Page 24

Traveling now. Will contact you soon. T.

Terry’s brief, terse message lingered with me as I rolled the second coat of yellow paint onto the bakery wall.

I couldn’t shake the simple message she’d most likely tossed out with little thought.

I dissected the word choices, the sentence structure, and the way she’d signed with an initial instead of her name.

Traveling. Where was she? I knew she lived in New York. Was she headed back to Alexandria? I was, after all, going to make her a grandmother at fifty-one.

And why couldn’t she have said when she was calling me? Would it have killed her to elaborate on soon ? A date and time weren’t asking much. And how about signing her name? I didn’t expect Mom , but how about spelling out Terry . And what was with her omitting my name in the email?

The spin of senseless questions had me leaning into the paint roller as I applied the second coat. “Shit.”

“What’s with the shit ?” Rachel cut another corner with paint. “Is the baby okay?”

I shoved out a breath. “The kid’s fine. I’m feeling a little half-human.”

“A step in the right direction. Maybe you’re through the worst of it.”

“I’m thinking the worst of it arrives when I’m holding my screaming bundle.”

Rachel grinned as she dabbed her brush into the paint can and wiped away all excess paint. “That’s the best part. It’s the part that makes you glad you went to all the trouble.”

“From your lips to God’s ears.” I reloaded the roller. “The shit is for Terry.”

Rachel’s smile eased. “Did she answer your email?”

“She did. She’s traveling. She’ll call me soon.”

Cutting a straight neat line along the seam between the wall and ceiling, Rachel shrugged. “That’s a good email, Daisy, for her. What are you moping about?”

“I don’t know. Why can’t she answer a simple question? Who is my birth father?”

“Maybe that’s what she’s going to do once she contacts you. Might not be an easy conversation or email to send.”

“Yeah, because I’m still her dirty little secret. She still hasn’t told her husband and sons about me.”

Rachel pursed her lips. “You don’t know for sure.”

“I know.” Rushing to get paint on the wall, I overloaded the roller, and a huge dollop fell on my shoe. “Damn it.”

“Look, Daisy. Slow down. I know you’ve a lot on your plate right now. I know. Take it one step at a time.”

Shoving out a breath, I grabbed a cloth rag and wiped the paint from my shoe. “I know. I know.”

A knock on the front door had us both turning to find a slender thirtysomething man with short dark hair. He wore a white collared shirt and khakis and carried a clipboard.

I smiled but said without moving my lips, “Clipboards never bode well.”

Rachel stood and grinned. “Health inspector.”

I laid my roller in the paint pan and wiped my hands. “Or building inspector.”

“Place a bet?”

“Two million dollars.”

“You’re on.” Rachel moved to the door and opened it. “Can I help you?”

He nodded glancing past her to me. “I’m with the building inspector’s office. I’m here to check the progress of your electrical wiring.”

“Our builder is on a break,” I said. He frowned.

I smiled. “Builders are a tough bunch to wrangle.”

He nodded, no sign of humor. “Is there someone who can answer questions for him?”

“I can. I’m Daisy McCrae, and this is my sister Rachel. We own the bakery.”

“Grant Fraser. I’m with the city.”

“Nice to meet you.” I grinned as if I were meeting a billion-dollar client at the investment firm and shook his hand.

Grant’s hand was dry but his grip tentative. “I received a call to do the rough-in electrical inspection.”

“Right.”

His eyes narrowed. “Did you call me?”

My smile brightened. “My contractor called, Jean Paul Martin. Rachel, why don’t you find Jean Paul and ask him to join us?”

Rachel gladly latched onto the reason to leave. “Will do. See you in a few.”

She beat feet out of the place as if Mr. Fraser had announced he carried the black plague. We were going to have to work on her fear of confrontation. When the kid came, she’d have to take the reins for at least a little while.

“As you can see, we’re using the time to paint the front of the store.”

He pulled a pen from his back pocket and clicked it. He glanced at the freshly painted walls and didn’t appear impressed. “Where are you doing the construction?”

“In the back. The kitchen.” I moved toward the saloon doors. “We’re knocking out a wall, getting rid of what had been my office so we can make room for a new freezer.”

“Why do you need the freezer?”

“We can prep ahead of time. Make one batch of cookies and might as well bake twenty. With the new freezer we can make more ahead. Right now, we have about a week’s worth of freezer space.”

“I thought bakeries baked fresh daily.”

I pushed through the saloon doors. “We do bake fresh daily. But some batters and dough, like cookies, bake better if they’ve been in the refrigerator or freezer for at least twenty-four hours.”

