Sweet Expectations (9 page)

Hell, what I really wanted was for him to pull me in his arms and tell me it was all going to be fine. Rachel had said as much, but I wanted to hear it from Gordon.

Instead, he turned and moved back behind his counter. “Thanks for the honesty.”

His control kindled my anger and I was glad. Anger was an old friend and oddly gave me comfort. “That's all you have to say?”

He faced my frustration and sadness, deepening the lines at the corners of his eyes. “What do you want me to say, Daisy? Congratulations?”

“No, Gordon.” My voice sounded louder than I'd intended. “You told me you loved me last week. I told you I loved you. And now we are
done
.”

“You are pregnant, Daisy. Not with my baby. That is a problem we can't talk our way out of.” He shook his head. “I thought you'd changed since the bakery. Thought you'd gotten a little more grounded, and if we reconciled this time the roller-coaster ride would be over. I can see with you the ups and downs will never be over.”

I marched up to the counter and smacked my palms against the nicked wooden surface. “So what do you want from me? Some kind of flatline ride? Because,
Gordo,
the last time I checked flatlines equaled death.”

He shook his head, and I caught the first spark of anger in his eyes. “Don't turn this on me, Daisy. This is all your doing.”

Yeah, I was on shaky ground, but it wasn't like being in the right had ever stopped me before. “Hey, I didn't go looking for this.”

He slammed both his hands on the counter just out of reach of mine and leaned toward me. “You never go looking for trouble, but it sure as hell has a way of finding you.”

“Not fair!” I was upset, mad, and I wanted to yell if he wouldn't. Roger wasn't here, but Gordon was a handy target. Now seemed as good a time as any to go for a pound of flesh.

“What the hell do you want from me, Daisy? Want us to get married and raise this baby together? White picket fence. Two-car garage.”

Tears welled in my eyes. “I didn't ask for this!”

“So what do you want?”

“I want . . . I wanted you to tell me it will be fine. That we will be fine.”

He shook his head. “I can't tell you we'll be okay or I can handle this. We won't be fine because this is too much even for me. Too much.”

I lifted my chin and swore I would not cry. Curling my fingers into fists, I dug my fingernails into my palms. “So we break up?”

“By anyone's standards I have good cause.” He yelled the last words.

On a good day, I'd have come out swinging, but I didn't know if it was the hormones or the nausea but those damn tears spilled again. Embarrassed, I turned from Gordon. “Fine.”

I moved toward the door but didn't hurry, half hoping his voice would soften, and he'd ask me to stay. But Gordon offered only stony silence.

Tears falling faster now, I left Gordon's shop, slamming the door behind me. I marched down Union Street toward the bakery, but with each step closer to it, my resentment bubbled. That damn place. It had been the source of so much pain and sadness for me.

Tempted as I was to keep walking and never look back, the bakery pulled me closer. A glance through the front window showed the paint cans and drop cloths waiting for me. The place beckoned as if it wanted to embrace me, but right now I could not bear it.

I walked around the bakery to the alley and cut through the back entrance. Grateful no one was on the main level, I climbed the back staircase to my room. By the time I pushed through my apartment door, I was still looking for a pound of flesh. I grabbed my laptop, plopped on my bed and clicked the computer on.

I opened my e-mail account. Under normal conditions I'd have worried and wondered over what I was about to type. I'd have scrutinized each word and triple-checked spelling.

But I was so upset, I didn't censor as I typed.

Terry,

It's been a month since we spoke. I know we both needed time to process, but I'm out of time. I found out I'm pregnant and I need more biological information.

A. How did your pregnancy and deliveries go?

B. Who is my birth father?

I'm not looking for hearts and flowers or mother-daughter lunch dates, just answers.

Yours truly,

Daisy

Before I considered a word, I hit Send.

As I heard the message zoom off into cyberspace, I sat back on my bed and stared at the inbox as if somehow I half expected a quick response.

Daisy,

Pregnancies went fine. John Smith is your birth father.

I love you,

Terry

But the inbox remained empty. And the longer I stared at the empty box, the stronger my sense of rejection grew. When I couldn't stand it any longer, I shut off the computer and lay on my bed.

Rolling onto my side, I caught sight of the recipe box on my nightstand. I reached for it and held the small wooden box in my hands, tracing the embossed corner details.

If my life had been a book, pregnancy would have been the last plot twist I'd have written. The thought of another human so dependent on me always brought cold chills. I did not want to be so needed.

