Sweet Expectations (6 page)

Groaning, I slid out of the booth and came up behind Margaret in time to catch Rachel's shocked expression. “Hi, Mr. Davenport.”

“Simon. Please call me Simon.”

“Right. Sure.” I looked at She Devil. “Hi, I'm Daisy McCrae. My sisters Margaret and Rachel.”

She Devil's smile didn't reach her eyes. She'd sunk her talons into Simon, and she was not going to let go. “Elizabeth Wentworth. Nice to meet you. But I know Rachel. We cheered together in high school.”

Rachel's smile turned brittle as she smoothed her hands over worn jeans and surveyed Elizabeth's watered-silk dress. “Elizabeth. You look great.”

Rachel and I were the same year as Elizabeth in school but I hung with the drama kids and the nerds. Rachel and Elizabeth were strictly with cheerleaders and football players.

I'd never formally met Elizabeth but had heard stories. Passive-aggressive. Lots of lip gloss and hair spray. Dated the backup quarterback. “And you look, well, like you've been working hard.”

Simon's gaze sparked with interest. “You two went to high school together?” he asked.

Elizabeth laughed. “Hard to believe, right? Rachel, you still work in your parents' bakery? Gosh, she used to make the cutest cupcakes for the team. Of course, we were all on diets and couldn't eat a bite.”

“Rachel and I both own the bakery now,” I said.

“They've done some catering for my company,” Simon offered.

Rachel drew in a breath. I kept waiting for the perky smile guaranteed to make everyone feel as if it would be okay. Her lips flickered at the edges but the hundred-watt smile would not fire.

“So what brings you all here tonight?” Elizabeth said as she glanced beyond us to see who else was here.

“My sisters are giving me a going-away party,” Margaret said. “I've a job working on an archeological dig.

Elizabeth looked bored. “Awesome.”

Simon to his credit raised a brow. “Where?”

“St. Mary's Church up in Maryland. On the bay. Leaving tomorrow.” Her grin broadened. “Old bones rock my world.”

“Sounds like a great challenge,” Simon said.

“I'm working for Simon's company,” Elizabeth offered. She smoothed a manicured hand over perfect hair. “Vice president of sales. So far breaking all quotas.”

“Super.” Margaret glanced at Rachel. We'd made fun of Elizabeth when we were in high school. If one of us were having a petulant moment, we were pulling an
Elizabeth
.

Rachel seemed to have forgotten. Whatever had fired when she'd first spoken to Simon was extinguished, and now she had a hurtpuppy vibe.

As I scrambled for reasons to drag Rachel away, Margaret turned and wobbled, and her beer sloshed wildly in her hands. The beer splashed up all over her, Simon, and She Devil.

She Devil arched back as if she'd been splashed with acid, but Simon remained calm. He reached for a napkin, She Devil squawked, and Margaret apologized.

“I can be such a klutz,” Margaret said. “Gosh, I'm sorry.”

Gosh, I'm sorry.
Margaret hadn't said
gosh
or
sorry
in a sentence . . . well, ever. She'd basically told Rachel and I in secret sister code,
I wish I'd drenched She Devil.

“Hey, good seeing you two.” I hooked my arms into Rachel's and Margaret's. Another minute and Margaret would douse Elizabeth, and I might be tempted to help. I pulled my sisters toward our table and we sat. Margaret and Rachel drank heavily, and I was grateful my stomach was settled.

“What's it like to be Elizabeth's kind of successful?” Rachel said to me. “When you were in D.C. you had her kind of vibe.”

“It was great. To know you were in a groove. Yeah, great.”

“And life sucks for you now?” Rachel said.

“Not exactly sucks. It's different.”

Margaret studied me. “Would you go back if you could?”

In a heartbeat. “I don't know.”

Margaret's gaze narrowed. “Of course you know. You aren't saying.”

“I'd go back in a snap,” Rachel said. “I wasn't Elizabeth, but I was in a great place. Hard work and crazy hours, but I really did love my life when Mike was alive.”

