Sweet Expectations (28 page)

But he had loved me. He was a crappy communicator like me.

And so when he pulled up in front of the bakery one minute before eleven, a surge of well-being and love filled me. Since our move to Alexandria we were both trying. It hadn't been all smooth waters, but for a time we'd been doing really well.

If not for the teeny, weeny problem of me carrying another man's baby we'd have been perfect.

The devil is in the details, which is a misquote. The actual line has to do with God being in the details. It didn't really matter because the little detail in question wasn't so little.

Tossing him a wave, I hurried outside, opened the front door of his truck, and slid into the seat. Weeks ago it would have been natural to lean over and kiss him. I wanted to kiss him but wasn't sure if I should . . .

Was I overthinking this? Should I go ahead and kiss him?

“Good morning again,” I said.

He studied me a beat. “So what conversation are you having in your head?”

I laughed. “How do you know I was having a conversation in my head?”

“You've that panicked, far-off look. You get that look when you're thinking.”

“What does that look like?”

He made a face, which I was sure did not look like my expression.

I laughed. “I was thinking I would have kissed you if it were a couple of weeks ago. That I'd be totally comfortable and not tense.”

His hand rested casually on the steering wheel, but his eyes bored into me. “You could kiss me.”

The rough timbre of his voice had my toes tingling. “I could?”

“Sure.”

“But . . .”

A brow arched. “Has the baby somehow damaged your lips?”

God bless him, he was trying. I moistened my lips and pretended to inspect them. “No. I don't think so.”

He sat still as a stone, not moving toward me. If I wanted this I would have to make the big move. Moistening my lips again, I scooted across the seat, glanced into his steady gaze for any sign of doubt and when I saw none, I leaned into him and kissed him softly on the lips. The touch was gentle and tentative like a couple of middle school kids. But sweet quickly warmed to hot when Gordon slid his hand to my waist. My pulse throbbed under his fingertips as I leaned into the kiss hoping to deepen it, and the baby kicked. Hard. So hard we both felt it.

He straightened but didn't remove his hand. “She kicked the last time I touched you.”

I glanced at his tanned, lean fingers lying over my full belly. “She seems to be trying to figure you out.”

He nodded, staring at my belly. “Looks like she and I are in the same boat. We both love Mommy but aren't sure if we can love each other.”

He was being honest and I appreciated that. But it stung to think the two people I now loved most in the world might not ever like each other. “I'm hoping when you two meet you'll find a way to like each other.”

He nodded. “Me, too.”

His honesty stinging, I patted him on the hand and then slid to my seat, clicking the seat belt in place. “Ready?”

Frowning, he studied me. “I hurt your feelings.”

“Yeah, a little.” I'd vowed my days of pretending problems didn't exist had ended. The phrase “Put your money where your mouth is” resonated. “But I appreciate the effort you're making today. You could have dumped me and run for the hills.”

His arm rested on the back of the seat, his fingertips brushing my shoulder. “I want to figure this out, Daisy. I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I want to try.”

“For today let's not worry about the baby or what's next. Let's go to Winchester and see if we can solve a mystery.”

He nodded, a smile teasing the edge of his lips. “You sound like Nancy Drew.”

A laugh bubbled. “If Nancy was as curious about her cases as I am about Jenna, then maybe I finally get ol' Nancy. As a kid, I read a couple of her books, but she annoyed the hell out of me.”

Laughing, he pulled into traffic. “Why is that?”

“Perfect hair, perfect grades, always had the right answer while I was schlepping around with twenty extra pounds, always angry and without a clue of who I was.”

“You've come a long way.”

“Let's hope.”

The drive around the beltway and then out I-66 west was uneventful though not particularly scenic. But I was grateful there was no traffic, and the day was pretty. It took under an hour before Gordon pulled into the city limits of Winchester.

I dug my phone out of my purse. “I entered her address on my phone before I left the bakery, so here's hoping GPS can find her.”