Years ago, I'd built an emotional life raft with room only for one. When I'd lost my job and the world had caved, I moved back to the bakery and discovered my entire family had pinned their hopes on me saving them. They'd scrambled onto my little raft. Despite fears we'd sink, somehow my vessel had expanded to include seats for Mom, Dad, Margaret, Rachel, and the girls. I didn't have any more oars, but my ability to row faster had grown. Somehow, I would save us all.

And now the boat needed to grow again. I sensed it would grow, but this time I wasn't so sure I had the strength or energy to row faster. What if I'd already reached my limit?

Had Terry harbored thoughts like these when she'd been carrying me? Had she thought she could build a boat for us only to discover she couldn't keep rowing? Had she looked at me that day in the Union Street Bakery as she ordered my favorite sugar cookies and decided she couldn't keep us both afloat anymore? What had finally pushed her to simply sail out of my life without a backward glance?

I opened the box and looked at the picture of Jenna. I traced her face. For some reason, Jenna's smile eased the tension banding my chest.

Fatigue seeped into my bones, draining my energy. My eyelids grew heavy and soon I simply let them drift closed. I hadn't napped since I was four, and I'd fought sleep as if my life depended on it. I needed to get up off this bed and prep the lobby for painting.

And I would. Soon. Right after I rested my eyes for a moment. Maybe for a minute to catch my breath.

The sounds of honking horns and the hum of car engines passing under my window grew more and more distant. The bed's warmth pulled me deeper and deeper, and instead of fighting, I leaned into its tug.

In one moment I was on my bed and in the next I sat alone in a white rocker by the river. An empty rocker set next to mine. How long I sat I couldn't say, but in the rocker I was content. A gentle breeze. A sun warming my face. Boats passing by on the river.

Finally, a woman approached. She looked worried, her curly blond hair framed an oval face, high cheekbones and a full mouth. A blue print dress flowed around her calves. Cupping her hand over her eyes, her gaze hungrily scanned the horizon.

“Can I help?” I said.

Her gaze still on the horizon, she shook her head. “My son. I am looking for my son.”

I rose, ready to help. “What does he look like?”

“He is a baby. He has light hair like his father and peaches-and-cream skin like mine. He is a pretty baby. A good baby. Perfect.”

“How did you lose a baby?”

Sadness tightened her button mouth. “He was in my arms, and then I closed my eyes for a moment. When I awoke, he was gone.”

“Did someone take him?”

She shook her head, folding her arms over her flat belly. “I don't know. I don't know.” She met my gaze, her blue eyes sharp and vivid. “Keep your baby close. Or someone might take it, too.”

In that moment, the wind rushed and swept me from the riverbank toward the cold icy waters. I flew helpless, so out of control. I wrapped my hands around my belly and braced for impact.

I sat up in bed, heart racing, hands clutching my belly and sweat dampening my brow. “Don't worry, kid. I'll figure this out.”

Chapter Seven

Monday, 6:00
P.M.

11 days, 11 hours until grand reopening

Income Lost: $500

R
achel sat in her apartment alone on the edge of her bed, wineglass teetering between her fingers. Hours ago she'd heard Daisy's panicked footsteps clicking past her apartment, but as much as Rachel had wanted to go to Daisy, she understood her sister needed time alone to process.

And so she'd spent the afternoon prepping the front of the store for painting. She'd removed pictures, caulked holes, sanded rough spots and wiped the dust from the walls.

It was after five when she'd finished and she'd gone to Daisy's room. To her surprise, her sister was sound asleep, looking more relaxed than she had in weeks. Rachel left Daisy sleeping and retreated to her apartment.

Alone in the quiet, she'd poured herself a glass of warm wine and then dropped in a couple of ice cubes. She had two bottles of wine left from that long-ago party with Mike, and despite a lingering headache, she believed a glass of wine wouldn't hurt.

This afternoon, when she'd taken a break she'd considered putting these last two bottles in the refrigerator, but then that would have meant she planned to drink again. There was something about intending to drink that was far worse than just drinking. And so, she left the bottles on the counter beside the refrigerator.

She held the glass up to the light, swirled it, and studied the way the wine glided down the inside of the glass. Lord knows Mike would have frowned at the idea of her drinking on a weekday alone. He'd never been much of a drinker and grew annoyed if she had more than a glass of wine at a party.

Rebellion stirring, she drained the glass in a gulp and refilled it before moving into her bedroom and opening Mike's closest, packed full of T-shirts, jeans, and white chef's jackets. She could imagine Mike coming in the door and kissing her on the cheek.

He'd been gone a year and a half, and she'd still not cleaned out his closet. It seemed she should have tackled the task by now but then she wasn't sure how to time the grieving/mourning process. Should she have cleaned his clothes out within weeks of his death? Months? Eighteen months didn't seem excessive, but when did she cross the line between normal and weird widow lady at the bakery?

