Sweet Expectations (15 page)

To be sure, I blocked her retreat. “It's a quasi date, Rachel. You are not being fed to the lions.”

Her grin broadened. “I'm not so sure.”

“I am. Go. Have fun. And know I'll be waiting up polishing Dad's shotgun.”

Nervous laughter bubbled. “Great.”

Simon wore a blue sport jacket, white shirt, and khakis. All looked sharp and expensive. Good. Anyone dating my sister needed to bring his A game. “Want me to come out and have a word with your young man?”

“Yes. I mean, no.” She straightened her shoulders. “No. I got this.”

I waved to Simon and smiled.

He smiled back.

“Of course you do,” I said. “It will be fun.”

She released a breath, plastered on a bigger smile, and moved toward the door. “See you in a few hours.”

“Take your time. The kid and I are going to hang. Maybe bake a Jenna cookie.”

“Good.” The far-off quality of her voice told me she'd barely heard.

As I watched Simon escort her to the car, open her door and wait until she was settled before sliding behind the wheel, I realized we were both entering new phases of our lives. Motherhood was my next destination and the single girl's life was Rachel's. We'd flipped roles. Two years ago we'd have laughed at such a notion as we held on tight to the lives we had. But the universe didn't so much care about what we wanted. It did what it did.

As much as I wanted to wish back my old life, to do that meant wishing away the kid, and I was growing fond of the little gal.

In the kitchen I could see Jean Paul had roughed in the area where the new freezer would go. Soon we'd be painting in here. A good thing. The new freezer came in days, and if we missed our delivery window the warehouse couldn't guarantee when they could deliver next. Gus's wine came in three days. Time enough for me to build the shelves in the basement.

So many pieces had to fall together to make this place happen.

* * *

I startled awake, expecting darkness. Since returning to the Union Street Bakery, I'd grown accustomed to waking up in the inky black of night. When I'd made a comment about this last week, Dad had laughed and welcomed me to the Baker's Club.

So as I looked around, I saw the dimming summer light seeping in my window and my laptop resting at the foot of the bed. I struggled to collect my bearings. The clock on the nightstand read 8:59
P.M.
Shoving a hand through my hair, I realized I'd not slept through the night but had dozed off right after filling out the electrical inspection application.

I moved to rise but a heavy weight pressed me into the mattress. It pushed the air from my lungs. I tried to rise again and failed. Instead of panic, my annoyance flared.

No one touched me, but I sensed someone was in the room. I searched the shadowy corners just out of reach of the fading sun.

Someone was close. Watching. Judging. The air around me shifted, thickened and brushed my skin like a spiderweb.

Whenever I'm scared, I don't cower. I come out swinging. A survival mechanism developed at the ripe old age of three when Terry sauntered out of my life. Fight first. Worry second.

And now with a kid on board, I had more to lose and much more to protect.

In a clipped and angry voice, I said, “What do you want?”

The air around me grew heavier and colder. However, instead of sensing demanding energy, I detected a desperate and pleading quality.

Come at me with both barrels, and I'll go out of my way to nail you. But if you give me a hurt-puppy vibe, I melt. This very chink in my armor explained my current position at the bakery. If Mom had demanded my return, I'd have refused. If she'd shouted, I'd have yelled right back. If she'd insisted, I'd have said no.

But she hadn't pushed at all.

Instead, she'd plied me with daiquiris and asked nicely.
Your sister needs your help.
Mom knew me. Knew I caved to kindness. And she'd used it.

I yearned to pull the covers over my head and ignore this new desperate energy pulsing around me. But the piteous urgency strengthened, and so did my resolve to dismiss it.

“What do you want?” My voice lost its edge.

Find him.

It wasn't like I heard the words. No creepy far-off whisper to be mistaken for the wind. No chill cut through me. Just a
knowing
.

Find him.

“Find who? Who am I looking for?”

My heart thumped in my chest as I waited and listened, but no answer came.
Find him.

“Specifics please.”

Find him.

The pressure weighing me lifted. Frustrated, I sat up and searched the darkness. Silence radiated in the room. Waited. Listened. Nothing.

Leaning forward to click on a light, my fingers reached for the switch, when my stomach tumbled, turned and tumbled again. My breath caught in my throat. The voice forgotten, my attention shifted to the kid.

Had it moved?

Carefully I slid my hands under my T-shirt and laid them on my naked belly. Heart beating, I closed my eyes, turning all my energy inward as I waited, barely breathing. And then when I thought it had all been imagination or worse, gas, my stomach fluttered again. The movement was soft but distinct. The kid had moved.

