zach's singing sucked big-time. He'd rather eat glass than attempt to carry a tune.

And after having eaten his way across two dozen Casco Bay bakeries, he would've rather eaten glass than choke down another once-favorite pastry. Gingersnaps burned his tongue, their bite a battle he waged inside his mouth. Cheesecake, a treat his mother made every Thanksgiving, curdled as soon as it passed through his lips. And he could no longer open his mouth for lemon bars. The slight pucker of sour fruit now bathed and numbed his tongue.

Yet here he was. Quarter past six, most of the sleepy town's storefronts were still dark, and Zach was pulling his dependable Volvo, Matilda, into a vacant spot by Lamontagne's Bakery, in search of an older woman. Weeks of wandering hadn't sated that hunger.

According to nonidentifying information, the woman of his dreams was, or had been, a baker. Twenty-four years ago, she must've lived in or around Brunswick, Maine. Having completed his canvas of coastal towns from Brunswick to Phippsburg, Zach set his sights on Hidden Harbor's only bakery.

The last time Zach had seen this older woman, she'd been younger than he was now. That notion rearranged his insides, like the summer he'd worked as a high-rise window cleaner and his platform outside the John Hancock building's fifteenth floor snapped, leaving him dangling over Clarendon Street.

Not his favorite odd job.

A couple of guys in work pants and construction boots entered Lamontagne's, followed by a woman wearing scrubs. Then a guy around Zach's father's age made his exit. The older guy stood back from the glass window, hand shading his eyes, and stared inside. He claimed a bike propped beneath the awning, took his time fastening a helmet onto his head, and started off slowly down the street. Zach had half a mind to follow the reluctant cycler out of town. Instead, he worried his St. Anthony pocket token and silently recited the prayer asking for the restoration of things lost or stolen.
Dear St. Anthony, please come around, something's lost and can't be found.
“Amen.”

Inside the bakery, Zach took a breath and played the guessing game. Fruit pies, he figured. Apple and peach. Something chocolate for sure. He could practically taste the cocoa. Éclairs, he wagered. And definitely biscotti.

One of those tall carts on wheels stood beside the glass bakery case, and a woman with brown hair in an old-fashioned bun crouched behind a case arranging éclairs.
Bingo!
Zach gave himself a point on an imaginary whiteboard, even though no one was playing but him and—let's face it—the stakes weren't all that high for this little game. But the woman—

She stood, and Zach's heart lurched in his chest, thrill overriding disappointment. An older woman's hairdo on a woman his age. The girl wasn't who he was looking for, but maybe he'd been looking for the wrong thing all along.

Nice body. Not too skinny. He liked the boobs pressing the top of the apron. Cute girl-next-door face. Huge eyes looked sad—

The girl caught his gaze, caught him staring, and her eyes blinked three rapid-fire times, as though he'd startled her. Adrenaline rushed through Zach, better than a coffee buzz. He sent her a half nod and a full smile. But then she folded her arms beneath her chest and tipped her head. She held his gaze but refused to return the smile. “Looking for anything special?”

Zach came over to the counter, eager to take a closer look. Freckles across the bridge of her nose. Full lips he could make good use of. And he was dying to catch a glimpse of what hid beneath the starched apron.
Focus, Zach.
“What do you recommend? What's good?”

“Everything's good. But I recommend the blueberry muffins. They're special today.”

“Oh?”

“My secret recipe.”

“What's in them?”

Zach didn't usually shy away from a pretty girl. But he couldn't dodge the feeling this one was shaking him down to see where his character settled, and his gaze slid away, canvassing the shop. The construction guys hunched over steaming coffees. The woman in scrubs headed for the door, nose in her bakery bag.

“If I told you, it wouldn't be much of a secret, would it?” the girl said.

Zach's shoulders twitched, his body adjusting to the bakery's warmth. Nothing to do with the so-called issue he had with secrets.

When your parents sat you down on your thirteenth birthday and told you that you were adopted, everything in your life simultaneously fell into place and broke apart.

The girl tore bakery paper from a dispenser and swiped a blueberry muffin from the case. “You staying?”

“Umm.” Zach hadn't thought about whether he'd stay in Hidden Harbor. Didn't usually worry about where he was going to sleep until the sun went down. Even then, car camping—

The girl furrowed her brow. But he liked the way her eyes smirked, as if they were sharing a joke, instead of the joke being on him. “Take-out or eat-in?”

“Eat-in. Definitely,” he said. How else could he get her name, her number, and—if he got lucky—a place to stay better than his car?

“Excellent.” The girl nodded. But instead of setting the muffin on a plate, she handed it to him. “It's on the house, if you tell me what you think.”

Zach never passed up free food, one of the traits he shared with his brothers. And his parents, come to think of it. Fitzgeralds loved to eat.

There he went again, imagining he knew his place.

