Page 145 of Our Little Secret

Who could guess?

Without really thinking about it, Brooke crossed her fingers.

CHAPTER 32

The bakery smelled like heaven.

The aromas of fresh ground coffee, cinnamon, and baking bread melded together in the tiny shop, where booths lined the walls and a few tables were scattered in front of the glass case displaying pastries. A few other customers were seated with steaming cups and strewn newspapers or open laptops.

“I’d like a tall pumpkin spice latte,” Brooke said to the barista. In pigtail buns, a nose ring, and a white apron emblazoned withGina’s Bakeryin bright red embroidery, she asked, “For here?”

“No, no. To go. And a loaf of sourdough. No, wait, can you add half a dozen cinnamon rolls?”

“Sure,” she said brightly. “You got it.”

Brooke had been the first one up. She and Shep had left Neal and Marilee sleeping as they’d caught the first ferry into town for a few last-minute things. She’d already picked up fresh clams from the fish market located next to the bait store at the marina and then made her way past empty buildings, a few secondhand shops, a local realty company, and the two 1950s-era motels. There were other small businesses as well: a craft shop displaying quilts and macramé wall hangings and a pub, closed at this hour. Farther along, behind a sporting goods store, the white spire of the Catholic church downtown rose to the dark heavens.

Now, inside the bakery, she waited, looking past a man in a stocking cap to the paned window and the storm brewing outside. The sky was gray and dark, dawn offering little light, so that the Christmas decorations on the light poles—starfish and seahorses—were still glowing.

“Brooke?” she heard and turned around to find the owner herself, Gina Duquette, standing at the open window separating the counter from the kitchen area, where large wooden tables and two huge ovens were visible. “Brooke Fletcher?” the little woman asked. With her white hair pinned beneath a net and rimless glasses over wide blue eyes, she was eyeing Brooke.

“It’s Harmon now,” Brooke said.

“That’s right, that’s right!” Gina was nodding. “Of course. I knew that. Though I’ve never met your hubby.”

“Seriously?” Brooke said.

“I’m sure I would remember. I never forget a face, you know. Names—well, I’ve never been good with them, but faces—that’s different.”

Brooke decided she was probably right. Most of their time here in Oregon was spent on the island and if she or Neal ever ran to town for supplies, they usually made the trip separately. “I’ll introduce you,” she promised.

“Good. So you’re here for the holidays?”

“That’s the plan.”

“You picked a good time. We’ve already got snow falling and they’re forecasting more on the way—a possible blizzard, if you can believe that! Anyway, we’re having a white Christmas! Isn’t it just wonderful?”

“Great,” she agreed.

“I live on the island, you know, just down the street from your place. I have to boat over here myself because Zeke, he’s the ferryman; you know, Zeke Owens? Well, he doesn’t want to make a three a.m. run, you know. Baker’s hours.” She chuckled at her little joke. “I hate to see your house so empty. Your grandma wouldn’t like it, you know. Good Lord, what’s it been since you’ve been here?”

“A while,” Brooke said evasively. “A couple of years or so.”

The old lady was nodding. “Good thing your sister comes up to check on the place.”

“What?” Brooke eyed the woman as the espresso machine hissed. “Leah?”

“Mm.”

“I don’t think so.” She had to be mistaken.

Gina’s silvering eyebrows pinched together. “I’m sure I saw her. With her husband. Yes.” Scratching the side of her face thoughtfully, she nodded, as if agreeing with herself. “What was it? Now I remember. Just after Labor Day, I think; the tourist season was winding down. I remember because she bought the last of the peach tarts and another customer came in wanting some. Dorothy Latimer, and boy, was she mad that she’d missed out.” She chuckled to herself. “I went to school with Dot. She’s got a temper, that one does!”

The bell over the door tinkled as a couple in ski jackets, gloves, and wool caps entered.

“I don’t think Leah’s been here in years,” Brooke clarified.

“No?” Gina worried her lip. “Hmm. I’m pretty sure I saw a car at the house in the drive, you know, and lights on inside, and them walking on the beach, but maybe I was mistaken and—” A timer buzzed behind her. “Well, whatever. Merry Christmas.” She turned away. “Holy Toledo! Is anyone getting the cardamom rolls out of the oven?”