My throat clogged with emotion and tears filled my eyes. I was dumbstruck. The other day when it had moved the sensation had been featherlight and could have been dismissed. Not now. There was definitely a person living inside of me and she was now moving.

I rubbed my belly in a soothing way. I thought about Gordon and what he would have said if the kid had been our kid and it had moved under his tanned, calloused palm. He'd have been thrilled. Tears would have welled in his eyes because Gordon had always been a softer touch than me. He liked all these mushy moments, and when we'd been together I often teased him about it. But not now. Now I wished with all I had he was here, and we'd shared this moment with the kid.

A tear rolled down the side of my cheek and for the first time since I found out about the kid I let the chained emotions free. Rolling on my side, I cried, not caring this time if it meant I was strong or weak. I didn't care. All I knew was I'd experienced a most miraculous moment, and there was no one to share it with. I was all by myself. Again. And for the first time in a long time I couldn't convince myself being alone was okay. I ached for Gordon.

I'm not sure how long I lay there letting the tears flow. I didn't bother to censor myself. I allowed the feelings to tumble freely.

My hands curled on my belly. “I promise you, kid, we'll figure this out. You are going to have a good life. I won't ever leave you.”

Terry might have said the same words to me. But somehow I doubted it. We looked alike in so many ways, but I was stronger than Terry.

With renewed confidence, I swung my feet over the side of the twin bed. The floor warmed my feet.

Rising, I moved to my computer and opened e-mail. There wasn't any correspondence from Terry. Not surprised, I typed,

I don't think it's asking a lot to have my genetic background. I want to know who my birth father is. I've tried to play nice, but I've run out of patience. Either tell me who he is/was, or I'll be on your doorstep asking the question in front of your family.

I signed the message “Daisy, your daughter.”
Your daughter
might have been a little snippy and over the top, but I didn't care. I wanted information for the sake of the kid and I wasn't messing around. I hit Send.

I leaned back in the chair and for the first time since I'd met Terry, I didn't let guilt or worry overtake me. Maybe I'd grown more accepting of my birth-mother reunion. Maybe it was the late hour. Or maybe the kid deserved to know as much as I did.

Chapter Thirteen

Wednesday, 11:00
P.M.

9 days, 8 hours until grand reopening

Income Lost: $1,500

R
achel arrived back at the bakery after eleven. She was so grateful to be on home turf, she almost wept. Too nervous to eat all night, her stomach now growled as she moved into the kitchen to snag frozen cookie dough or day-old bread.

Unable to face the silence of her apartment, she tossed her purse and keys on the counter and pushed through the saloon doors. Switching on the light, she cringed at the chaos. A week ago she could locate any pot, pan, or spoon in this room. The kitchen had been her friend and her companion. Demanding and difficult at times, it was always here waiting for her. Now the place was as much a stranger to her as she was to herself.

She stepped around boxes and a circular saw and opened the stainless steel fridge to see bottles of wine and exotic cheeses. Jean Paul. The invader. The one that didn't belong.

Unable to find the cookie dough, she grabbed the wine and cheese, scrounged a Union Street Bakery mug and sat on a stool by the sawhorse worktable.

She filled the mug full of wine, and as she raised it to her lips she heard footsteps. Turning, she saw Jean Paul, unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, staring at her. He wore a worn, brown leather jacket, jeans, and a black T-shirt, and in his hand he held a mesh sack filled with fruit and vegetables.

“What are you doing here?” She drank from the mug, enjoying the wine all the more because she'd taken it from him. In her mind, he'd taken her kitchen so turnabout was fair play.

Jean Paul came and went as he pleased much like a stray cat. Whether it was eleven o'clock at night or two in the morning on his day off, if he needed something, he appeared.

“You are up late.” He glanced at his bottle, which she'd left on the counter, and set his bags beside it before grabbing a second mug. He filled his to the halfway point. “You like my wine?”

She smiled. “It's very nice.”

Grunting, he took a sip and nodded his approval. “Life is too short to drink bad wine.”

She stared into the depths of her cup. “Life is too short. But yet there are times when it drags on endlessly.”

He arched a brow. “It slows when you allow it to dictate. If you are in charge, it does not dawdle.”

She lifted the mug to her lips and paused. “Is it that way for you? Are you always in charge?”

“I do not worry about fast or slow. In charge or not. I enjoy.” He sipped his wine and then from the sack pulled out a square of cheese wrapped in wax paper. He unwrapped it and then broke off a piece, which he offered to her.