She gulped a mouthful of wine and set down her glass. Today was as good a day as any. She desperately needed more storage space as the girls grew. Saving Mike's clothes was a space luxury she could no longer afford.

Intent on cleaning the closet out, she'd reached for the first shirt. Her hand skimmed the rough white cotton. And her fingers trembled.

Pulling back, she retreated to the edge of the bed and her wineglass. Swigging again, she stared at the collection of dark trousers, white coats, and dozens and dozens of white tennis shoes. Mike had loved tennis shoes. And socks. In all the years she'd known the guy she'd only seen him barefooted when he was in the shower or in bed.

Mike didn't like his shoes to appear dirty or worn. Pristine white had been so important to him, his shoes lasted three months max before he replaced them.

When she'd gone to meet with the funeral director about his final outfit, she'd brought his newest pair of white sneakers. In fact, she doubted he'd ever even worn them, because she'd pulled them right out of the box. The funeral director had not raised an eyebrow as he'd taken the shoes, jeans, and white Union Street Bakery T-shirt. Mike had loved the bakery, lived and died at the bakery, and it had made sense he take a piece with him.

Rachel glanced at the empty bottom of her wineglass. She could fill up or clean out the closet.

She rose and grabbed a box of large green garbage bags from the kitchen. She jerked a bag free, snapped it open, and snatched her first handful of clothes from their hangers. The clothes weighed heavy in her hands as if they resisted her efforts.
Don't send me away, Rachel
.

Her chest tightened and she hesitated. Again she glanced at the wineglass. “No.”

Fearing she'd stop to think, she shoved the first jacket in the trash bag and kept stuffing until it was full. Less than a half hour later, the closet was empty and five trash bags bulged with clothes and shoes.

She dropped to her knees and reached for the last remaining pairs of shoes. The clothes and newer shoes had been easy but the remaining collection of white sneakers . . . they were special and Mike had saved them despite their state of disrepair. They told the story of Mike. The chocolate cake stains on one pair spoke to the signature cake he loved to bake. Red and green dye on another pair reminded her of their last holiday rush. Yellow and green triggered memories of Easter and their last Mother's Day all-night bake-a-thon.

Gently, she skimmed her fingers over the shoes. The shoes, like the memories, had been valued treasures over the last year. But somewhere along the way they'd wrapped around her and had secured her in the past.

Carefully she collected the shoes and put them into a garbage bag, hoping the Goodwill would find some use for them. She moved at a steady pace until she reached the last pair. They caught her short, slicing through her like a knife. Stained with blood, they'd been the shoes he'd worn the day he had suffered his aneurism.

Hands shaking, she'd clutched the shoes to her heart. She'd been upstairs with the girls that day. Both had had colds, and she'd not been able to work in the bakery. Mike had been double-timing it to get the orders filled. They'd both had so little sleep the night before because the girls had been restless. She and Mike had been cross with each other their very last morning as a married couple. Neither had wished each other a good day. Neither had said,
I love you.
He'd grunted to her as he'd left, and she'd not bothered to respond because she'd thought if he'd
really
wanted to speak to her, he'd have turned around and made eye contact.

Fifty-six minutes later he was dead.

Tears filled her eyes and rushed down her cheeks. They'd had one last chance to talk and they tossed it away.

She'd carried the shoes along with his clothes home from the hospital after he'd been declared dead. She'd clutched them to her chest as her father had driven and her mother stared silently out her window.

Tears burning her eyes, Rachel dumped the shoes in a garbage bag and sealed it up.

As a strong pot of coffee brewed, she loaded all the bags in the Union Street Bakery van. She ate a chunk of bread, drank a coffee, and filled a travel mug with a second serving. Before she had time to second-guess she drove them to the Goodwill trailer six blocks away. The attendant, an old black man with a graying mustache, glanced up at her from a magazine as if surprised. “You made it in time. I'm closing my doors in a couple of minutes.”

Rachel opened the back of the van. “Glad I made it.”

He took the bags from her car, but she didn't accept the tax receipt he offered.

Instead she climbed back in the van. For several minutes she sat, letting the day's remaining heat seep into her chilled bones.

As the attendant loaded her bags onto the trailer, she thought about the shoes dripping with chocolate. The ones he'd worn the day she'd given birth.

Panicking, she climbed out of the car. “Mister, I need to look in one of those bags.”

His gaze narrowed. “Why?”

“I think I packed shoes I should have kept.”

He answered with the shrug and he unloaded the six bags from the truck. Rachel dug through the three bags and multiple layers of worn white shoes before she found the ones stained with chocolate.

Grateful, she clutched them to her chest and shoved out a sigh.

