Page 33

Rachel and I had retreated to the basement, putting together the shelves that would stock our new wine collection.

Jean Paul had finished prepping the walls and was painting upstairs.

The inspector, Mr. Fraser, had come early and inspected Jean Paul’s electrical work and given it the official thumbs-up.

The movers had yet to come and haul the baking equipment to the main floor, but Jean Paul had assured me we’d have the basement cleared before the wine arrived. We were inching forward.

I was a linear thinker, and I liked to tackle one task at a time. Multitasking had never been my strong suit. But I was learning that if I didn’t multitask, the bakery would close. It required someone who could keep juggling lots of balls.

The shelves were black and sleek and had been on sale, but deciphering the instructions threatened to drive me to drink, swear, or scream. “These don’t make sense to me.”

“I can see why these shelves were such a deal,” Rachel muttered. She looked panicked as she stared at the collection of screws laid out on the white sheet. I’d insisted on the sheet, knowing I’d crack if we lost a screw or a bolt.

“I choose to believe if we follow the steps correctly, we’ll have shelves.”

“Too bad life doesn’t work that way.”

Smiling, I reread the third section. “I think I have it. You hold boards A and B, and I’ll connect with bolt one.”

“Which ones are boards A and B?”

“The farthest board on the right is A. We read from left to right, so I arranged from left to right.”

Rachel nodded and picked up the boards. “If you ever really want to punish me, put me in a room with one of these to assemble.”

“I’ll remember that.”

She held the boards together, so they formed a long L. “Board B is backward,” I said.

Frowning, she studied the setup. “How can you tell?”

“Because the sign facing me says back , not front .”

She studied the instructions, shook her head, and flipped the board around. “Right.”

This went on for another hour. For the most part it went smoothly.

Once I attached a board backward, and Rachel caught it.

Muttering words, I unscrewed the fastener and reattached it.

When we finished the first set of shelves, both of us stood back to admire the work.

The shelf was seven feet tall, black, and had vertical slots that held the wine.

Against the basement’s brick wall, it looked kind of cool, and for the first time in a couple of days, I thought maybe all of this might really come together.

“Three to go,” I said.

Rachel groaned. “Kill me.”

“It should get easier.”

She brushed back a stray curl. “From your lips to God’s ears.”

And so we tackled the second set of shelves, which took half the time to assemble. More progress. At least this one small part of my life was under control.

“We’ve got this.”

Rachel offered a tentative smile. “You have jinxed us.”

“We’ll be fine.” I needed to master these shelves. I needed something to go right. A little control, please.

The third set of shelves was missing three screws, which I had to steal from the fourth set. When the third set was complete, I studied the fourth, incomplete box. “We know we’re missing screws from the top section. So, we know we can at least build two-thirds of the shelf.”

“And then what?”

“If Jean Paul can’t rig a fix, I’ll have to make a run for the hardware store.”

“Great.”

Rachel held boards A and B in an L shape. “So how was your meeting with Gordon last night?”

She’d not asked, so I’d pretended it had never happened. “Not so good.”

I screwed in the first fastener. Maybe if I could make the pieces of the shelves fit, I could reassemble my life without having to borrow pieces or rig joints.

“I didn’t exactly listen at the door,” she said. “But I heard the tension in his voice and yours.” She held up the next set of boards while I repeated with fasteners.

Gaze on the screws, I maintained a steady tone of voice. “I’m fairly sure I blew my life out of the water.”

“Why?”

I focused on twisting the screw into place. My voice was barely a whisper. “He said he’d be the baby’s father. He said we didn’t need to tell Roger, the bio dad, and we could raise the baby ourselves.”

Rachel paused. “Daisy. Do you realize what he was saying to you?”

Emotion choked my throat. “Yes.”

She studied my face. “So why did he sound mad?”

A sigh shuddered from my chest. “I said I had to tell Roger about the baby. I couldn’t keep a secret like that.”

She nodded slowly. We’d been together since we were three, and though we didn’t always agree, we knew each other very well. “He was pretty mad.”

“He doesn’t understand why I need to tell Roger.” A bemused bark of a laugh escaped. “I can’t say I understand. Maybe if I knew who my biological father was, I could let this go. But I can’t deny the kid what has been denied me.”

“You’ve not heard from Terry.”

“She’s playing games again.” I shook my head.

“I don’t think she means to be cruel. I think dealing with you and her past is hard.”

The thought stung deeper than I expected, and for a moment I stared at the screwdriver in my hand.

