A Measure of Happiness (5 page)

Chills prickled up the back of Zach's head and across his shoulders. “All who wander are not lost,” he said, the same phrase he'd offered his mother in response to her complaint about his aimlessness.

“I was,” Katherine said.

“You are,” Zach's mother had said, her eyes shiny with tears.

Katherine's eyes were dry. “Oh, sure, I had a plan. Hit every state in New England, and then continue across the country. Free as a bird, until I took a job working here. I was going to stay a few months, one season in each locale.”

“So why'd you stay?”

“I fell in love.”

Zach imagined Katherine decades ago, the fine lines around her eyes erased, her hair down around her shoulders. He imagined a guy, his biological father, walking into the bakery and falling to his knees.

“When?” Zach asked. “When did you fall in love?”

Katherine inhaled and held her breath. For a second, her brow knit and her chin dimpled, and Zach thought she might apologize. He could practically see the words
I'm sorry
forming on her tongue. Then her features smoothed, unreadable. “Twenty-five years ago,” she said.

Perfect timing.

The conversations in the shop jumbled and blurred to a hum. Zach's head spun with the sudden shift and the impossible sensation of movement. “What was his name?”

“Who?” Katherine's hand went to her cheek. “Oh! You thought. Ah, no. There was no man. I fell in love with this place. Hidden Harbor. Maine. Lamontagne's.” She shook her head. “Only the bakery was called Hazel May's, back in the day.”

Katherine's words and actions didn't jibe, the sort of tells you looked for in a criminal investigation. She held her hand to her cheek, the way Zach's mother touched her face after his father swooped in for a kiss. Every single night after work.

How could a couple feel that way about each other after decades of marriage? Every secret revealed? Nothing left to learn?

How could Katherine feel that way about a place where she worked?

“You found what you were looking for?” Zach said. “Working here?” Had Katherine chosen a bakery over a boy? A place over a person?

Her heart was big enough to wrap around the entire state of Maine but too small to fit an infant?

Too small to love him.

He'd seen the way Katherine responded to Celeste, the girl trying to please the woman, the woman's quick rebuff. He'd noticed how Celeste's expression hinged on Katherine's approval. He'd appreciated the girl's attitude, sarcasm as defense.

All these years Zach had thought the fault lay inside of him. That his birth mother had taken one look at him and deemed him unworthy of devotion. Or worse, that she'd decided way before he was born that he wasn't going to be worth the trouble. Maybe Katherine, if she was his birth mother, hadn't wanted to keep a kid she'd made with Mr. No Name.

Maybe his birth mother hadn't written down his father's name because there had been too many fucking candidates.

Literally.

Katherine's chin tightened, and she glanced around the café. Her eyes watered and she took in the pastry-filled glass cases, the carafes lining the coffee station, the tables full of early morning customers. Then her gaze returned to Zach, but she didn't look him in the eye. She nodded in his general direction. “Work is security, another kind of freedom. I found what I was looking for, and more.”

Before today, Zach hadn't considered that maybe, just maybe, the fault lay not in him but in his birth parents. What if 50 percent of his DNA came from she who couldn't be bothered? What if the other half was a gift from what's his name? What if Zach was a 100 percent loser? Genetics might fail you, but math, good old math, inherently made sense.

A wail issued from behind Zach's head, as high-pitched and insistent as any fire station's alarm. Katherine homed in on the cute, screaming toddler in the next booth.

The toddlers sitting across from the screamer focused on their buddy with their tiny brows furrowed, as though deciding whether to jump in and sing a round.

The mother of the crying baby turned and mouthed,
Teething,
to Katherine, and Katherine's eyes flashed on the word. “Hang on,” Katherine told the mom. “I'll be right back,” Katherine told Zach, and she race-walked past the bakery cases and into the kitchen. Her emergency stride, long and purposeful, made Zach think of his mother and all those mad dashes from their driveway and into the house for Band-Aids and bacitracin. It was a miracle Zach had any skin left on his knees.

Seconds later, Katherine returned with a white bakery bag in hand. She reached into the bag and pulled out some kind of hard-looking cookie. “Would Christopher like a banana oat teething biscuit?” Katherine asked Christopher's mother.

“He'd love one.” Christopher's mother took the biscuit from Katherine and handed it to her son. Without missing a beat, the baby clamped down on the edge of the biscuit, whimpered, and quieted. Leftover tears trickled from his big blue eyes and down either shiny cheek. Zach imagined soreness leaving the boy's gums, relief taking its place.