“That all you want?” he asked.

She studied the open garbage bags spilling over with shoes, shirts, and memories of Mike. She rose and carefully repacked the bags as the man watched. Quietly, he took the bags from her.

Salvaged shoes in hand, she took a step back. “Yeah, that's all I need. Thanks.”

The old man reloaded the bags and locked the back of the trailer before walking to his old red Lincoln. He eased behind the wheel of his car and glanced in his rearview mirror at her. Finally, shaking his head, he started his car.

Anxiety tightened her throat as she watched him drive off. Carefully, she traced the shoe's silver-tipped laces. More doubt circled as she wondered if she were abandoning Mike along with his clothes. Gripping the shoes, she entertained ideas of waiting here all night and in the morning when the attendant returned, begging for her bags back.

Tears dampening her cheeks, she didn't know how long she sat until finally she put the car in gear. Heart racing, she drove.

Ten minutes later, she parked in the alley spot behind the bakery's back entrance. As she got out of the van, a large green delivery truck pulled in behind her. Painted on the side of the truck was
HOLDER BROTHERS WHOLESALERS
. The driver set the brake and climbed out.

He was a short man, with a belly that overflowed a tight leather belt and stretched the limits of a dark blue Holder Brothers Wholesalers T-shirt. Jeans and worn boots finished the look.

Rachel knew the guy. Jeb. She didn't like him and had left the delivery side of the business to Mike and then Daisy.

“I got your delivery,” he said.

“Jeb, Daisy sent you an e-mail. We are closed this week for renovations.”

Jeb glanced at his clipboard. “It don't say closed on my clipboard.”

Of course it didn't. “We are closed this week. We can't take deliveries.”

“So what am I supposed to do with all this flour, eggs, and sugar? Where's Daisy?”

“She's not working today.”

He sniffed and tugged at the waistband of his green pants. “Yeah, well, I want to talk to her. I don't believe she sent me the e-mail.”

Was she invisible? Did he not understand? “She's not here.”

“What about Margaret?”

“Just me.”

“Great. The creative one.”

She straightened, shoving aside feelings of blame, as if this was somehow her fault. “I'm sorry, Jeb. We can't take the order.”

“Sorry don't cut it with me today. This is my last delivery and I'm tired.”

If she'd had the money to pay for the order she'd have taken it just to end this. But she didn't have the money. Daisy had made it clear it was expenses-to-the-bone during the renovation.

She stood silent, hugging the shoes like a child.

Jeb stared at her. “Well?”

“I'm sorry, Jeb, for the miscommunication. But I can't take the delivery.” Shit. Had she just apologized to him?

He muttered an oath under his breath. “This account has turned into a real pain in my ass. If I had half a mind, I'd drop you.”

They needed the Holder Brothers and she'd lost too much in the last year to lose a steady supplier. “That's not really necessary. And it's just one order.”

“And before this, it was like pulling teeth to get a payment. You've been trouble for a year.”

Unwanted tears welled and her lip quivered. “I will have Daisy talk to you.”

He glared at her tears before opening his door. “I don't need this shit. I don't need it.”

She watched him back out of the alley. Anger and resentment bombarded her. Why hadn't she told him to back off? Why hadn't she fired him on the spot? He couldn't be the sole supplier in the region. The guy worked for her, and she'd let him walk all over her.

She'd apologized.

She'd f-ing cried!

Damn it!

God, how would she make it if Daisy quit the business? Running a bakery was a tough way to make a living without kids and damn near impossible with a baby. At least when the girls had been born she'd had Mike. Daisy didn't have anyone. When would her sister wise up and figure this job plus an infant equaled insanity?

As she climbed the stairs to her apartment, panic and fear crowded out the anger. She dumped her keys and purse on the table by the door and moved into her bedroom. The closet waited for her, wide, gaping, and empty. She should have taken time to close the closet before she'd left. Carefully, she set the single pair of sneakers in the center of Mike's side of the closet and shut the doors.

Overwhelmed by a sense of emptiness, she thought about the wine bottle in the kitchen. If she drank it all she'd be drunk, numb, and would fall into a heavy dreamless sleep like last night when the house had been far too quiet.

She moved to the refrigerator, opened the freezer and filled a glass with ice. She picked up the half-full wine bottle from the counter and filled her glass. She raised the glass to her lips and hesitated. The wine would get her through tonight, but what about tomorrow and the next day and the next?

Rachel poured the wine in the glass and open bottle down the sink and climbed the stairs to Daisy's door. She pounded on it. “Daisy!”

After a delay, footsteps sounded in the apartment and the door opened to a bleary-eyed Daisy. “What?”