Margaret sipped her beer. “I've lots of education and dozens of part-time jobs to look back on, but there's no great accomplishment. I'm thirty-six and can finally hold my head up when someone asks me what I do for a living.”

I understood. I held my head high, but it was a lot of bravado these days. “I'm glad you have the job in St. Mary's. It was made for you.”

“Enjoy it,” Rachel said. “Savor every moment.”

Margaret frowned. “You make it sound like it's not going to last.”

I wished I could have said otherwise but having a company shot out from under me had changed my worldview. “I hope it lasts forever.”

Margaret held up her half-full beer mug. “A statement loaded with enthusiasm.”

Rachel shook her head. “The fact is, Margaret, it doesn't matter how hard you love your work, sometimes life dumps on you. You can fight, scream, scrap, or beg, but life doesn't give a shit and it takes what it wants.”

Jobs came and went and some really were terrific . . . really terrific, but losing family was a game changer.

Adding family also changed the game. What had Mom always said in high school?
For God's sake, whatever you do, don't get pregnant.
Damn.

“I don't want you to leave. Crap, Margaret, we were getting into a groove,” Rachel mumbled. “I know you have to go, but I'm not going to like it.”

Margaret was silent, and I could see leaving wasn't going to be easy. When I'd left the bakery at eighteen, I'd been full of steam and had no intentions of looking back. But Margaret had stayed in Alexandria and had tried to help when she could. Yeah, she could be bitchy and grumpy but she was loyal to the bone.

“I swear on Mom and Dad's lives if you stay, I will kill you,” I said.

Rachel finished her beer. “Ditto.”

Chapter Five

Sunday, 9:00
P.M.

12 days, 10 hours until grand reopening

Income Lost: $0

B
y the time I climbed the stairs to my room, my limbs drooped as if each weighed thousands of pounds. My stomach was settled, but my head pounded.

It had always seemed if you were carrying life inside of you, you'd feel good and full of energy. It never occurred to me you'd feel as if a truck had slammed into you. Mom and Rachel both had had great pregnancies. Tons of energy and no morning sickness. But I didn't share their genetics. I shared my birth mother Terry's DNA.

Terry and I had reunited a couple of months ago. It had not been a greeting-card moment but rather a tense and very trying meeting. She'd been more nervous than me, and she'd also feared I'd tell her husband and sons I existed. Hard learning you were someone's dirty little secret.

While we'd sat in the upscale Alexandria hotel lobby, she'd tried to explain the reasons behind my abandonment. I had been a good kid, she'd said. It wasn't my fault. She'd been a young mother, she'd explained. It wasn't personal.

Intellectually, I understood what she was saying. But my brain and emotions didn't always communicate so well. If I'd been such a great kid, then why not tell the world about me? Why did I need to be a secret?

I pushed through my bedroom door, flipped on a light and sat on my bed. The springs groaned and squeaked as I pulled off my shoes.

My phone rang, and I glanced at it. Gordon. Drawing in a breath I hit Send. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.” He sounded surprised to hear my voice. “Did you get my texts?”

“Yeah, and I'm sorry.” I pinched the bridge of my nose with my fingertips. “Demoing the wall was a mess and then Margaret said she's quitting.”

“Why's Margaret leaving?” The tangible reasons seemed to ease the edge from his voice.

“She's gotten a great job. Long story. I'll tell you when you get back.”

“You doing okay? You sound tired.”

Morning memories of my doctor's visit flashed. I wanted so much to tell Gordon. He was my friend. I wanted him to be my lover again. I wanted a life with him.

But the words wouldn't come. Instead, sudden tears filled my eyes, and as I glanced toward the ceiling they trickled down my face. “I am tired. It's been a long day.” Clearing my throat, I said, “How did the bike ride go? You didn't lose anyone, did you?”

“Nearly lost one or two, but we had a head count of twelve when we reached the inn.”

“Same twelve?”

He chuckled. “More or less.”

“When do you get back?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Well, I'll be here protecting the home front as Jean Paul rewires electrical outlets.”