“Why is that?”

“You’ll have to ask Rachel. She’s our master baker. She can tell you why a cookie or cake does what it does. When it comes to the kitchen, she’s in charge. I do what she says.”

I recapped Jean Paul’s work on the floor. “And my job is finance, marketing, and long-term planning.”

He nodded as he knelt and studied the floor joists. He made notes on his clipboard.

“We’re fixing that,” I said. “That crew arrives tomorrow.” He nodded but didn’t speak.

I leaned over his shoulder, trying to read his handwriting, but found it next to impossible.

Jean Paul and Rachel appeared at the back door. She looked hurried and harassed. He looked bored and a bit annoyed.

“Here’s our builder,” I said. “This is Jean Paul Martin. Jean Paul, this is Grant Fraser with the city building-inspector’s office.”

Jean Paul nodded and shook Grant’s hand.

Grant fired several questions about the supplies Jean Paul was using. Jean Paul answered most but a couple of times seemed to struggle with the English words. I had no doubt he understood. This was a trick he’d used on me a couple of times when I asked him questions that he didn’t want to answer.

Mr. Fraser, however, was not aware of this ploy and several times reasked the question.

“Would you like to see our permits?” I offered. “We were told the only change we couldn’t make was to the brick oven. And we have not altered the stove.” For the most part.

Mr. Fraser shook his head, unwilling to keep asking questions. “No. Let me have a look at the electrical work.”

“I’ve finished,” Jean Paul said.

Mr. Fraser moved toward the wires, studying connections and pathways closely. His world was black and white. The wires were correct, or they were not.

There’d been a time, with so many deadlines looming, I’d have rushed him through his inspection. But not today. I wanted to know the wires were right. Rachel’s children lived in this building. The kid would live here. “How does it look?”

He didn’t answer right away as he studied still exposed wires and junction boxes. I’d relied heavily on Jean Paul up until now, and I realized I’d gambled heavily.

Finally, Mr. Fraser sniffed and stepped back. “The work seems to be correct. I’ll be back when you’ve installed the electrical boxes for the final inspection.”

“When will that be?” I asked.

Mr. Fraser fastened his pencil to his clipboard. “How soon can you have them installed?”

Jean Paul shrugged. “Soon.”

Soon. Crap. Did the man ever speak a specific word in his life?

I willed the tension out of my voice. “Is it possible to have it done tomorrow?”

Jean Paul shrugged. “Of course.”

Mr. Fraser nodded. “As soon as the work is done and I have your request for a new inspection, I’ll put you on my schedule.”

Another deadline, another line to stand in. “Do you have a rough idea when you could come back?”

“I can’t make that determination until I have the request.”

“I called you today,” Jean Paul said. “And here you are within hours.”

“Your timing was perfect. I had an opening, so I came.”

Of course. Jean Paul never, ever worried, and the universe opened for him. The universe, however, had a way of turning its back on me. I would put in the request as soon as I could, and Mr. Fraser’s schedule would be overwhelmed, and he’d not be able to return for weeks. “Thank you.”

“Have a good evening.”

After the inspector left, I looked at Jean Paul. “Tell me you can do that work by tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

“When should I put in the application for the next inspection?”

“I cannot predict problems. I cannot give you a time.”

Realizing I was grinding my teeth, I relaxed my jaw. “What if I go by before closing today, put in the request, and then hope you’re done by the time he returns.”

He sniffed. “Always a rush.”

“I need to keep this reno moving forward. I’m not making five hundred dollars a day right now.

Which means you might be getting paid, but Rachel and I are not.

We need to get the final approval so you can finish the wall, fix the floor, and we can plug in our new freezer, which arrives in two days. ”

“You worry too much. It’ll happen.”

“I know it will. Or I’m going to kill you and stuff you in the new freezer waiting to be plugged in.”

He arched a thick brow but overall seemed nonplussed by my somewhat empty threat. I marched back into the front of the store and picked up my roller. “Shit.”

Rachel followed. “Daisy, we’re going to get this worked out.”

“It would have been worked out if I’d been more on top of the details. I’ve let my brain slide the last couple of weeks. This never would have happened to me a year ago. I’d have been a step ahead of Jean Paul with the applications. Now I’m a step behind we cannot afford.”

“Go ahead and submit the application. He’ll get them done tonight. Mr. Fraser will return tomorrow for the final. It will work out.”

“How do you know that?”

No smile or rousing cheer, only “Because it has to.” She picked up her brush. “Now we need to paint. It’ll happen. Sort of like ‘wax on, wax off, grasshopper.’”