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Rachel and I broke into the first box. We quickly fell into a system where she pulled wine bottles out of the crate and handed them to me, and I loaded them onto the shelves.

Slow and deliberate progress, but we were making our way fast enough that when the deliveryman returned, we gave him the empties to take upstairs on his return.

“Hey, I’m not here to take out the trash,” he complained.

I could have argued, but I didn’t have the time or energy. Instead, I played the girl card and smoothed my hand over my rounding belly. “Look, dude, I’m pregnant. Can you help me out?”

His frown softened. “Yeah, sure.”

As he headed back up the stairs, I glanced at Rachel and whispered, “Do pregnant bellies have a magic power?”

She giggled. “Wait until you’re really showing. People will be nice to you even when you act like, well, you.”

I laughed, not able to deny I could be one hell of a hard case when I was on a roll. Upstairs, Anna’s giggles drifted through the floorboards.

Rachel paused and held up a finger, and then a second later Ellie screamed, “Stop it!”

“Barbie is falling down on the job,” I said.

Rachel headed toward the stairs. “She promised me forty-seven minutes of quiet.”

“Better get your money back.”

“No!” Jean Paul’s voice was quick and sharp. “In my kitchen we act like grown-ups, or you’ll go to the basement with the women.”

Rachel glanced over her shoulder at me. “I’m not sure I like the way he linked basement and women .”

“Yeah, like our fate is not one to be envied.” A second later there was silence.

Rachel went upstairs to check on the three and came back within seconds. “Jean Paul has the girls polishing dishes with rags.”

“And they’re doing it?”

“With smiles on their faces.”

“Looks like Barbie has competition.”

We continued with the wine bottles. I nestled several into an alcove. “I thought I’d dig up info about Jenna.”

Rachel ripped open a new box, paused, and handed more flattened boxes to the deliveryman. She smiled at him. He smiled back, his gaze openly appreciative.

When he was gone, I said, “Really? Don’t you have enough with Jean Paul and Simon?”

Rachel laughed as she pulled out two wine bottles and handed them to me. “I hope these taste good.”

“Jean Paul says they do.”

“And you trust him?”

“I trust him not to drink bad wine.”

Nodding, she handed me the bottles. “Any luck with Jenna?”

“Not so many answers as questions. I’ve been thinking about the newspaper article I read. ‘Survived by her infant son.’”

“What do you want to know about Jenna?”

“For starters, where’s she buried? And what happened to her infant son, and who was the baby’s father?”

“Text Margaret.”

“You’d think I could do this on my own without running to her each time.”

Rachel shrugged. “Yeah, you could do it on your own, or you could beat your head against a wall. Might be more fun.”

I stuck my tongue out at her. “Hilarious.”

“Besides, if Margaret’s on the job, we can bake those cookies for Simon’s party, which is tomorrow.”

“Do you think we’ll have the oven to the second floor by tomorrow?”

“The electrical is done.” She nodded toward the stove, now shoved in the basement corner. “Jean Paul says he’s called his friends, but no answer if they’ll be here or when.”

“They can’t give a time?”

“Daisy, it’s free help. Beggars can’t be choosers.” She glanced toward the ceiling. “Besides, he’s done right by us so far.”

“I’m sorry, did I hear you correctly?”

“I know I didn’t like him when I first met him, but he’s growing on me. He’s good with the girls, and he’s kind of made this place his own.”

“He kind of kissed you like he was a man starved for a woman’s touch.”

She offered a goofy grin. “Yeah. He did.”

“Let me remind you, you’ve shared one kiss with him.”

“I know.”

“Remember how Mike slipped into the family without anyone really noticing?”

A frown furrowed her brow. “He’s not Mike.”

“No, he’s not.”

“I’m not looking for a replacement for Mike,” Rachel said.

“You sure? I mean old Jean Paul up there is kind of cute, can bake like a god, and he likes the girls. And you did kiss him like you were just as starved. It would be easy to fall for him.”

A wistful smile touched her face. “I’m not falling for anyone.”

“Not even Simon?”

“Simon is from a different world, Daisy. He and I barely speak the same language. I doubt he remembers my name after the date from hell.”

“I don’t know. He could be worth a second chance.”

“I’d be willing, but I’m not so sure about him.”

“You’ll never know if you don’t ask.”

Instead of a quick no, Rachel nodded as if she’d considered the idea herself.

