Sweet Expectations (11 page)

In this image her uniform hugs a narrow waist. Her face is slimmer than I remembered so I pulled the other picture of Jenna from my pocket. The first image, from the recipe box, appears to have been taken after this newly discovered image. The group photo of the girls taken in January and the picture of Jenna and the soldiers snapped later in spring. In the spring photo Jenna's face has definitely filled out.

“Working in a bakery is hard on your waistline.”

For the first time I moved my hand to my belly, which now strained the snaps of my pants. Weeks of telling myself I'd put on weight because of the bakery seemed absurd. For a moment I kept my hand there, still wondering if I'd feel a flutter or a kick. But the kid was still. Definitely not going to move until he was good and ready. Stubborn. A chip off the old block, I thought with a bit of pride. Gordon had admired my stubborn streak.

Pushing aside a jolt of sadness, I focused on the photo's discovery. I returned to the cabinet, hoping to find some other scrap of the woman who'd hiden her recipes in the wall.

But a search of the entire decade reveals no more details. Jenna appeared twice. Once in the form of a scrawled note:
A pleasant girl, nice smile, can bake.
And in the photograph
.
Then she vanishes as if she'd never been at the bakery.

I fixated on the changes in her body from winter to spring. I didn't have hard and fast dates but I was guessing they were taken about four months apart. Four months. In my case a time of great, great change.

For reasons I cannot explain, as I looked at the spring image I got the whisper of an idea. At first I brushed it away as nonsensical. But the more I stared the deeper its roots grew.

Jenna was pregnant.

Or was she? Or am I looking for a kindred spirit?

The assumption of her pregnancy opened a host of questions for me. Was she married? Who was the baby's father? Was he one of the soldiers in the spring picture? What became of Jenna and the baby? The baby would be close to seventy now.

I wished Margaret were in town to do her historical-digging magic. She'd take a name and a photo and if given a couple of days would unearth all that had been written about the person.

What would Margaret do?
WWMD?
Assuming Jenna was pregnant and the baby was born at the end of 1944 and the baby was baptized, I could check the newspaper. Birth records. Church records. The 1950 Census records.

“All right, Jenna, let me see what I can find out about you.”

* * *

“What do you mean there is a problem?” Five minutes back at the bakery, and I had trouble.

Jean Paul pulled a cigarette packet from his breast pocket, caught my irritated glare, and he tucked it back in his pocket. “The wiring in this place is ancient. I will need to do more to bring it up to standards. And I am worried about the floorboards and whether they can support the freezer.”

Dollar signs danced in my head. After leaving Mom and Dad's I'd driven to IKEA and purchased shelves for the basement winery. The more I thought about the addition of wine and cheeses, the more I liked it. The profit margin on Gus's wine, if I could survive the cash outlay, would be tremendous and might enable us to come out of this renovation a bit ahead of the game. “How much and how long?”

He shrugged. “A thousand for the wiring and the floor.”

“Can you be very specific? I'm counting pennies here.”

He sniffed. Shrugged. “It is hard to tell now.”

“Why? You said you've done this before.”

“It's an old building. There are always surprises.”

Dad had always said when you opened up an old building you never knew what you were going to find. I'd been hoping we'd catch a break.

“I need this bakery open and running in eleven days. If I am closed longer I will lose money I do not have. And I got a call from your pal Gus. He's headed this way with a thousand bottles of wine in two days.”

Jean Paul ran the unlit cigarette under his nose, inhaling the tobacco. “It will all come together. Do not worry.”

Easier said than done. This bakery supported Rachel and her girls, but it also had to feed the kid now. It had to make it.

“Jean Paul, you are going to get this job done. On time. And on budget. Figure out what must be cut from the budget to make this work.”

“Of course.”

“That's all you have to say?”

He rolled the unlit cigarette between his fingers. “What more is there?”

Clenching and unclenching my teeth, I held on to my temper as it struggled to break free. “Your answers are too quick and easy for me. I want more thought, more anguish.”

He arched a brow. “Americans love their drama.”

“The French have had their share.”

He shrugged. “I do not have time for this. I have work.”

“Right.”

Jean Paul was a mystery to me. Not much riled him. He was even philosophical about my smoking ban as long as he could retreat to the alley for his smoke.

Jean Paul turned back to his wires threaded through the exposed studs. “Leave.”

My skin bristled. “What?”

“There is no work for you here now and the stress is not good for you or the baby.”

