Page 21

The next morning, I rose at dawn and settled into the office corner of my apartment.

The small desk was overflowing with stacks of invoices and order forms, and I realized working in my apartment wouldn’t do.

I needed to move the office to the basement.

Granted, my commute would be three flights of stairs, but it would create some separation from the attic, and a little was better than none.

But for now, I’d suck it up and work in my room.

Today, my plan was to dive into work and keep my mind busy until eight, when I could call the OB’s office and make an appointment.

And then I really needed to paint or work on the basement.

Sick or no, the clock was ticking, and I had no time left to waste.

I cleared my throat and resisted the urge to hang up. “This is Daisy McCrae. My sister Rachel Evans is a client of Dr. Westlake’s.”

“Right. Preemie twins.”

“She’s the one. She suggested I give you a call. I had a ...” Saying the p word was not getting easier. “I had a pregnancy test, and it was positive. I think I’m eighteen weeks along, and I need to connect with a doctor.”

“You’re sure you’re that far along?”

“Yes. It’s been a crazy month or two, and I didn’t notice all the changes.”

“Okay, let me check the schedule.” I heard the tap of computer keys in the background. “Can you come in today at five? She has a cancellation.”

“Today?”

“If you’re eighteen weeks, the sooner the better.”

“No, I totally get it. I do.” I combed agitated fingers through my hair. “I’ll be there.”

“You know where our offices are?”

“Still on King Street?”

“That’s right.” I spent the next few minutes giving her my basic info and then hung up.

I leaned back in the chair, nervous energy swirling through me. An appointment with an OB made all this a little too official for my tastes. I was going public with my pregnancy.

With no more paperwork to distract me, I made my bed and cleaned my room, which took about ten minutes, and then my thoughts turned to the front of the bakery. Rachel had cleaned and prepped it, and now it was time to paint. My stomach roiled.

Ten minutes later I was in the shop, glass of ginger ale close as I opened the first can of paint. It was a butter yellow, cheery without trying, and I was certain it was going to brighten up the place.

After filling the paint pan, I dug out the new brushes from the hardware store bag and then positioned the stepladder in the corner of the room. The plan was to cut in and then roll.

It felt good to have physical work. In the last couple of months, I’d grown used to the manual labor demands of the bakery.

I liked to keep busy and not think so much because I spent too much time in my head, worrying, which was why I loved finance.

All the numbers kept my brain busy and distracted.

But bakery work requires not just your head but also your back, your arms, and pieces of your heart. At first the work had been painful and too demanding. I’d hated it. But somewhere along the way I’d grown used to it and even liked it.

A rap on the front door had me turning. A regular bakery customer, Mrs. Ably, smiled and waved me over to the door. A bright-blue dress accentuated gray, tight curls framing her round, well-lined face. I never professed to be good with people, but I liked Mrs. Ably.

She always had a nice word, and on Rachel’s birthday she had brought her a cake. Rachel had been so touched she’d cried. That cake had won big points in my book.

Smiling, I crossed to the door and opened it. “Hey, Mrs. A. What’s up?”

Petite, she favored loose-fitting dresses and very sensible brown shoes. “Daisy, why aren’t you open?”

I pointed to the renovation sign in the window. “We’re moving a wall and adding a freezer and a wine room. We’ll be closed for about another week.”

She frowned as she studied the sign. “I don’t ever remember this bakery being closed. In the snowstorm of ninety-six, your dad was open.”

“I know, and I hated closing. But the health department doesn’t like construction and baking at the same time.”

She waved a bent, heavily veined hand. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. A little dust never killed anyone.”

“Hey, I hear you, but the man says no, so I got to listen. You should love our new look.”

She glanced beyond me at the lines of yellow trim clashing with the existing blue. “I like the old one.”

“Give the new one a try.” She lingered, and I couldn’t help but ask. “What were you looking for today?”

“Chocolate chip cookies. My grandkids are coming into town, and I’d like to have cookies for them.”

“I don’t have cookies made.”

She frowned. “Oh.”

“I do have frozen dough in the freezer. They’re all mixed and scooped. All you need to do is bake them off.”

Her gaze narrowed as her lips curled into a conspirator’s smile. “And the house would smell like I’d been slaving all day.”

I smiled, leaning closer. “Exactly. Your grandkids will never know you and I had this little exchange.”

She winked. “I like your thinking, Daisy.”

