Page 25

“You mixed Karate Kid and Kung Fu .”

“Whatever, Daisy. Paint your damn wall.” Her eyes blazed blue, and an edgy irritation sharpened her words.

Surprised, I looked at her closely. “You okay?”

“Me, okay?” She pretended to think. “Let’s see.

My husband is dead. My children are in another state with aging parents who will likely die from the exertion of babysitting.

My bakery is inside out. The floor is rotting, and the Frenchman doesn’t seem to give a crap about anything. Other than that, I’m great.”

Despite it all, I giggled. “You’re spending too much time with me. I’m rubbing off.”

“Maybe it’s about time I grew a set.”

Laughing, I pretended to dab a tear from the corner of my eye. “I think my little girl has grown up. Before I know it, she’ll be giving the finger to a cab driver and swearing when she adds numbers.”

Rachel raised a brow. “Really? Did I sound like a bitch?”

“Oh, yeah.”

She pulled back her shoulders as she raised a brush to the wall. “Score.”

Rachel and I stood back and studied the second coat of buttery yellow paint, which had now completely covered the blue. The room looked bright, clean, and fresh.

“For the first time, I feel like I’ve made my mark on this place,” I said.

Rachel wiped the yellow paint from her hands and arms. “What are you talking about? You blew in here like a steamroller and made the place your own within days.”

Late-afternoon sunlight reflected off the walls. “I’ve balanced the books, and the expenses are under control. Not exactly a lasting mark.”

“If you hadn’t made that mark, we’d not be standing here now doing this. You’re as much a part of the bakery now as I am, Daisy.”

Instead of fear or dread, pride welled. “I couldn’t have imagined us having this conversation last year.”

“Me either.”

I pushed back a strand of hair. “I must give credit to the bakery. It’s not such a bad place.”

“You give credit to the bakery?” Rachel raised her gaze heavenward and giggled. “Take me, Jesus, I’ve heard it all.”

For all the years of bitching about this place, I deserved the jab. “Funny.”

She sobered. “Finish your thought.”

“No.” Emotions, spoken almost without thinking, grew shy and silent.

“You’re such a girl. Man up and say what you like about this place.”

I lifted my chin, feeling a little vulnerable. “At the bakery I can see tangible results at the end of the day. So many cookies baked, loaves sold, cakes iced. Concrete returns. I like that.”

“You didn’t get satisfaction in Washington, DC?” Rachel rarely mentioned my job in Washington. I suspected she was afraid to invoke the past for fear it would steal me away.

“My old company offered great financial rewards. And sometimes I felt a glint of satisfaction. Quarterly earnings, a sales presentation won, a corner office. But those victories were few and far between the last years. For the most part the work didn’t feel real.

One electronic pile of numbers shuffled into another electronic pile. ”

“Do you still want to go back?” I knew it had been the question haunting her, and we’d done our best to avoid it.

“Sometimes. Like when Jean Paul doesn’t tell me about electrical inspections. Or when the water heater blows. Or when I skip paying myself so we can buy supplies. At least at the last place I had the illusion of stability.”

Rachel shrugged. “Dad told me once the bakery promised him hard work, and if he was lucky the sales and expenses broke even at the end of the year.”

“Yeah. This place doesn’t whisper sweet somethings in my ear.

But I’m okay with that. There’s comfort in knowing this place won’t lie to me.

I might not like what I hear, but I know it’s the truth.

” I glanced toward the wall, expecting the cupcake clock, and realized we’d removed it.

“What time is it? I must light a fire under Jean Paul and get those plans to the city offices.”

She glanced at her wristwatch. “Half past four.”

“Let me see what Jean Paul is doing. If he’s started on the electrical work, I’m going to put in our request.”

“But he’s not done.”

“I’m going out on a limb here and hope by the time he’s done, Mr. Fraser’s schedule will have an opening.” I pushed through the saloon doors and saw no sign of Jean Paul. I found him in the alley, leaning against a brick, reaching for his pack of cigarettes. “Are you working on the electrical box?”