Gordon's wrist rested casually over the steering wheel. Dark shades covered his eyes. Blond hair brushed his collar. And he looked as if he had no care in the world. “This is your show, Daisy. I'm the driver.”

He looked so sexy and cool. It would be easy to forget about Jenna, Walter, and Joey and focus on us. But as much as I wanted to toss every bit of my life aside but him, I couldn't.

And so I gave him not-so-perfect directions leading us around the outskirts of the town of Winchester past the rows of strip malls and box stores and farm chemical suppliers. Finally, we looped around and headed out toward a rural route cutting through rolling green hills dotted with apple trees.

Gordon seemed content to drive and enjoy the views and the nice weather. I, as always, grew restless without the buzz of conversation and needed to fill the silence.

Searching for a neutral topic, I rejected talk of the weather, choosing an equally banal subject. “Did you know Winchester is noted for its apples?”

He kept his gaze ahead but his lips quirked as if he'd expected I couldn't take the silence for long. “I did not know.”

“Lots of apples. Rachel buys apples from a guy out this way. She makes apple pies at Thanksgiving. Margaret says after last Thanksgiving she never wants to see another apple again. Said her left hand could have passed for Captain Hook's claw by the time she was done last year.”

His head cocked like it did when he was thinking big picture. “So you gonna make the pies this year?”

“I suppose so. It's all hands on deck when the holiday season starts. And now that we have our fancy new freezer in place we can make the pies ahead and freeze them.”

“That doesn't mess with the taste?” He had a knack for sounding interested no matter what I babbled about.

“I don't think so but I know we will be taste testing in the fall. Rachel and I will figure it out. And did I mention we also had a couple of e-mail orders today for the frozen cookie dough?”

“I didn't realize you sold frozen dough.”

“We don't, or didn't. Kinda fell into that one last week but it seems to be catching on.” I shook my head. “People like the idea of bringing the bakery home and baking without the work.”

“Bring our bakery home. Sounds like a slogan.”

“Maybe.” His offhand comment had me thinking. “What if we not only baked and froze the pies ahead, but cookies and maybe some bread dough? Maybe cakes. What if we packaged holiday desserts in a box and sold them before Christmas? I've been worried about what we're going to do this Christmas, in case I'm out of commission earlier than I expected.”

Tension rippled through him but he kept his tone light. “It's good to be thinking ahead.”

Sorry I'd taken a wrong turn in the conversation, I glanced at my phone and then at the road ahead. “According to the phone we should be turning up ahead.”

His gaze followed the direction of my finger, which had zeroed in on a rusted mailbox leaning slightly to the left. By the looks there'd been a name painted on it but the lettering had long ago faded and chipped.

He slowed and we both peered up the long, graveled driveway snaking up the hill. By the driveway was a large sign that read
Posted
. Beside it another read
No Trespassing
.

Gordon slid his sunglasses on top of his head and glanced at me. “Doesn't look very welcoming.”

“I don't think those signs are for us.”

“Really? What kind of strangers do you think they might be referring to?”

“Bad strangers. We are good strangers.”

He chuckled. “Right. Good strangers from Alexandria bring obscure questions about a woman who may or may not have lived here seventy plus years ago.”

“Well, if it were me living up on that hill and seventy years had passed and someone had information about my long-dead sister, I sure would want to know. Wouldn't you?”

“Maybe.”

“Gordon. You wouldn't want to know?”

“Not necessarily.”

I was so starved for information about my biological family that his viewpoint was foreign to me. “I couldn't imagine anyone not wanting to gather every morsel of information.”

“Not all information adds value.”

I straightened the yellow bow on the box of cookies. “How do you know?”

He shook his head. “You think more than I do.”

“You can trace your line back to the
Mayflower
. You have all the pieces.”

“True.” Again, he tossed me that heart-stopping smile. “Let's find out what they say.”

I relaxed back into the seat. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

He shifted into first and drove up the hill. Gravel crunched under the tires, and I stared out at the fields covered with tall grass and willowy dandelions reaching toward the hot sun.