I nodded. “Come on in, and I’ll fix you right up.” She came into the shop, and I locked the door behind her.

As she took stock of the empty cases and the pictures off the wall, I moved toward the saloon doors. “How many cookies you need?”

She traced her finger over the cupcake clock resting on the display case. “A couple of dozen.”

“Be right back.” Through the doors, I nodded to Jean Paul, who was studying a wall joist. He held an unlit cigarette in his mouth as he frowned and deliberated on the wood as if it held all the secrets of the world.

I pushed the plastic off the freezer and pulled out a Ziploc bag full of scooped cookies.

There were more than enough to cover Mrs. Ably’s needs.

I scrounged a USB bag and dropped the frozen cookies inside.

When I came out, she met my gaze, but as I moved toward her, bag in hand, her smile faltered and turned questioning.

She studied me like a hawk, and I found myself straightening my shoulders and holding the bag in front of my belly.

The kid wasn’t going to stay in hiding much longer.

I dreaded the questions but refused to worry.

The kid and I would have to figure it out.

“Here ya go.” I handed her the bag and resisted the urge to cover my belly.

Mrs. Ably glanced in the bag. “All I have to do is put it on a baking sheet?”

“Heat your oven to three hundred and fifty degrees and then slide your pan of cookies in the oven. Be sure to leave a couple of inches between the cookies because they will spread a little. Bake ten to twelve minutes.”

“I appreciate it, Daisy. How much do I owe you?”

“Not a dime. It’s my gift to you.”

“Honey, that’s so sweet. But I can’t take this.”

“Sure you can. And I also expect you to take full credit for those cookies. In fact, splash a little flour on your sleeve. It’ll add to the slaved-over-a-hot-stove look.”

She grinned. “Very clever of you.”

“I’m a wily one.”

She studied my face, and though she kept her gaze high, I sensed she’d already inventoried me from head to toe. “So how are you adjusting to work here at the bakery?”

“It’s good. I’m getting the hang of it.”

“I knew you’d jump in with both feet. You were high energy even as a kid.”

Jump in with both feet. My mother had dragged me in kicking and screaming. “The place needed a bit of a boost.”

“And you’re feeling okay?”

“Right as rain.” Mrs. Ably had her fingertips on the heartbeat of Alexandria. I wasn’t ready to be grist for the mill.

“And what about Rachel?”

“Girls are on a vacation with my parents, and she’s enjoying a bit of quiet time. And Margaret’s working a temporary job on an archaeology site.”

Mrs. Ably shook her head. “The girl does love her bones and buried treasure.”

There was a loud crash in the back room followed by a good bit of muttering in French. “Jean Paul.”

She nodded and leaned forward to whisper. “He’s French.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I hope he’s more friendly than the other baker. He was always so touchy. And French.”

Henri, Jean Paul’s cousin, had been with the Union Street Bakery for over twenty-five years.

He’d been as indispensable as he had been consistently crusty.

And since I adored predictable, his demeanor had never bothered me.

Jean Paul was not like Henri. I’d yet to get a read on him, and so I kept my distance.

“But Henri was a master baker. And his cousin is also talented.”

“Well, then, honey, that’s all that really counts.”

“Enjoy those cookies.”

“And what are you doing with all your free time?”

“After I paint this room from top to bottom, I’m going to tackle the basement. I’ll need to get the old boxes and junk cleaned out and install shelves.”

“I hope you’re not going to work too hard. And if there’s any heavy lifting, you let the Frenchman do it. It’s the least he can do.”

Her conspirator’s tone had me hesitating. Okay, she suspected I might be pregnant. Mothers had a way of spotting would-be moms immediately. But did she also think Jean Paul was the father?

The Alexandria gristmill ground round and round in my head. “You know he and I are coworkers, right?”

She studied me close. “Really?”

“Really.”

This time she did let her gaze roam my body, and this time it sharpened when it met mine.

It was killing her not to ask. I think in this moment she’d have given big money to ask, Well, then, who did the deed?

But Mrs. Ably was too much of a lady to ask, and until I talked to Mom, I couldn’t say much more.

“Well, Daisy, I want to thank you for the cookie dough. And when your mom gets back in town, I’d love to take her to lunch.”

I’d been so worried about Gordon’s and my reactions to the kid, I’d not thought about everyone else’s. I suspected there’d be some fierce conjecturing. Alexandria was a big city in many ways, but in this part of Old Town, we were a small town.