Katherine Lamontagne, the baby whisperer. Who knew?

Christopher's mother kissed the top of her son's ear. “Thank you, Katherine! You're an angel to bake homemade teething biscuits. You don't have to—”

“That's what I'm here for.” Katherine waved away the praise, but her smile, the way she tilted her chin down, said she was taking it all in. Moments ago, Katherine had claimed she'd found what she was looking for at the bakery and more. Was this what she'd meant?

“Would Jones and Sam—?” Katherine asked.

“Yes, please,” the other two mothers sang out. One of the babies banged his plastic cup against the table. The other little guy opened and closed a sticky-looking hand in Katherine's direction.

Katherine gave the cookies to the moms and then slid back into the booth across from Zach. Her voice came out breathy, the way Zach's mother sounded when she was doling out praise. “Now, where were we?”

Zach offered Katherine the truest statement he'd uttered all morning. “Beats me,” he said. “I haven't got a clue.”

C
HAPTER
3

F
or Celeste, junior year in high school had been a series of firsts. Her first boyfriend, Justin, had led to first sex, first breakup, and the first time she'd suffered the assault of vicious gossip. Another first? Letting her best friend, Abby Stone, take care of her. Abby, who rarely swore, had been the first to tell Celeste it was okay to haul off and tell Ed—aka Celeste's eating disorder—to shut the fuck up.

Shared DNA wasn't the only way to measure family.

When Celeste's brother Lincoln had brought her out back of their whitewashed Cape and encouraged her to point his. 22 downrange and balance a photo of Justin's face in the middle of the sight, Abby had shown Celeste how to dodge harsh words and barbed looks. When Celeste had wanted to run away, Lincoln had provided her with a suitcase, a road map, and a how-to lesson on breaking into empty motel rooms for free stays. Abby had taught her how to settle down, take life in stride, and stay in Hidden Harbor. When Lincoln had teased her about her first baking frenzy and then her refusal to taste test her own baked goods, Abby had reminded Celeste how to nurture herself.

To this day, Celeste didn't fully understand how one of her greatest pleasures—food—had become her greatest fear.

From outside Briar Rose, Abby's bayside bed-and-breakfast, three in the afternoon could've been mistaken for three in the morning. Cars with license plates from Maine to Maryland crowded the darkened parking lot. Since Celeste's return to Hidden Harbor, the low-lying skies had progressed from partly cloudy to in your face and ready to burst. Celeste's inhalation rattled in her chest.

At least she'd gotten her job back.

Clearly, Katherine had missed the extra set of experienced hands. That didn't explain why Celeste's boss, usually wary of strangers, had turned around and on the spot hired Zach Fitzgerald. The guy was seriously cute, no doubt about that. Probably too cute for his own good, judging by the way he'd first attempted to flirt with Celeste and then succeeded in charming Katherine.

Katherine didn't hire strangers without bakery experience and she didn't charm easily. No doubt about that either. Six years ago, when Katherine was looking to hire, only Celeste's daily hounding and a two-week nonpaid trial run—Celeste's suggestion—had beaten out half a dozen other high school students who were hungry for work.

Three pumpkins climbed the steps to the New Englander's porch. Small, medium, and large, with the smallest gourd on the top step. Shiny orange bows fastened cornstalks to either post. Red and gold mums overflowed from a half whiskey barrel and completed the façade of domestic bliss.

Abby was a wiz at staging.

No one could've guessed the innkeeper and owner was a twenty-two-year-old single mom. No one could've imagined that Abby had lived through first a pregnancy at eighteen and then having her douche bag boyfriend freak out and take off. No one could've been prouder of her than Celeste for surviving.

Survive first and then figure out how to live. That philosophy had bound Celeste and Abby together since Mrs. Nelson's first-grade class, where, at recess, they'd caught balls, climbed jungle gyms, and run from the advances of one-sided little-boy crushes.

Celeste was thrilled her best friend's business was thriving. Really she was. But that didn't keep Celeste from wanting Abby all to herself. Celeste would've liked nothing better than to kick out Abby's guests and tell them not to come back until either the storm blew over or Celeste figured out what had happened back in New York.

She hoisted her duffel onto her shoulder and dragged herself up the steps. The new slate sign next to the front door boosted her resolve:
Enter as strangers, leave as friends.
That sounded like her Abby.