As the truck rounded a corner I spotted a dilapidated barn to the right. Ravaged by time, the main support beam had collapsed long ago, pulling the building in on itself. Weeds grew up through the sunbaked beams covered with faded patches of red paint. But set against the crystal-blue sky it had its own kind of beauty. Old and broken, the barn still had a presence that telegraphed it belonged.

Gordon didn't say a word as we climbed the gravel driveway. He played along, keeping his good humor, but I knew he thought I'd lost my mind. The Daisy he'd known in Washington, D.C., would never have put herself out like this. Sure that Daisy was a ballbuster professionally and would go toe-to-toe with the toughest brokers or bankers, but when it came to personal issues, Daisy never stuck her neck out. That Daisy bristled at the first sign of emotional turmoil. In so many ways, she was so fragile.

And here I was six months out of D.C. with my neck stuck out so far metaphorically with Gordon and Jenna's family a slight chop would sever my head from my body. And I was oddly okay with the risk. These last months, meeting Terry, connecting with my family, had made me stronger.

Gordon rounded a second corner and this time we came upon a white farmhouse. Clay planters filled with tall, full marigolds stood silent and welcoming at the foot of three steps leading up to a deep, tongue-and-groove porch that wrapped around the front of the house. Twin rockers swayed ever so slightly in the breeze on the porch by floor-to-ceiling windows flanking a large black front door. A simple brass knocker hung on the door.

Faced with the reality of speaking to perfect strangers about a dead woman had my stomach rolling. “The flowers look welcoming.”

Gordon parked the car. “Yeah. And the house looks nice and there isn't a sign that says
Warning
.”

I smiled. “So basically the house is saying it wants us here.”

“As long as Freddy Krueger doesn't answer the front door we should be good.”

“Right.” I slid out of the front seat, box in hand, and met Gordon in front of the truck. Together the two of us walked up to the front door. I searched for a bell but when I didn't see one, I opened the screened door and rapped the knocker against the door a couple of times. I slowly closed the screened door, and we both took a step back. With Freddy Krueger still in mind I wondered how fast I could make it to the truck in a full-on sprint.

Gordon smiled as if he'd read my mind. “I'd beat you to the truck. But don't worry, I wouldn't drive off until you have at least one foot in the front seat.”

The tension knotting my back eased. “Thanks. But I'd beat you.”

“You're pregnant and a girl.”

The pregnant reference came easier and easier to both of us. “My survival instinct is so honed right now it's as sharp as a razor. You wouldn't stand a chance.”

He grinned when we both heard footsteps in the entryway. Seconds later we saw the rustle of curtains to the right of the door and then heard a lock click open. Slowly the door opened and instead of finding ourselves face-to-face with a fictional killer, we were greeted by an elderly woman.

She barely stood over five feet. Thinning white hair was tied back in a bun and wrinkles deepened the lines around her eyes and mouth. Laugh lines, I thought as I stared into her clear green eyes.

“I don't entertain solicitors,” the woman said in a crisp voice.

“We aren't solicitors, ma'am. We're from Alexandria. My name is Daisy McCrae. I manage the Union Street Bakery. And this is Gordon Singletary, a . . .” Who was this man standing next to me? “. . . a good friend of mine. We came to ask you about a recipe box.”

A slight cock of the woman's head conveyed annoyance more than curiosity. “I don't know about a recipe box.”

She didn't make a move to open the screen door, and I didn't ask her to. This had to be so weird. I dug in my satchel purse and held it up. “We were renovating the bakery and taking out walls last week. We found this box in the wall. It belonged to a woman who used to work at the bakery. Her name was Jenna Davis.”

The old woman's gaze sharpened as she dropped it from my face to the box. “How do you know the box belonged to Jenna?”

Yes, she looked at me like I was crazy, but I also knew in an instant she recognized Jenna's name. Excitement rushed through me. “You knew Jenna?”

The older woman pursed her lips, but her gaze remained on the box. “I didn't say that.”