My heart pounded in my ears. “The what?”

He looked back at me, an eyebrow cocked. “Please.”

A trio of arguments elbowed their way to the front of my brain, but logic quickly cast them aside. What am I going to say? “Is it that obvious?”

“To me, yes.”

“Am I getting fat?”

He hesitated as if sensing he'd entered a minefield of fat questions. “There is a glow.”

“A glow?” Artful dodge.

“Of course.”

I'd never thought I'd had any kind of glow. Jaundiced or green around the gills, yes. It's nice to think I'm glowing around someone. “Yeah, well don't tell anyone. At least for now.”

“Don't tell me. Tell your belly.”

“I am getting fat!”

Again he weaved out of the loaded question's path. “No. Now go.” He mumbled in French and waved me away.

“Fine.”

Outside the bakery the warm afternoon air greeted me with a soft breeze. With a queasy stomach refusing to let me paint or assemble shelves, I cut across Union Street toward the meandering waters of the Potomac River. The waters were offset by the clear blue sky stippled with clouds.

The tourism season was in full swing and the bike and walking paths along the river were growing congested. As a kid I didn't like the summer season, hating to share my city with strangers. But now when I saw the buzzing streets I thought of income for the bakery. The more, the merrier. My regret was that the bakery wasn't open.

A young couple walked along the path, hands clasped and bodies close. As the woman spoke, the man listened with the eagerness of a new lover. Occasionally he smiled as she raised her other hand to punctuate her story.

My thoughts went immediately to Gordon. We had been that couple in the very beginning when we'd met two years ago. We'd barely been able to keep our hands off of each other and when one talked the other listened with rapt interest.

And then life happened. He'd become closed off and consumed by work, and I'd taken his disinterest as rejection.

We got caught in a riptide of emotions and unspoken words, and we'd been pulled apart. As much as we wanted to return to the other, neither of us had the strength to fight the current.

After the breakup both of us had gone on with our lives, never realizing the same tides that pulled us apart had brought us back together here in Alexandria. We both had new lives, new challenges, and it seemed a new chance with each other.

And then the wave I'd never seen coming crashed on me and separated us again.

Alone now, I worried how I would pull off motherhood. I could manage any business, but a baby? There were so many ways I could screw this kid up, and it scared me.

My mom had taught me how to be a mother. Mom never ran, and no matter how hard I pushed or tested, she'd stood steadfast. I prayed her training was enough to overcome the runaway genetics I'd inherited from Terry.

I walked for another half hour, and then suddenly my energy plummeted. This was my new pattern: nausea all day, feel human for an hour, and then the exhaustion.

All but dragging myself back to the bakery, I pushed through the front door, anxious to collapse on my bed. The place was eerily quiet. No hammers. No customers. No nieces or sisters. The emptiness should have unsettled me but I was too tired to care.

I climbed the stairs and made it to my apartment. A glance toward the clock told me it was minutes after seven. When had I turned into a woman craving bedtime at seven? And then, uncaring for the answer, I collapsed onto my bed, my body aching with fatigue.

Sunlight still burned bright outside and I could hear children giggling on the street below. People from my old life would have laughed at me if they'd spotted me pulling the blanket over my head. I'd regularly burned the candle late into the night and laughed at those who said they needed eight hours' sleep. I'd had the nerve to call them old. Jeez. My old life was less than six months gone, but it might as well have been a lifetime.

I worked harder than I ever had and made a tenth of what I had before. And to add a cherry on top of this bitter dessert, I was knocked up.

If I'd had more energy, I'd have been freaking out right now. Hell, I didn't have the energy to strip off my clothes and put on pajamas. The kid wasn't even here, and it was already sucking the life right out of me.

Tomorrow I really needed to call Rachel's obstetrician. Maybe those supercharged vitamins they gave pregnant women would help.

A gentle breeze blew into my room. We'd had to turn the air-conditioning off during the renovation, and I thought now how lucky we'd been with the weather. Not blistering hot as it could be during a Virginia summer. But moderate days. Cool nights. And then my eyes drifted shut.

As the day floated further and further away, the darkness surrounded me and slowly closed in like a storm cloud. Fear and panic rose up, and as much as I wanted to run, my feet felt stuck to the ground. Trapped. And then out of the darkness I saw a woman. She was petite, small-boned with a flat belly, and her shiny blond hair is coiled into a bun. Jenna. Even if I'd not seen two pictures of her, I'd have known it was Jenna. Of course not a logical thought but many truths don't always make sense.

