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She frowned. “It’ll be fun.”

“Don’t make it sound so forced,” I said. “It’ll be fun.”

“Right.” She picked up a clipboard, which I suppose was a prop in our little play.

On the main floor we waited in the front part of the store.

The fumes of the yellow paint had eased, and the color had softened a fraction.

The room had a bright, sunny feel, and I imagined our grand reopening, the cases uncovered, sparkling clean and filled with pastries.

Outside, a long sleek black car pulled up in front of the bakery.

Simon got out of the car and moved toward the front door.

Rachel handed me a clipboard. “He’s here.”

I glanced at the clipboard and pretended to read. “He’s coming to the door. What a nice young man.”

“Daisy, he’s older than you are.”

I pointed to an imaginary notation and grinned. “Manners always count.”

“Jesus, you sound like Mom.” Pretending to look at the clipboard, she shook her head. “The change is starting.”

I kept my gaze on the board. “What change?”

“You’re turning into a mom.”

“Oh, I so am not!”

Rachel chuckled. “Wait, you’ll see. Before you know it, you’ll be wearing jackets with big pockets crammed with kid crackers and bottles.”

I rapped my knuckle on the clipboard. “Never. I’m not going to be a nerd mom. I’ll be a supercool mom.”

“Wait until you’re so tired you can’t see straight. Then you won’t care if you’re covered in spit-up or if your socks match.”

After the twins were born, Rachel had looked like she’d been hit by a truck. Baby spit-up had been her new accessory and sweats and T-shirts her daytime look. I remembered thinking then I didn’t want to be a mother. Babies, it seemed, sucked the life out of you. “I’ll care.”

Her grin broadened. “Yeah, sure.”

The sound of Simon’s knuckles rapping on the front door erased Rachel’s smile. She took a step back, and I wasn’t sure if she’d go to the door or run back upstairs.

To be sure, I blocked her retreat. “It’s a quasi date, Rachel. You’re not being fed to the lions.”

Her grin reappeared. “I’m not so sure.”

“I am. Go. Have fun. And know I’ll be waiting up polishing Dad’s shotgun.”

Nervous laughter bubbled. “Great.”

Simon wore a blue sport jacket, a white shirt, and khakis. All looked sharp and expensive. Good. Anyone dating my sister needed to bring his A game. “Want me to come out and have a word with your young man?”

“Yes. I mean, no.” She straightened her shoulders. “No. I got this.” I waved to Simon and smiled.

He smiled back.

“Of course you do,” I said. “It’ll be fun.”

She released a breath, plastered on a bigger smile, and moved toward the door. “See you in a few hours.”

“Take your time. The kid and I are going to hang. Maybe bake a Jenna cookie.”

“Good.” The far-off quality of her voice told me she’d barely heard.

As I watched Simon escort her to the car, open her door, and wait until she was settled before sliding behind the wheel, I realized we were both entering new phases of our lives.

Motherhood was my next destination, and the single girl’s life was Rachel’s.

We’d flipped roles. Two years ago, we’d have laughed at such a notion and held on tight to the lives we had.

But the universe didn’t so much care about what we wanted. It did what it did.

As much as I wanted to wish back my old life, to do that meant wishing away the kid, and I was growing fond of the little gal.

In the kitchen I could see Jean Paul had roughed in the area where the new freezer would go.

Soon we’d be painting in here. A good thing.

The new freezer came in days, and if we missed our delivery window, the warehouse couldn’t guarantee when they could deliver next.

Gus’s wine came in two days. Time enough for me to build the shelves in the basement.

So many pieces had to fall together to make this place happen.

I startled awake, expecting darkness. Since returning to the Union Street Bakery, I’d grown accustomed to waking up in the inky black of night. When I’d made a comment about this last week, Dad had laughed and welcomed me to the bakers’ club.

As I looked around, I saw the dimming summer light seeping in my window and my laptop resting at the foot of the bed.

I struggled to collect my bearings. The clock on the nightstand read 8:59 p.m. Shoving a hand through my hair, I realized I’d not slept through the night but had dozed off right after filling out the electrical inspection application.

I moved to rise, but a heavy weight pressed me into the mattress. It pushed the air from my lungs. I tried to rise again and failed. Instead of panic, my annoyance flared.