Rachel took the cheese and bit into it. Creamy and buttery, it all but melted in her mouth. “Life is also too short for bad cheese.”

He held up his glass to her. “Of course.”

A smile teased her lips. “So what are you doing here?”

“I came to work. I'm used to working at this time of night. Each night I arrive before my shift and enjoy a café or a wine and a bit of cheese. I think about the dough, and then when it's time to cook I am ready.”

Jean Paul had been working at the Union Street Bakery for over a month. His Uncle Henri had been a family friend and bakery employee for over twenty years, and when Henri recently retired he'd sent Jean Paul. That had been enough for Daisy, who'd been in desperate need of a baker. No resume necessary. Rachel had been grateful for his hire and resentful. He was yet another change in a life with too many changes.

The wine eased the tension in her muscles and wiped away some of the awkwardness. Her curiosity about him grew. “Have you heard from Henri recently?”

Jean Paul shrugged. “From what my mother says he is well. Visits the local bakeries in Nice and complains about the quality of the baking. Says bakers today don't understand tradition.”

Rachel missed the old Frenchman. He'd been silent and stoic while he'd been here, but there'd been a steadiness about him that she'd not really appreciated until Mike died. “Sounds like Henri. Has he asked about us?”

“We have not spoken. I would have to ask my mother. They talk weekly.”

“Please tell your mother I miss Henri.”

He studied her with dark eyes filled with interest. “You and Henri were good friends?”

“I can't say I knew him all that well. My dad hired him, and he barely spoke to any of us. But Dad always said Henri was a master in the kitchen. No one baked better than Henri.”

He tore off a piece of cheese for himself and took a measured bite as if he were analyzing it. “So, what are you doing here? There is no work for you this time of night.”

The question had Rachel wondering who owned this kitchen. Perhaps at this time of night it was Jean Paul's and the space shifted back to her control at four in the morning. “Can't sleep. Thought I'd eat and maybe bake. But I forgot the kitchen had been pulled apart.”

“You bake to relax?”

“You'd think I wouldn't, but it soothes me.”

He shrugged as if the idea made perfect sense. “And why do you need soothing?”

“A long story.”

He swept his hand before him as if reminding her they were two cooks in a nonworking kitchen. “I believe we have time.”

The wine warmed her and allowed a smile. “I'd rather talk about you.”

He arched a brow. He didn't tell her no, nor did he invite a question. So Jean Paul. So French.

Rachel sipped more wine, feeling bolder and more relaxed. “So what are you going to do tonight? There is no bread to mix.”

“Fixing the cracks in the wall. Making it smooth before we paint.”

Rachel glanced in his direction toward the drywall. “You are sanding.”

“Yes.”

“Ah.” There'd be no cooking here tonight and she knew nothing of carpentry. It made sense for her to leave and go to her apartment. Tomorrow would be a long day, and she'd need all her sleep. But a restless energy churned her gut, and she sensed if she laid her head on her pillow her mind would swirl with all the what-ifs birthed tonight with Simon.

“I think I will clean out the spices. No sense restocking what is old.”

He studied her as he sipped his wine. “It is a job that can wait, don't you think? Not so good to have spices mixing with drywall dust.”

Rachel frowned. He made sense, of course, but she didn't want to go to her apartment. She could find Daisy but her sister had looked exhausted and no doubt had fallen asleep. Without the kitchen, without Mike, and without the girls, what would she do with her time?

“I could help you sand.”

His gaze slid over her. “You are dressed for the evening. Not work.”

“I could put on an apron.”

Again a sly smile quirked. “Are you so desperate to be with me you will sand walls in the middle of the night?”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. “I am not desperate to be with you.”

He set down his cup and shrugged off his jacket. Lean muscles rippled under a snug T-shirt as he walked toward the door and with great care hung his jacket on a hook. He moved like a cat that liked to be admired and petted.

Rachel stared at his butt and broad shoulders built by years of manual labor. Even as she imagined touching those shoulders, her mind scurried to a safe topic. “Will the wall be ready to paint soon?” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “The freezer arrives day after tomorrow.”

He turned as if sensing her gaze on him. For a moment, dark eyes held hers. In the mocha depths she saw raw sexual energy. “It will be dry by tomorrow, and I will paint tomorrow night and then your new freezer will have its place.”

Her mouth grew as dry as stale flour. “Ah.”

“Why are you so dressed up? Is it for me?”