Sunshine to Celeste's snark and cynicism, Abby shared Celeste's worries, lightened her load. Abby meant popcorn and hot cocoa. The warmth of hand-knit winterberry throws around Celeste's shoulders. The comfort of home. With Abby, Celeste could tell all or tell nothing. No pressure. Just the comfort of being understood.

Sure enough, once Celeste was inside the entryway, the warmth hit her full on. The aromas of wood fire and apples filled the air. And something else. Cinnamon sticks simmering in a pot on the stove. That trick Celeste had taught Abby when they were twelve and Saturday nights meant sleepovers at either Celeste's parents' loud boy-filled house or Abby's mother's quiet only-child girly seaside cottage. Celeste's lips twitched into a grin.

Abby, cinnamon sticks, Celeste.

Celeste shook her head. If she wasn't careful, she was going to start blubbering in the middle of the bed-and-breakfast and lose the last shreds of her dignity and control.

Celeste peeked into the den, where a dark-haired mother nursed a pink-swaddled infant and a toddler played quietly on the floor amidst piles of sherbet-colored wooden blocks. Inside the dining room, a few chocolate chip cookies remained for an afternoon snack, and empty sugar packets littered the tea service tray. Two thirtyish-looking women bent over a puzzle. The cinnamon aroma peaked in the kitchen, where Celeste, sure enough, found sticks simmering on the back burner, but no Abby.

Celeste slipped back into the entryway and jingled Abby's engraved
Ring for service
dinner bell. Then, heart thrumming at her throat, she faced the closed pocket door leading to Abby's private quarters. Like magic, footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. Celeste counted backward.

The door slid open, casters rattling in the metal track, and Abby appeared. Her blond curls were loose around her shoulders, the way she'd worn her hair in high school.

Abby's expression went from business-ready to happy-to-see-you to what-the-hell. “Celeste!”

Just hearing Abby speak her name lifted the edge off Celeste's troubles, and she allowed herself a full breath. “Got my old job back at Lamontagne's. Think I could maybe sleep on your couch till I find a place?”

“Of course.” Abby shook her head. “What are you doing back?” she asked, her tone a mixture of rejoicing and confusion. “What's going on? What happened?”

Heat masked Celeste's face, as if she were standing over a pot of water and boiling bagels. Her temples tingled. “I—I'm not sure.”

Abby lifted Celeste's duffel from her shoulder. She ushered Celeste into her apartment and slid the pocket door from the wall.

Raffi's “This Little Light of Mine” filtered through Luke's bedroom door. Celeste might've enjoyed the selection if Charlie hadn't given Luke the CD on one of his few and far between school vacation visits. No sooner would little Luke warm up to his away daddy than Charlie would go away again. Luke's toys cluttered the living room. A miniature wooden tool bench in one corner and a toy kitchen beneath the window reflected Abby's ability to play both mother and father for her son. Bright multicolored Lego towers lined the coffee table and spilled onto the equally bright and multicolored braided wool rug. “I missed you and Luke.”

Abby dropped Celeste's bag on the couch. “And we missed you.”

“Sorry I haven't phoned much.”

“You've been busy,” Abby said, making excuses for the inexcusable.
Much
meant Celeste hadn't phoned since August. “Luke and I have been busy, too.”

Celeste nodded. Of course, running a B&B and raising a son on your own would be a lot for anyone to handle, even Abby. Even with her mother Lily Beth's help. As far as Celeste was concerned, Lily Beth was a goddess and a godsend. She'd let Abby and Luke live with her until Luke turned three. Then she'd helped Abby figure out her next move. If the roles had been reversed and Celeste had gotten pregnant, her parents would've still taken off. Three rowdy sons and one daughter, who was a little unwell, had maxed out her mother's ability to care. “I should've moved in with you to help you take care of Luke.” The hell with guys. Except for little Luke, who needed them? What had they ever done for Celeste?

Abby barked a laugh. “Instead of following your dream and becoming an even better kick-ass baker?” Abby looked at Celeste sideways and then up and down. “Have you lost weight?” Abby said, but she might as well have asked,
Have you lost your mind?

“Holding steady,” Celeste said, an assertion Abby might've bought if Celeste's voice hadn't wavered.

Abby clasped Celeste's shoulders, leaned forward, and pressed her lips to the center of her forehead. Celeste closed her eyes, inhaled cinnamon and another scent at the tip of her tongue. Something green and fresh and masculine. Another memory just out of her reach. “Ninety-nine,” Abby said. “You're running a low-grade fever. Sit. I'll go get you Tylenol.”