She looked directly at me, and she smiled. “I think you're going to have a girl.”

My hands slid to my gently rounded stomach. “How can you tell?”

“I just can.”

Mom had raised me never ever to ask a woman if she were pregnant.
Unless the baby's head is crowning, do not ask.
But that didn't stop me from glancing at her belly.

She smiled. “His name is Walt.”

“Who?”

“My son. His name is Walt. He looks like his father.”

“Where is your son?”

The light in her eyes faded. “I don't know.”

“Did you give him away for adoption?”

She shook her head. “They took him.”

A terrible sadness welled as I thought of her child being taken. “Who took him?”

“I don't know. But I hear him crying all the time, and I know I need to find him.”

“Why would they take him?”

She shook her head. “Don't let them take your baby.”

Startling awake, my hand slid to my stomach. My breathing was hard and fast. My heart rammed against my chest. For an instant I feared the baby was gone. The baby I didn't plan or want was gone and my heart broke.

And then the very most delicate sensation fluttered below my fingers, below my skin. Tiny, tiny, flickers before it stopped. Holding my breath, I waited for the petite bit of movement.

“Come on, kid. Throw me a bone.”

But the kid was mutinously silent. She wanted me to know she was there, but she wasn't taking requests.

The room was dark, the sun long since set. The streets were quiet and the moon full and bright. I laid back on my bed, my hands on my belly. In another life, Gordon would have loved this moment. He'd always wanted children and I'd been the one to shy away from children. He'd have coaxed the kid to move. He'd have nestled his head against my belly and spoken to her as if they'd been old friends.

Tears filled my eyes, and I was struck with a bone-deep loneliness. I wanted Gordon to wrap his arms around me and whisper words of love in my ear. I wanted him to tell me we were going to be fine.

But yesterday's memories of Gordon's stony features sent the fantasy skittering away. I had cut him so deep and inflicted so much pain he'd never forgive me.

Chapter Nine

Wednesday, 6:00
A.M.

10 days until grand reopening

Income Lost: $1,000

T
he next morning I rose early and settled into the office corner of my apartment. The small desk was overflowing with stacks of invoices and order forms and I realized working in my apartment wouldn't work. I needed to move the office to the basement. Granted, my commute would only be three flights of stairs, but it created some separation from the attic, and a little was better than none.

But for now, I'd suck it up and work in my room. Today, my plan was to dive into work and keep my mind busy until eight when I could call the OB's office and make an appointment. And then I really needed to paint or work on the basement. Sick or no, the clock was ticking, and I had no time left to waste.

When eight
A.M.
rolled around, I'd finished the last of the day's paperwork, and I dialed the doctor's office. The phone rang three times before I heard a brisk, “Westlake Obstetrics.”

I cleared my throat and resisted the urge to hang up. “This is Daisy McCrae. My sister Rachel Evans is a client of Dr. Westlake's.”

“Right. Preemie twins.”

“She's the one. She suggested I give you a call. I had a . . .” Saying the P-word was not getting easier. “I had a pregnancy test, and it was positive. I think I'm sixteen weeks along, and I need to connect with a doctor.”

“You're sure you're that far along?”

“Yes. I know to the day, hour, and second. It's been a crazy month or two, and I didn't notice all the changes.”

“Okay, let me check the schedule.” I heard the tap of computer keys in the background. “Can you come in today at five? She has a cancellation.”

“Today?”

“If you're sixteen weeks, the sooner the better.”

“No, I totally get it. I do.” I combed agitated fingers through my hair. “I'll be there.”

“You know where our offices are?”

“Still on King?”

“That's right.” I spent the next few minutes giving her my basic info and then rang off.

I leaned back in the chair, nervous energy swirling through me. An appointment with an OB made all this a little too official for my tastes. I was going public with my pregnancy.

With no more paperwork to distract me, I made my bed and cleaned my room, which took all of about ten minutes, and then my thoughts turned to the front of the bakery. Rachel had cleaned and prepped it, and now it was time to paint. My stomach roiled.

Ten minutes later I was in the shop, glass of ginger ale close as I opened the first can of paint. It's a butter yellow, cheery without trying, and I was certain it was going to brighten up the place.

After filling the paint pan, I dug out the new brushes from the hardware store bag and then positioned the stepladder in the corner of the room. The plan was to cut in and then roll.

