Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) (6 page)

“In the real world it is mid-morning, but in the baker's world it is late afternoon.” I glanced at the clock. “Dear God, I've been up for over nine hours.”

“The pizza is rank,” Rachel said. “Eat a bagel.”

I peered into the bin of bagels Rachel had just pulled from the oven. They were the misshapen ones I'd made. Despite their less than perfect shape, their smell was enticing. Sure, I'd been eating broken cookies all morning but one bagel would not be the end of me.

“Go on,” Margaret said. “You know you want one. Besides, they're just a little too lopsided to sell.”

“Of course they'll sell,” Rachel said. “And this is a big day for you, Daisy. Live a little.”

No more coaxing required, I rooted out the ugliest cinnamon raisin bagel I could find. This was a big day, after all. And, as I'd already promised, tomorrow I would be back to my normal egg-whites-and-salad routine. “This afternoon I've got to get by the grocery and buy eggs and cheese so I can have a real breakfast tomorrow.”

I bit into the bagel. My blood pressure dropped as the soft dough—the perfect right blend of raisins and cinnamon—melted in my mouth. Henri's genius had trumped my unpracticed hands.

Rachel smiled as she handed a bag of bagels to three teen girls. When they left, she released a contented sigh. “Doesn't it give you gals satisfaction to know that we are the staple in so many of our customers' lives?”

Margaret pulled a stack of one-dollar bills from the register drawer and started to arrange them faceup. “It makes my heart flutter.”

Rachel tossed an irritated glance at Margaret. For an instant the tired cheerleader could cheer no more. “Can't you at least pretend you care, Margaret?”

Margaret looked at her, no hint of apology in her gaze as she shrugged. Now that the customers had gone, we were no longer the united front. “Do you have to care so much, Rachel?”

Rachel's eyes widened with hurt. “This is our life, Margaret.”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “
Your
life, Rachel. Not mine. Not Daisy's.”

Rachel looked at me as if searching for support.

I shrugged as my stomach grumbled and I tore the bagel in half. “She's right, Rachel. This is what you love. It's what we do. Given the choice, we'd all have different lives.”

“How can you not love this place?” Rachel demanded.

Margaret tipped her head back as if swallowing an oath. “Give the Pollyanna crap a rest, Rachel.”

“I do love this place. It's my home,” Rachel said.

“Your husband died here,” Margaret said. “And it's sucking the life out of you.”

Rachel straightened and her face paled. “This place is holding me together.”

“BS,” Margaret countered. “It's ripping you apart. In fact, I'm starting to think the whole damn place is cursed.”

Tears welled in Rachel's eyes. If the cheerleader lost it, I feared we'd all go right down the drain. “I need to get into your office, Rachel, and have a look at the books. Margaret, you hold down the front while we review the ledgers.”

Rachel simply nodded, too emotional to speak.

“Why do I always have to work the front?” Margaret shoved the bills in the drawer and closed it with a hard
clang
.

“Because you can't add or subtract,” I said. “And neither can Rachel. I'm the math genius. But if we find ancient pottery fragments buried under the desk, I'll give you a call.”

“Bite me,” Margaret said.

Seeing her frustrated gave me a measure of satisfaction. At least for now she'd back off and be quiet.

That satisfaction lasted all of about thirty seconds—the time it took me to walk down the hallway into Rachel's small office. I flipped on the lights and immediately stopped short. The old rolltop desk that had been with the bakery for more than a hundred years was covered in piles and piles of bills, papers, letters, and junk mail. I could barely see the new laptop I'd bought for Rachel last Christmas. The gift had been in response to her laments about organization and misplaced paperwork.

My stomach took such a ferocious leap that I feared no cookie or bagel would calm it. “Rachel. What happened?”

Rachel moistened her lips. “I know. I know.”

I moved to the desk, picked up a bundle of unopened mail, and flashed back to my final months at Suburban Enterprises. “When's the last time you were in here?”

“A week ago. Maybe two?” All her morning's joy had drained away.