“What do you think?”

“I think time is precious, Jean Paul. And I hope if I submit the request for an inspection now, you’ll be finished with the work before the city inspector arrives.”

“It’s a risk, but what’s life without a little risk.”

“Are you telling me you will or won’t be ready?”

He shrugged.

Tension crawled up my spine as I glanced around the alley. “What are you looking for?” he said.

“I’m wondering who’s around. I don’t want anyone to hear you scream when I strangle you.”

An amused grin quirked the edge of his lips as he lit the cigarette.

Flexing and uncurling my fingers, I tried to look menacing. “We’ve reached our quota of risk.”

He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke downwind from me. “You live to worry.”

“What?”

“Always finding problems. Do you ever have fun?”

Fun. “Jean Paul, I own this joint. My days of fun have ended.”

He shook his head. “There will always be problems, and there will also always be reasons to smile. Each day we choose the focus.”

“Easy for you to say. You only have yourself to worry about. I don’t have such luxury.”

“We have the same luxuries. But you choose not to enjoy yours.” He shook his head. “When the baby comes, what will you teach him? Will you teach him to walk around sad and worried all the time?”

Baby. I opened my mouth to argue, but the words didn’t come. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps you should.”

I didn’t want to think of another way I could scar my kid with my personality quirks and hang-ups. For now, I could only think about the inspection. “I’m submitting the application.”

“A good idea.”

Mumbling about insane Frenchmen, I hurried upstairs and grabbed my purse. Outside, the sun warmed my skin, and the fresh air smelled sweet. A quick check of my watch told me if I hustled, I’d get to the inspector’s office before closing.

I’d taken six steps away from the front door when I heard a young voice say, “Hey, do you work there?”

Summoning a smile before I turned, I found a girl who looked to be about fifteen. She had long brown hair, big blue eyes, and a pale complexion. Not stunning but cute. Next to her stood a boy who appeared to be three or four years older. Same coloring. And he appeared to have Down syndrome.

Impatience goaded me toward the city offices, but I kept my voice steady. “What can I do for you?”

She took the boy’s hand in hers and stepped forward. “My name is Meg Adams. I go to TJ High School. This is my brother, Tim. I heard you were looking to hire help.”

I made a sign but hadn’t put it up yet. “Who said?”

“My aunt owns the shop across the street.”

“The gift shop?” I glanced toward the merriment shop, and an image of a redhead with curly hair popped into my head. She sold souvenirs, cards, and novelty items.

“Yeah. She heard your sister moved away and thought you might need help. I thought we’d ask and see if that was true.”

Initiative. Two points. “Where do you live?”

“In Alexandria, near Seminary Road. We live in an apartment with our mom. She’s a nurse at the hospital.”

“Do you have any baking experience?”

Tim grinned. “I like to eat cookies.”

Meg squeezed his hand in warning. “I bake at the apartment. I made Tim’s birthday cake last week.”

“Box or scratch?”

“Box.”

Honest. Three points. “We’re under renovation now, but in about seven days we’re going to put the place back together and prep for the Saturday grand reopening.

” There were so many hurdles standing between the reopening and me, but I decided to be more Jean Paul about the matter and not worry.

“I’m not sure exactly what I need and will have to figure it out as we go. ”

Her eyes burned with eagerness. “I’m flexible.”

“You have reliable transportation?”

She swept a lock of hair out of her eyes. “The bus. We live on the bus line. It takes me about twenty minutes to get here.”

Tim glanced at his sister for guidance. Clearly, she looked out for him. “Meg, tell her I want a job too.”

Meg met Tim’s gaze. “She’s hiring one, Tim.”

Tim’s smile faded. “But what will I do?”

Her voice was gentle and held no signs of irritation. “You’re going to stay at home and watch cartoons, remember?”

Tim’s face scrunched into a frown. “But I don’t want to stay at home. I want to come with you.”

Meg patted the boy on the arm. “I look out for him.”

I folded my arms. “I can see that.”