As we continued to work and Rachel chattered about the girls, my mind wandered to finding Jenna. Before I’d been vaguely curious, but now I had the sense time was running out. Ticktock . Find Jenna. Find him. Whoever he was.

Irritated, I pulled my cell from my back pocket and texted Margaret the request.

“Asking Margaret?” Rachel asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you told her you’re pregnant?” Rachel said.

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want her to come back here. She needs to do her iron-coffin adventure and find dead bodies.”

“You mean she escaped the bakery, and you don’t want to pull her back.”

“This place has a way of pulling us all back.”

“I never minded.”

“It’s different with Margaret.”

“What about you?”

“It sure was different with me at one time. Still could be again, I guess. But for now, this is where I belong.”

She smiled. “Tell Margaret. You’ll find a way to keep her away, and she hates being out of the loop, Daisy.”

I reached for my phone, and I texted.

“What did you say?”

“I finished with, ‘BTW, I’m four months pregnant and you’re still fired.’”

Amusement danced in her gaze. “That’s it?”

“I don’t want her getting any warm fuzzy feelings for me. She needs to stay where she is.”

Rachel giggled. “Ah, Daisy, you do love Margaret.”

“If you ever tell her I was looking out for her own good, I’ll bake you into a pie.”

“I’d love to see her face when she reads the text.”

The rain started minutes after six. The wine bottles had been loaded and stocked and the second level prepped and ready for the ovens and mixer, which would be moved upstairs tomorrow.

Though it seemed we were at a stopping place, I knew I should be doing more.

There was always more to be done at the bakery, but a weary fatigue had settled in my bones.

My lower back hurt, my legs ached, and an exhaustion I’d never experienced had taken over.

Six months ago, I could have done the work I’d accomplished today and been ready to go out partying.

But the thought of going out and being around people made me shudder.

The kid had drained me of all my reserves.

As I moved toward the steps leading to my room, the front door to the bakery opened.

My first thought was Rachel or someone had forgotten to lock the door and a customer had tried it.

Ready to give the “We’ll be open soon” speech, I turned to find Margaret standing there, rain glistening from her hair and tan jacket.

She studied me from head to toe and shook her head. “No way you are having a kid, but now that I look at you, damn, how come I didn’t see it last week?”

I couldn’t help but grin. It was good to see her. To know she’d come back from her dig to see me because of the baby. “I thought I was getting fat or had the flu or both. I never figured baby.”

She closed the door behind her and locked it. “Holy crap, Daisy.”

“Yeah. That and more.”

“I’m guessing unless Gordon has super sperm, the kid isn’t his.”

“Nope.”

“You told him?”

“Yup.”

She grimaced as if sensing I didn’t want to talk about it. “Can I shack with you for a couple of days?”

“What’s with your place?”

“Friend of a friend renting it for five weeks. Thought I wouldn’t be back and could make some cash.”

“Yeah. Come on upstairs. But I’ll warn you, I’m beat.”

She glanced around the bakery as if seeing it for the first time. “Like the yellow. How goes the other renovation?”

“Going well. Jean Paul is making it happen.”

Margaret chuckled. “Good to know. He’s a lot more laid back than Henri, and I was afraid it might not go as well. But you saw something in him, and you’re a good judge of people.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Maybe.”

As I climbed the steps, I gave her the short version.

“You’re going to pull this off?”

“You mean the reno?”

“The baby.”

I pushed open the door to my apartment. “Good question.” I pushed open my bedroom door and eased into a chair and kicked off my shoes. My feet had swollen at least 50 percent, and I feared by the end of the pregnancy I would not be recognizable.

“Want a cup of tea?” Margaret offered.

“Oh God, yes.”

She dumped her purse on the floor and shrugged off her jacket, hung it up as she kicked off her shoes. Moving to the microwave, she snagged a couple of mugs and tea bags and filled both mugs with water. She placed them in the microwave and hit four minutes.

I wiggled my toes. “You came all this way to see me?”

“Partly. We knew we were going to get some big rain the next few days and couldn’t work the site. I thought about going to New York, but then your explosive text arrived. Figured it best to touch base.”

“I’m touched.”

She shrugged. “The iron coffin isn’t budging, and we’re trying to figure out how to get him out. Might as well come home.”

As the tea brewed, Margaret dug milk out from the small fridge and sugar from a ceramic apple holder. When the timer dinged, she prepared the cups, handed me one, and then sat cross-legged on my bed with hers cradled in her hands.