I turned one envelope over.
PAST DUE
was stamped in red to the left of the bakery's mailing address. Several other envelopes shared the same label. When we were kids, Dad often juggled cash flow like a master. He always wrote the
MUST BE MAILED BY
date in the upper-right-hand corner. When the day arrived, he'd press a stamp over the date and mail it. He prided himself on never missing a deadline. “Has Dad seen this?”

What little coloring she'd gained vanished. “God, no. Please don't tell him. He'll have another heart attack.”

No arguing with that. Dad would die if he knew the Union Street Bakery was developing a reputation as a bad account. “He hasn't been down here?” I tossed the envelopes on the desk.

She wrung her hands. “He's been bugging me for weeks. He wants to see the books. I keep telling him he's micromanaging, that he needs to trust me to run the business.”

“But you're not.” There was no softening the statement.

Tears welled in Rachel's eyes. “The kitchen side I can do in my sleep but this stuff . . . I hate it.”

Margaret's quip about this place being cursed rang in my head. Adrenaline raced through my veins, and I pictured myself hopping on my bike and peddling away. “I can't believe you've kept Dad out of here.”

She slid trembling hands over her hips. “Last week he threatened to come down here and bust down the door.”

I rubbed the tight muscles on the back of my neck. “What stopped him?”

“Mom said you were coming to work at the bakery and that you were taking over the books. That calmed him right down.” She sounded so small and afraid. “You and he are wired the same. Margaret and I are more like Mom.”

I met her gaze. “A week ago Mom didn't know I was returning to the bakery. I only agreed three days ago.”

Rachel's eyes widened a fraction as if she realized she'd just confessed to a crime. “Did I say a week? Maybe it was just a few days.”

I felt a bit like the wild dog that had been cornered by crazed torch-wielding villagers. “Rachel, you are the crappiest liar and Mom is a master manipulator.”

Blue eyes widened. “I'm not lying.”

“
Please.
I know Mom. She's been hatching her evil plan for weeks. She called me a month ago and asked me to lunch but I said no. And so she tried again with her daiquiris.”

Rachel attempted a smile. “Don't tell her I spilled the beans.”

Hands on hips, I glanced at the mess on the desk and released a long sigh. “What's the point? Like it or not, I don't have a job or anywhere else to go.”

She fumbled with her apron strands still tied in a neat bow. “If you did, would you be here?”

I smoothed long fingers over my head. “Honestly, no.”

Rachel nodded, as if appreciating the honesty. “If you could be anywhere, where would it be?”

“Back in my old life.”

“Join the club. I'd give just about anything to get my old life with Mike back.”

The offhand comment sobered me. I'd lost a job. She'd lost her husband and the father of her children. As much as we'd both liked to have gone back, that door had closed forever for us both. There was only forward.

Rachel sniffed. “Mom should have been more honest with you.”

That prompted a laugh. “Maybe. But the truth is, I lost my job and I was sitting at home feeling sorry for myself. I've no one to blame but myself.”

“The market blew up. You didn't have anything to do with that.”

“Looking back, I can see that there were warning signs. I should have paid closer attention.”

I believed now in my heart of hearts that if I'd been more vigilant about watching the details, I could have stopped the mess at Suburban. The crap between Gordon and me had temporarily screwed up my judgment. I deliberately shifted my attention to the stack of letters under the desk. I couldn't fix my life but I could fix this mess.

Rachel frowned. “I should have bugged Mike more about seeing the doctor. I knew he was getting headaches.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “You couldn't have known.”

She shook her head. “But I knew he was tired. I wanted to help him more but the girls just ate up so much of my days.”

“He was a baker working eighteen-hour days and he wanted you taking care of the girls.”

“But—”

I held up my hand. “The pathologist said he was born with the faulty vessel. You had no control. And even if he'd gotten all the sleep he needed, he would have still died.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “I know.”

“You had nothing to do with his death.”

Rachel swiped away her tear and studied me. “So if you can cut me slack why can't you cut yourself slack?”

For a long moment I didn't say anything. “I'm different.”