Meg’s gaze was all business when she met mine. “If you hire me, I’ll work this out with Tim.”

Tim looked as if he’d argue, but she took her brother’s hand and squeezed it gently. He stayed silent but didn’t look any happier.

They were good, loyal kids. “Meg, what kind of grades do you make?”

“Bs, an A or two, and one C last semester.”

“What did you get the C in?”

“Government.”

“And the A?”

“English. I like to write.”

I’d overthought so much lately, but this decision felt easy and right. “I think I’m going to need someone about twenty hours a week.”

Her eyes brightened. “I can do that.”

Tim stuck his lip out, his frown deepening. Meg squeezed his hand again, but the gesture appeared more comforting.

“Tim, are you strong?” I asked.

He glanced up at me and grinned. “I’m very strong.”

I thought about the time it took to scoop chilled dough and how much my hands ached. I thought about bags of flour I really shouldn’t be lifting for the duration of my pregnancy. “Meg, I pay seven dollars an hour. And I can pay Tim the same.”

Meg cocked her head. “You’d let him come here and work?”

“Is he a good worker?”

A frown furrowed her brow. “If you give him a specific job, he’ll do it. He’s good when directions are clear.”

Tim grinned and nodded. “I work hard.”

More weight and more responsibility settled on my shoulders, but I was getting used to the load.

“Fair enough. I’ll need you to bring a copy of your last report card.

And I want to meet or at least talk to your mom on the phone.

” I fished a card out of my purse and handed it to her. “Have her call me.”

Meg accepted it, holding the card close to her heart. “I can so do that.”

“You’re in high school?”

“Going into my senior year.”

“You’ll need to keep your grades up while you work here.” In high school my English grade had dropped from an A-plus to a C, and Mom had to cut my hours. Though I’d initially been glad to be out of the bakery, I hated not getting a paycheck. My English grade was up in a matter of weeks.

Meg’s hair swished around her shoulders as she nodded. “I will.”

I eyed the boy. “Tim, are you going to listen to your sister and me?”

He jabbed an excited fist into the air. “Yes, and double yes!”

The enthusiasm coaxed a smile. “We’ll put the place back together this coming week. I’ll call with more details if this works for your mom. We’ll give it a two-week trial.”

Meg beamed. “You won’t be sorry, Mrs. McCrae.”

Mrs. McCrae made me cringe on multiple levels. “Call me Daisy.”

Her eyes widened, and again her head bobbed like a bobblehead doll’s. “Will do, Daisy.”

“Come on inside. Let me introduce you to my sister Rachel.” I backtracked to the front door and found Rachel gathering up the painting supplies. “Rachel, I’d like you to meet Meg and her brother, Tim. They applied for the job. I’m giving them a two-week trial.”

Meg stepped forward and offered her hand.

Rachel pushed back a lock of blond hair with the back of her hand and accepted Meg’s as she surveyed the two and grinned. We’d not discussed the hire, but I knew Rachel would welcome help.

When Mike had run the bakery, he’d had trouble delegating.

He’d done most of the baking, and she’d done the selling.

It wasn’t until the girls arrived that he’d hired help, but they’d had to let those employees go when Mike died.

“It’s going to be a crazy couple of weeks getting this place ready and back online. ”

Meg’s grip was firm. “We’ll do a good job for you. You’ll see.”

Tim elbowed his sister aside and offered his hand to Rachel. “We like this place. It’s yellow like a lemon.”

Meg stepped aside as if accustomed to Tim’s ham-fisted methods. “My aunt comes here sometimes for the carrot cake.”

“Who is your aunt?” Rachel said.

“Caroline Henley. She owns Caroline’s Gifts.”

“Red hair?”

Meg nodded. “Yes.”

“I know her. Nice lady.”

“Rachel, would you mind giving these two the ten-cent tour? I’m on my way to city hall before it closes.”

“Don’t you also have a doctor’s appointment?”

I’d already forgotten. Jeez. “Yes. Thanks.”

A quick check of my watch told me if I hustled, I still had a prayer of making it.