It felt good to have physical work. In the last couple of months I'd grown used to the manual labor demands of the bakery. I liked to keep busy and not think so much because I spent too much time in my head, worrying, which was why I loved finance. All the numbers kept my brain busy and distracted.

But bakery work required not just your head, but your back, arms, and pieces of your heart. At first the work had been painful and too demanding. I'd hated it. But somewhere along the way I'd grown used to and now I even liked it.

A rap on the front door had me turning. A regular bakery customer, Mrs. Ably, smiled and waved me over to the door. A bright blue dress accentuated gray, tight curls framing her round, well-lined face.

I never professed to be good with people, but I liked Mrs. Ably. She always had a nice word, and on Rachel's birthday she had brought her a cake. Rachel had been so touched she'd cried. That cake had won big points in my book.

Smiling, I crossed to the door and opened it. “Hey, Mrs. A. What's up?”

Petite, she favored loose-fitting dresses and very sensible brown shoes. “Daisy, why aren't you open?”

I pointed to the
RENOVATION
sign in the window. “We are moving a wall and adding a freezer and a wine room. We'll be closed for about another week.”

She frowned as she studied the sign. “I don't ever remember this bakery being closed. In the snowstorm of '96 your dad was open.”

“I know, and I hated closing. But the health department doesn't like construction and baking at the same time.”

She waved a bent, heavily veined hand. “Oh, for heaven's sake. A little dust never killed anyone.”

“Hey, I hear ya, but the Man says no so I gotta listen. You should love our new look.”

She glanced beyond me at the lines of yellow trim clashing with the existing blue. “I like the old one.”

“Give the new one a try.” She lingered and I couldn't help but ask. “What were you looking for today?”

“Chocolate chip cookies. My grandkids are coming into town, and I'd like to have cookies for them.”

“I don't have cookies made.”

She frowned. “Oh.”

“I do have frozen dough in the freezer. They are all mixed and scooped. All you have to do is bake them off.”

Her gaze narrowed as her lips curled into a conspirator's smile. “And the house would smell like I'd been slaving all day.”

I smiled leaning closer. “Exactly. Your grandkids will never know you and I had this little exchange.”

She winked. “I like your thinking, Daisy.”

I nodded. “Come on in and I'll fix you right up.” She came into the shop, and I locked the door behind her.

As she took stock of the empty cases and the pictures off the wall, I moved toward the saloon doors. “How many cookies you need?”

She traced her finger over the cupcake clock resting on the display case. “A couple of dozen.”

“Be right back.” Through the doors, I nodded to Jean Paul, who was studying a wall joist. An unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth as he frowned and deliberated on the wood as if it held all the secrets of the world. I pushed the plastic off the freezer and pulled out a ziplock bag full of scooped cookies. There was more than enough to cover Mrs. Ably's needs. I scrounged a USB bag and dropped the frozen cookies inside.

When I came out she met my gaze but as I moved toward her, bag in hand, her smile faltered and turned questioning. She studied me like a hawk, and I found myself straightening my shoulders and holding the bag in front of my belly. The kid wasn't going to stay in hiding much longer. I dreaded the questions, but refused to worry. The kid and I would have to figure it out.

“Here ya go.” I handed her the bag and resisted the urge to cover my belly.

Mrs. Ably glanced in the bag. “All I have to do is put it on a baking sheet.”

“Heat your oven to three hundred and fifty degrees and then slide your pan of cookies in the oven. Be sure to leave a couple of inches between the cookies because they will spread a little. Bake ten to twelve minutes.”

“I appreciate it, Daisy. How much do I owe you?”

“Not a dime. It's my gift to you.”

“Honey, that is so sweet. But I can't take this.”

“Sure you can. And I also expect you to take full credit for those cookies. In fact, splash a little flour on your sleeve. It'll add to the slaved-over-a-hot-stove look.”

She grinned. “Very clever of you.”

“I'm a wily one.”

She studied my face and though she kept her gaze high, I sensed she'd already inventoried me from head to toe. “So how are you adjusting to work here at the bakery?”

“It's good. I'm getting the hang of it.”

“I knew you'd jump in with both feet. You were high energy even as a kid.”

Jump in with both feet. My mother had dragged me in kicking and screaming. “The place needed a bit of a boost.”

“And you're feeling okay?”