Rachel straightened, embarrassed because she couldn't stop ogling. She reached for her wine, lifted it to her lips and then thought better of having more. “I had a date tonight.”

He arched a brow, curious now. “Ah. A date. What man took you out?”

His proprietary tone thrilled and intrigued her. “Simon Davenport.”

He folded those lean muscled arms over his chest as if posturing. “He is a client, no?”

“A very good client.”

He did not seem impressed. “So where did this Simon take you?”

She traced the rim of her cup. “The wine festival.”

He studied her. “And the date was not to your liking?”

A small shrug lifted her shoulders. “It wasn't bad.” A sudden memory flashed in her mind. “No, it was bad. So very bad.”

Dark brows rose. “Why? Was he terrible to you?”

“Oh, no. God, no. He was the perfect gentleman. I, however, was a mess. I couldn't stop talking about the girls and Mike.” She closed her eyes as if trying to will away a memory. “I could hear myself talking about my dead husband and the little voice in my head told me to shut up, but I couldn't.”

He leaned a fraction closer, his gaze settling on her mouth. “And what did this Simon say?”

“He barely spoke. He listened because I couldn't stop talking. I know I bored him to tears. I know he was so grateful to drop me off and run as far away from me as he could.”

He studied her a beat. “Did he kiss you?”

“What?” Heat burned her cheeks. “No.”

Jean Paul grunted.

Rachel leaned toward him. “What does that mean? Is that bad or good?”

He shrugged. “I would have kissed you.”

A laugh startled from her. “You'd have kissed me knowing I was a blathering idiot much like I am now.”

He unfolded his arms and picked up her hand. Slowly he traced her palm. “You are a very beautiful idiot.”

She frowned, not sure if she should be mad or pleased. But as he continued to trace her palm with his calloused fingertip, her thoughts scattered and ran like frightened rabbits, leaving her alone with a forgotten sensation in the pit of her belly.

It had been so long since Rachel had been kissed or been held by a man. So long since she'd lost herself in an embrace and given in to pure sensation.

Simon had been utterly polite when all she'd wanted him to do was take charge of the conversation as Mike would have. But he hadn't. He'd simply listened as she'd dithered.

Jean Paul raised her hand to his lips and he kissed her palm.

As much as logic told her to pull away, she didn't. She liked being touched, liked the sexual need growing and the fact that in that moment she could melt into the floor from wanting.

Jean Paul kissed her palm again and then he kissed her wrist and the crease at her elbow.

She kept her gaze on him, not sure if she fully trusted herself or him. Of herself, she feared she'd lose her nerve and hide. Of him, she feared he'd stop.

He shifted, tugged her arm until she stepped toward him and they were less than an inch apart. Their lips did not touch, but barely a whisper separated them.

“Kiss me,” he said.

She wasn't expecting words and had to shift her brain back to conscious thought so she could speak. “What?”

“Kiss me.”

If he'd ordered her to alter a recipe or change her menu she'd have argued with great passion. But he wasn't asking about ingredients or baked goods. He wanted her to kiss him.

Her heart thundered so hard in her chest, she feared it would burst free. She was so scared. So unsure. And so wanting this moment. And he was Jean Paul—confident, patient, and waiting.

Finally, she moistened her lips, leaned in, and touched her lips to his. It was a feather-soft touch. Maybe not an official kiss. But skin did touch skin.

He put his hand at the base of her neck and pressed her close until her lips flattened against his. As they did so, he opened his mouth and teased the underside of her top lip with his tongue.

She opened her mouth, awkward and unsure, as if she'd been transported back to high school—the last time she'd known such unexplained and terrifying wonder.

Rachel leaned into the kiss, moved to deepen. She wrapped her arms around his neck. She didn't know where this was going and she did not care.

And that's when she heard the kitchen door open and Daisy say, “Really?
Really?
What are you doing?”

Rachel froze. Stiffened. She was mortified.

Jean Paul, relaxed as if he did not have a care in the world, looked at Daisy. “Isn't it clear? I am kissing your sister.”

* * *

From Rachel's apartment refrigerator, I grabbed eggs and butter and set them on the counter.

“They really need to be room temperature,” Rachel said as she sipped her mug of wine.

“I've never been good at waiting. I can cheat the butter a bit in the microwave and the eggs will have to find a way to blend cold.”

“Patience is a must.”

Mise en place
—everything in its place. It's a lesson Dad grilled into me since I could stand on a stool beside him in the kitchen. No matter how reckless or rushed, I took the time to line up the sugar, vanilla, salt, baking powder, and nuts.