Rachel put her arm around my shoulders and hugged me close. I shrugged off her embrace, pretty sure I’d cry if she hugged me. And this she understood too. It wasn’t the first time I’d run from comfort.

We finished assembling the first section, bringing the last set of shelves up to my hips.

“Do we still have that order with Simon?”

She arched a brow. “He hasn’t canceled it. And canceling wouldn’t be his style. He’s a gentleman.”

“So you’re going to have to see him when we make the delivery.”

“No, you’re making the delivery. I’ll bake, but I’ll not go see him. Not yet.”

“Rachel, you cannot be a baby about this. You’re going to have to go do the delivery. I can’t do it alone.”

She pouted a little. “I don’t want to.”

“I could give you a list of all the things I don’t want to do, but I won’t bore you. Running a bakery isn’t for sissies.”

Her frown deepened. “If Mike weren’t dead, I think I’d kill him right now. He said we’d be together forever, and he lied.”

“He didn’t mean to, Rachel.”

Her blue eyes blazed with anger. “I don’t give a shit! He left. Period. End of story.”

In the last seventeen months, Rachel had kept a stiff upper lip. But that lip had quivered a lot lately, and frankly I was glad. No way you could take a hit like she did and not feel gutted.

“You’re supposed to be angry,” I said.

“Why the hell do I have to be angry? I don’t like being angry!” she shouted.

“Because you’ve got to get pissed to move forward.”

“You’ve been angry all your life, Daisy. Where has it gotten you?”

I sat back, stunned. I wasn’t sure if I should be hurt, amused or ... angry.

Rachel’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry, Daisy. I didn’t mean it.”

I shook my head, deciding on amused. “You’re right. I’ve been angry for a long time.” I sighed. “I don’t want you to end up like me, which is why venting emotion is good. Bottle it up like me, and the anger will burrow bone deep.”

She blinked. “Are you that angry?”

“Some days, yes. Some days, no. You aren’t wired like I am. Happy is your style.”

“Happy. I’m not sure what happy feels like anymore.”

“It’ll return.”

“When?”

No cute wisecrack came to mind. “I don’t know.”

We finished the last half-size shelf, a heavy silence hanging between us as we each brooded over our own worries. Despite all the trouble, the black shelving looked very sharp against the ancient stone wall. Clear out the debris, add wine bottles to the shelves, we’d have our own wine room.

“Damn,” I said. “This is coming together, Rachel.”

She folded her arms over her chest, studied the arrangement, and shrugged. “It looks pretty good.”

I nudged her with my elbow. “And it’s going to look great when the wine arrives. We’ll turn a nice profit on those wines. We are making this work.”

She stuck out her bottom lip. “Maybe.”

“ Maybe , my ass. This is happening, Rachel.”

The squeal of little voices and the thunder of excited feet had us both looking toward the stairs.

“Sounds like the girls,” Rachel said.

“Yeah.” I’d bet Mom and Dad would last three days. Rachel had bet two. They’d surprised us both by making it five. “Hopefully they haven’t killed Mom and Dad.”

“I better go check.” She bounded up the stairs, the spring returning to her step. She’d missed her girls.

I rose and followed. We found Jean Paul showing Mom, Dad, and the girls our progress.

Mom and Dad both looked a little pale. Mom didn’t wear any makeup, and her blue T-shirt was stained with something purple.

Dad hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and his shirt was inside out.

They both looked like a truck had hit them.

But the girls were dressed in rumpled blue shorts and matching yellow T-shirts that read Outer Banks Rocks! , which were no doubt a souvenir from their gemstone rock adventure. Their ponytails were askew, but they were giggling and jumping with energy.

“Hey!” Rachel said.

“Mom!” The girls squealed as they ran to Rachel. She hugged them close, kissing them as they talked excitedly about their trip.

Dad nodded in my direction as he scanned the new buttery yellow. “Looking good, Daisy. Coming together. I like the yellow.”

His approval made me smile. “We’re getting there, Dad.”

Rachel removed Ellie’s crooked ponytail, smoothed her hair with her fingers, and then refastened it with the hair tie. “Wait until you see the kitchen.”

Jean Paul’s gaze flickered briefly to Rachel, but he gave no hint of what had happened last night. Rachel blushed ever so slightly. However, I sensed awareness between the two that made the air crackle.

“I’ll give you a tour, Monsieur McCrae,” Jean Paul said. “Please follow me.”

Dad’s gaze lit with interest. He glanced toward me, and I nodded for them to continue. “Lead the way,” he said.