“No!” Celeste said, louder than she'd intended. “I'm not sick. I'm just so, so
tired
.” Saying the word exhausted her, drained away the smidgen of energy that she'd summoned to drive from Lamontagne's to Briar Rose. She wanted to sleep, hide inside a blanket, turn off the lights and her jumbled thoughts, and forget that no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't remember having sex with Matt.

According to Matt, Celeste had been more than memorable.

Celeste's stomach convulsed with unshed tears, and she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle them.

Abby took Celeste's hand from her mouth. “Tell me. I'm listening,” Abby said, as if Celeste were the most important person in the world. As if all the lies that had been told about her in high school, years later, hadn't come true.

Brittle leaves clung to the branches and rustled in the sea breeze. Celeste zoned to the sound of the waves and her eyelids fluttered. For a split second, she forgot who she was.

As if she'd ever known.

“Celeste.” Abby peered into her face. “What happened?”

Celeste focused on Abby. Her anchor. Her port in the storm. Her best friend forever. “I did something really stupid.”

“It's okay. You don't have to be perfect. Nobody's perfect,” Abby said, a throwback from when Abby had misunderstood Celeste's less than ideal coping mechanism.

Thing was, to Celeste, Abby was perfect.

“C'mon. What did you do? Burn a cake?”

“Nobody burns cakes.”

Abby pantomimed rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “Excuse me. Uh, did you murder someone?”

Celeste cracked a smile. More like murdered her reputation. “I went to a party with someone Monday night.”

“With a date?”

“No, just a guy from school.” Celeste almost added,
just a friend,
because that's what Matt had been. Whenever she tried to summon what she'd lost, she resurrected benign memories. She'd helped Matt convert recipes from measurements to weights, and he'd given her tips on photographing her finished products. Angling a croissant so the curves caught the light. Before and after photos—from raw materials to plated pastry—to document your work and detail the process. The all-important backdrop cleanup and arranging the money shot.

Matt the Rat. A decent photographer, a so-so baker, and a false friend.

Celeste wiped her eyes with either hand. Time to get real. “I—”

Luke's bedroom door burst open, releasing a louder Raffi, now singing “The More We Get Together.” A small but speedy Spider-Man dashed across the room and jumped into Celeste's arms. “Hey, buddy! I didn't know it was Halloween.”

“It's not!”

“Then why are you wearing a costume?”

“I'm not wearing a costume! I
am
Spider-Man!” Luke beat his fists against his chest, then nestled his nose into Celeste's neck.

A sharp tickle sensation hunched Celeste's shoulder, and she giggled. Luke nestled again, and Celeste rewarded him with a second twitch.

“Luke, stop,” Abby said.

Luke lifted his head, growled, and went back in for a tickle.

“Luke,” Abby repeated, and unlatched him from Celeste's neck.

Luke clamped on to Abby's hip and laid his head on her shoulder. “He's such a flirt.” Abby sniffed Luke's head and dropped a kiss into his curls, as if to prove she'd succumbed to said flirting.

“Like son, like father,” Celeste said.

Abby's face did a grin and a cringe, the expression that meant she had something—or someone—to hide. And
someone
usually meant—

“Oh, hey, Celeste.” Charlie Connors, aka Luke's father, aka the douche bag, walked into the living room, wearing worn jeans, threadbare socks, and looking way too comfortable for a scheduled kid visit at his ex-girlfriend's place.

Polo.
The fresh, green, masculine scent Celeste had been unable to identify. Charlie's cologne was all over Luke, all over Abby's living room, and likely all over Abby.

Nailing the lid on Celeste's connection, Charlie kissed Abby on the cheek and took Luke from her arms.

As far as Celeste had heard, neither Hidden Harbor nor hell had frozen over. That could only mean her best friend had lost both her mind and her memory. How many times was she going to give in to her Charlie obsession? How many times was she going to sign up for more disappointment? How many times was she going to let Charlie hurt her? “Oh, holy hell.”

Luke bounced in Charlie's arms, all smiles. “You said a bad word!” Luke said.

“Sorry,” Celeste told Luke, although the apology was meant for Abby.

“You can put your eyeballs back in your head, Celeste,” Charlie told Celeste.

“You can return to the rock you cr—”

Abby shot Celeste a look, jutted her head toward Luke.