“Right as rain.” Mrs. Ably had her fingertips on the heartbeat of Alexandria. I wasn't ready to be grist for the mill.

“And what about Rachel?”

“The girls are on a vacation with my parents, and she's enjoying a bit of quiet time. And Margaret's working a temporary job on an archeology site.”

Mrs. Ably shook her head. “The girl does love her bones and buried treasure.”

There was a loud crash in the back room followed by a good bit of muttering in French. “Jean Paul.”

She nodded and leaned forward to whisper. “He's French.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I hope he's more friendly than the other baker. He was always so touchy. And French.”

Henri, Jean Paul's uncle, had been with the Union Street Bakery for nearly twenty years. He'd been as indispensable as he had been consistently crusty. And since I adored predictable, his demeanor had never bothered me. Jean Paul was not like Henri. I'd yet to get a read on him, and so I kept my distance.

“But Henri was a master baker. And his nephew is also talented.”

“Well, then, honey, that's all that really counts.”

“Enjoy those cookies.”

“And what are you doing with all your free time?”

“After I paint this room from top to bottom, I'm going to tackle the basement. I'll need to get the old boxes and junk cleaned out and install shelves.”

“I hope you're not going to work too hard. And if there is any heavy lifting you let the Frenchman do it. It's the
least
he can do.”

Her conspirator's tone had me hesitating. Okay, she suspected I might be pregnant. Mothers had a way of spotting would-be moms at a glance. But did she also think Jean Paul was the father?

The Alexandria gristmill ground round and round in my head. “You know he and I are just coworkers, right?”

She studied me close. “Really?”

“Really.”

This time she did let her gaze roam my body, and this time it sharpened when it met mine. It was killing her not to ask. I think in this moment she'd have given big money to ask,
Well, then, who did the deed?

But Mrs. Ably was too much of a lady to ask and until I talked to Mom I couldn't say much more.

“Well, Daisy, I want to thank you for the cookie dough. And when your mom gets back in town I'd love to take her to lunch.”

I'd been so worried about Gordon and my reactions to the kid I'd not thought about everyone else's. I suspected there'd be some fierce conjecturing. Alexandria was a big city in many ways but in this part of Old Town we were a small town.

This would be the third time I'd been the topic of conversation. The first had been when Terry abandoned me at the bakery all those years ago. There'd been a big search for her and any of my biological relatives. No one had stepped forward. Her abandonment had made local newspaper headlines, but our reunion last month had been painfully quiet.

The second time I made the gossip mill had been when I was seventeen. It was before my eighteenth birthday and a woman had come into the shop whom I was sure was my birth mother. She looked and sounded like me. And I'd been so taken by her I'd asked her point-blank if she was looking for me. Are you my birth mother? Long story short, the poor woman had come in for a cookie and had never expected to be lambasted by a crazed teen. When she'd left I'd been bawling right there in the middle of the shop. Mom was trying to comfort me. It had been a mess.

And now I'd returned to center stage once again. Pregnant.

* * *

Seconds after Mrs. Ably left, Rachel appeared. “I'm here to help.”

I glanced toward the neatly applied blue tape hugging each seam in the room. “Looks like you've been on the job while I was MIA. Thanks.”

“With the girls gone I'm a little at loose ends.”

“No more clothes to toss?”

“None. But I spent yesterday cleaning. I feel caught up.”

“How does that feel?”

“Good.”

I picked up my tray of yellow paint and my paintbrush, ready to climb back up on the ladder and cut corners.

“Paint fumes aren't good for the baby,” Rachel said.

I glanced around, half expecting to see Mrs. Ably. “Don't say the B-word.”

She arched a brow. “Not talking about it doesn't mean the B isn't smelling fumes.”

“We'll keep the windows and doors open, and, remember, we bought the nontoxic paint that doesn't smell.”

She picked up a can and read the back label. “Seems like any smell would be bad for the baby.”

“I'll get a fan. This is our only time to paint.”

“So what do I do?”

I took the can, opened it, and poured it into the paint pan. “I cut corners and you roll.”

Rachel shook her head and reached for the brush. “I'm a master at edging cakes. I'll cut in at the corners.”

I handed her the brush. “Have at it.”

And so she cut neat, precise lines while I rolled the long strokes that connected her edgings. We worked in silence for several hours. Painting was a simple, mindless task for the most part, and right now I craved simple. The smell was a little strong but with the door open and a breeze blowing I managed.