“I'll come by.”

I'd have the results by ten tomorrow. “I'll come by your place. It's insane here.”

“I love you.”

I drew in a deep breath. “I love you, too.”

When I ended the call, I held the phone to my chest. Tears dampened my cheeks. I had been nudging my life back to a new sense of normal, and now it teetered on the edge.

Setting the phone down, I rose and moved toward a small desk in the corner. I wanted to call Mom. I wanted her to take me in her arms and tell me I would be okay. But she was somewhere on a beach in North Carolina likely exhausted after chasing two five-year-olds around all day.

And right now, what did I have to tell her? I was afraid. I might have messed up.

I slipped the phone on the charger and stripped off my clothes, letting them remain where they hit the ground. The air cooled my skin as I grabbed an extra-extra-large T-shirt hanging on the back of the door and slipped it on. I pulled my hair from a ponytail and ran my fingers over my scalp, letting my gaze land on the recipe box.

I flipped open the lid and glanced at the browning, brittle cards. Gently I thumbed through the cards.

Moving back to my bed, I sat, pressed my back to the wall, and cradled the box in my lap. I chose a card from the center because it appeared more worn and tattered than the others. It was a recipe for pumpkin bread. Judging by the subtle stains and the frayed edges, it had been a favorite. The handwriting was delicate and precise. Clearly whoever had copied the recipe had taken great care. Sixty years ago there had been cookbooks of course but many relied on recipes passed from generation to generation.

I raised the card to my nose, expecting the musty scent of time but instead inhaled the scents of cinnamon and nutmeg. Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine the bakery seventy years ago. America would have been at war with Germany and Japan. There'd have been rations. Alexandria, a port city so close to Washington, D.C., would have been awash in soldiers. The art center on the waterfront, now called the Torpedo Factory, was really a torpedo factory. No Internet. No cell phones or laptops.

The idea of traveling back seventy years did not appeal. And yet people then had lived their lives as we do today. They'd loved, married, and had children—every emotion lived before by another. The cadence of life had been slower before technology but the experiences were the same.

“So why did you hide this box in the wall? What was so precious in this box?”

Flipping through the cards, I saw more entries written as neatly and carefully as the first. Pies, cakes, and cookies. All had been used but not so worn as the pumpkin bread.

Behind all the cards was a small photo featuring three people. A twentysomething young woman dressed in a white bakery uniform stood in the center of two men, both dressed in military uniforms. The woman pinned her dark hair back in a bun and though she wore no makeup, her vibrant smile made her beautiful. The men appeared to be a bit older. The one on the left was shorter and broader and wore his cap cocked to the left. The other man was tall and lean with fair hair, had set his cap straight, and though he also smiled, he seemed a bit more serious. Each wrapped their arms around the woman, but she leaned a little closer to the man on her right. The trio stood in front of a sandwich board reading,
UNION STREET BAKERY
.

Smiling, I leaned in and studied the building behind her. I recognized the bakery's front door. I knew the door had been changed out several times but the style remained the same. I flipped over the picture and saw written on the back,
Jenna, 1944
.

So who were you, Jenna?
I fished the dog tags out of the box and ran my fingers over Sergeant Walter Franklin Jacob's name.

“I'm guessing the tall, serious one is Walter.” But I could have been wrong.

Dad had said once he'd stowed the bakery archives in his attic. In 1944, Dad would have been two, so if he had crossed paths with Jenna he wouldn't have remembered.

I studied Jenna's profile and looked closer. Her smile, her brightness, and her zest captured my imagination. Gently I traced her profile. I'd never thought much about the archives but now I was curious about Jenna. She'd been young. She was clearly close to two different men and she'd taken the time to hide a recipe collection in the walls of the bakery with Walter's dog tags.

I searched the box for any other photos but found none. I closed the lid and then my eyes. Worries quickly crowded out Jenna's questions.

“In the morning the doctor is going to tell me I have no worries. Gordon is going to come home. I am going to tell him how much I love him, and this will all be forgotten.”