“How so?”

“Never mind.” I picked up a stack of unopened bank statements. “Do you have any idea how much money you have in the bank?”

Her gaze dimmed. “Not exactly. But I made a three-thousand-dollar deposit on Saturday.”

I pushed papers off the laptop. “I set up the online banking account to pay your bills. Have you been using that?”

She started wringing her hands again. “I couldn't find the password. And I couldn't remember what you'd told me about what to do. It was easier just to write checks.”

“You could have called me.”

“I felt like an idiot.”

“Mother of God.” The words carried the weight of my frustration.

Breath expelled from her clenched teeth. “I knew you'd be pissed.”

“I passed pissed a week ago when my lease came up for renewal and I knew I couldn't commit.” No, right now I just felt as if I were drowning.

A wan smile tipped the edges of her lips. “Any second now, I expect you to blow a gasket and run screaming from this bakery.”

A plane from nearby Reagan National Airport rumbled over our heads as it banked over the Potomac. I wondered where it was going. A choppy, awkward laugh escaped me. “Where would I go, Rachel?”

Her gaze was direct, unnaturally serious. “You're smart. You can make a living anywhere.”

In time I would find something. In fact, I could have taken that auditing job with the bank in New York or that temp accounting job. But I'd said no, hoping better would come along. And then Mom had called, plied me with alcohol, and reminded me that this bakery was all Rachel and her girls had left. “If this boat is going to sink then we'll ride it down together.”

She swallowed as her delicate fingers lost a bit of their tension. “You mean it?”

It was going to take more than one bagel to get me through this mess. “I said I'd stay.”

She grimaced. “That was before you saw this.”

“Actually, this mess doesn't freak me out. This is something I can handle. Numbers I know.”

“Really? It's not too much?”

“I've seen worse, I'm sure.” Where, I couldn't say.

“Thank God.” Tears welled again in her eyes. “Let me help you sort this.”

“No!” The word came out in a hard rush. “Just point me toward the most recent pile.”

She tugged hard on a loose apron thread and twisted it around her index finger. “I think it's the one on the right.”

“The one weighted down with a bag of flour.”

Rachel retrieved the flour, holding it in her arms as if she were protecting a child. “Yes.”

“What's with the flour, Rachel?”

Her face brightened. “This is the most awesome flour I've ever used. It's organic, and milled about forty miles from here.”

I was almost afraid to ask. “Why is it on your desk?”

“As a reminder to me to ask you if we can afford it. It's more expensive than the brand we're using now. But it's so worth the extra money. Even Henri grunted his approval when I showed it to him.”

I stared at the white bag with the red star emblem and blue stripes. “But you don't know if you can afford it?”

“We're barely in the black, I think. I hope. That's why I can't fix the ovens. Or buy a new mixer or water heater.”

I raised a dark brow and did my best not to sound like a schoolteacher. “You'd buy new flour over fixing the equipment?”

Rachel clung to her bag of flour like it was a small child. “I want to but I haven't.”

“Good. And for the record, the answer, for now, is no.”

Hope glimmered in her gaze. “But that could change, right?”

“I don't know.” As I glanced again at the stack, I feared I'd be happy if I could pay the electric bill.

“Ask me about dough and I can tell you how long it's been rising, if the flour is organic, or if the texture will be right. Give me five butters, and I'll tell you where they came from. Sugars, I know. Anything food I know. Money and numbers make me want to cry.”

Staring into her watery blue eyes, I couldn't hold onto any residual irritation. “It's going to take hours, if not days, to sort this out. But I will.”

Hope sent tears streaming down Rachel's cheek. “I will help.”

“Like I said, I appreciate the offer. But you need to worry about customers and keeping Margaret out of my hair.”

She straightened her shoulders. “I can do that. But I can help you, too. I kind of know where the bodies are buried, so to speak.”

Even surrounded by the chaos, I felt oddly in control. Numbers didn't judge nor did they have hidden agendas. They were what they were. “Don't you buy supplies Monday afternoon like Dad did?”