Zach bit into the muffin. Not too sweet, like the sugar-laden pastries he'd forced himself to eat over the last few weeks. And, yeah, butter made everything better. The blueberries burst in his mouth, sweet and tangy and still warm. If the muffin were a woman, he'd propose.

The girl leaned a hip against the counter. “Well?”

Zach swallowed, ran his tongue over his teeth, and gave her his honest assessment. “I'm in love.”

The girl laughed, the sound even better than the muffin. She glanced over her shoulder, raised her voice. “Tell that to my boss,” she called into the back room, and then returned her attention to Zach. “She doesn't like when I change a recipe.”

“Your boss?” Zach said, and another woman came out from the kitchen.

Zach's shoulders twitched for the second time. Difference was, he didn't bother trying to convince himself the shudder was due to temperature change.

This woman was the right age. No doubt about that. But if age were the only test, Zach would've laid claim to women up and down the rocky coastline. Her height worked. She wasn't that tall, maybe five-six, five-seven. But she wasn't short either. And from what he'd read, you estimated a kid's height by taking the parents' average and subtracting two inches for a girl, adding two for a boy.

But her hair was the clincher. Dark and shiny. Zach's gaze hovered at the woman's hairline, the cowlick Zach had fought for years, until he'd given up and let it do whatever the hell it pleased.

The woman smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. She ran a hand across her forehead and smoothed the hair that defied smoothing. “I'm Katherine, the owner of Lamontagne's. Something I can help you with?”

The back of Zach's head tingled, as if his brain were firing, searching for a connection to the name. Gut reaction or wishful thinking?

Either way, if Zach had met Katherine ten years ago, he would've asked her about all the stuff he thought made him both special and an oddity. Did she think Christmas decorations looked more monotone than magical? Could she tell who was calling, seconds before the phone even rang? Did her left ankle itch before a storm? He would've wanted to know if cola cramped her stomach and whether hearing the National Anthem made her want to run to her bedroom, cover her head with a pillow, and cry like a baby.

In recent years, when he'd been flitting between college girls and college majors, he would've wanted to know how she'd known she was a baker. How could you decide on one profession, when choosing meant cutting off your options?

Now his options were limited. Now the blueberry muffin spoiled in his belly and threatened to revisit his mouth.

He'd chosen not to alert the Mutual Consent Registry because they would've let his birth mother know he was searching for her. That would've given her the chance to withdraw her consent to contact and to send him away a second time.

If Katherine was his birth mother, what was stopping her from sending him away in person?

He considered the glass cases filled with pastries, cakes, and pies. The rounder stacked high with loaves of bread peeking from open bags—dark ryes, French baguettes, and sourdough. Coffee service took up a side table. Booths lined either wall. The door jingled, and three women pushing strollers rolled into the shop. Place like this, he bet, would be hopping all day until the two weary bakers turned the sign in the door from
Open
to
Closed
.

In terms of odd jobs, he'd done far worse. “The question is,” Zach said, “how can I help you?”

Katherine made a fool of herself looking for her son.

A few years ago at Shaw's, she'd followed a tall dark-haired man from eggs to paper products, only to have the man turn toward her before the Scott paper towels, revealing his handsome, but Asian, face. She was ashamed to admit, while on a date last year at the Highland Games, she'd caught the eye of another man. Only to discover, upon closer inspection before the whiskey sampling, the man was about ten years too old to be her son. And last summer, a day at Popham Beach had taken an awkward turn when a preschooler on Fox Island had asked why a strange lady was staring at his father.

She should've known better.

Unlike Zach Fitzgerald, none of those young men had eyes like sapphires and moved with the sureness of a man on a mission. None of those young men sent the pulse at her neck quickening as though a stranger had ripped her babe from her arms. None of those young men made her think she was being haunted by a ghost from her past.

The return of none of those young men had been predicted in the tarot by a horseshoe spread and the appearance of the Chariot card, depicting a traveler on a mission.

And she'd bet her life that none of those young men shared a January 1, 1976, birthday with her son.

Zach did.

Zach's job application trembled in Katherine's hand, and Zach followed her through the café. She nodded at her newest regulars, two well-muscled men, sitting at their usual two-top, construction ready and right on schedule. The men pushed back from their seats and got up to refill their carryout coffees. Then they'd head down the street to work on the siding at Suzy Q's Soft Serve.

The Wednesday morning mothers' group occupied the booth on the right—three women who'd taken Katherine's advice regarding lemon bars representing the sweet and sour experience of motherhood and then promptly gotten pregnant within weeks of one another. Despite what Barry called Katherine's woo-woo leanings, she'd lifted that bit of cosmic insight from the air on a day when she'd had too many lemon bars and too little shelf space. Placebo treatment? Did the remedy really matter if you believed?

Zach slid onto the brand spanking new seat cushion, the vandal-inspired speed delivery. Not unlike the three-hour birth of her son that supposedly never happened with first-time moms.

There were exceptions to every rule.

“So . . .” Zach set his hands, palms down, on the tabletop, in the way of a man trying to hasten a decision in his favor.