No one touched me, but I sensed someone was in the room. I searched the shadowy corners just out of reach of the fading sun.

Someone was close. Watching. Judging. The air around me shifted, thickened, and brushed my skin like a spiderweb.

Whenever I’m scared, I don’t cower. I come out swinging. A survival mechanism developed at the ripe old age of three when Terry sauntered out of my life. Fight first. Worry second.

And now with a kid on board, I had more to lose and much more to protect.

In a clipped and angry voice, I said, “What do you want?”

The air around me grew heavier and colder.

However, instead of sensing demanding energy, I detected a desperate and pleading quality.

Come at me with both barrels, and I’ll go out of my way to nail you.

But if you give me a hurt-puppy vibe, I melt.

This very chink in my armor explained my current position at the bakery.

If Mom had demanded my return, I’d have refused.

If she’d shouted, I’d have yelled right back. If she’d insisted, I’d have said no.

But she hadn’t pushed at all.

Instead, she’d plied me with daiquiris and asked nicely. Your sister needs your help. Mom knew me. Knew I caved to kindness. And she’d used it.

I yearned to pull the covers over my head and ignore this new desperate energy pulsing around me. But the piteous urgency strengthened, and so did my resolve to dismiss it.

“What do you want?” My voice lost its edge.

Find him.

It wasn’t like I heard the words. No creepy far-off whisper to be mistaken for the wind. No chill cut through me. Just a knowing .

Find him.

“Find who? Who am I looking for?”

My heart thumped in my chest as I waited and listened, but no answer came. Find him.

“Specifics, please.”

Find him.

The pressure weighing on me lifted. Frustrated, I sat up and searched the darkness.

Silence radiated in the room. I waited. Listened.

Nothing. I had leaned forward to click on a light, my fingers reaching for the switch, when my stomach tumbled, turned, and tumbled again.

My breath caught in my throat. The voice forgotten, my attention shifted to the kid.

Carefully I slid my hands under my T-shirt and laid them on my naked belly.

Heart beating, I closed my eyes, turning all my energy inward as I waited, barely breathing.

And then when I thought it had all been imagination or, worse, gas, my stomach fluttered again.

The movement was feather soft but distinct. The kid had moved.

My throat clogged with emotion, and tears filled my eyes. I was dumbstruck. The other day when it had moved, the sensation had been featherlight and could have been dismissed. Not now. There was a person living inside me, and she was now moving.

I rubbed my belly in a soothing way. I thought about Gordon and what he would have said if the kid had been our kid and it had moved under his tanned, calloused palm.

He’d have been thrilled. Tears would have welled in his eyes because Gordon had always been a softer touch than me.

He liked all these mushy moments, and when we’d been together, I often teased him about it.

But not now. Now I wished with all I had that he was here and we shared this moment with the kid.

A tear rolled down the side of my cheek, and for the first time since I found out about the kid, I let the chained emotions free.

Rolling on my side, I cried, not caring this time if it meant I was strong or weak.

I didn’t care. All I knew was I’d experienced a most miraculous moment, and there was no one to share it with.

I was all by myself. Again. And for the first time in a long time, I couldn’t convince myself being alone was okay.

I’m not sure how long I lay there, letting the tears flow. I didn’t bother to censor myself. I allowed the feelings to tumble freely.

My hands curled on my belly. “I promise you, kid, we’ll figure this out. You’re going to have a good life. I won’t ever leave you.”

Terry might have said the same words to me. But somehow, I doubted it. We looked alike in so many ways, but I was stronger than Terry.

With renewed confidence, I swung my feet over the side of the twin bed. The floor warmed my feet.

Rising, I moved to my computer and opened email. There wasn’t any correspondence from Terry. Not surprised, I typed,

I don’t think it’s asking a lot to have my genetic background.

You must have more details about George. Tell me more, or I’ll be on your doorstep asking the question in front of your family.

I signed the message “Daisy, your daughter.” Your daughter might have been a little snippy and over the top, but I didn’t care. I wanted information for the sake of the kid, and I wasn’t messing around. I hit Send.

I leaned back in the chair, and for the first time since I’d met Terry, I didn’t let guilt or worry overtake me. Maybe I’d grown more accepting of my birth mother reunion. Maybe it was the late hour. Or maybe the kid deserved to know as much as I did.