Page 45

The bakery buzzed with activity by lunch the next day.

Rachel was icing cupcakes, the new kids were mixing and scooping cookies, and Jean Paul was baking his bread.

We were all moving at a breakneck pace, and we were going to make our deadline of tomorrow morning.

But I worried how long we could maintain this pace.

Dad had kept it all going for fifty years.

His father had worked for thirty years. Owning this place was a way of life.

And Rachel had said she wasn’t sure if this was the life she wanted anymore.

I’d promised I’d find another way for us to earn a living, and I would.

I just didn’t have the answers yet. I’d been trying all week to find time to see Joey, but no time had opened.

And each night when I lay my head on the pillow, exhausted, I felt Jenna standing close, prodding me.

So today, when a small opening of time had presented itself, I’d grabbed it.

Now as I cut through city traffic toward the beltway, my mind was not on the bakery but on the old man who’d served with Walter during WWII.

He’d been one of the last people on the planet to see Walter alive, and he had firsthand information about Jenna, right?

I hurried along the beltway, the speedometer pushing well past the speed limit.

I’d overseen cleaning the display cases.

Though they were perfect and ready for Rachel’s baked goods, the task had taken longer than I’d expected, and I’d been late pushing away from the bakery. Now I was trying to make up time.

It was a retirement community that honestly wasn’t my idea of a dream destination. The sign was missing a brick on the top, and the S in Sandy had snapped at the bottom tip. However, the grass was cut very short in a military-utilitarian way, suggesting efficiency more than curb appeal.

I found the main registration sign and parked by a blue awning, in the visitor spot.

As I grabbed Jenna’s trinkets and headed toward the main double doors, I really had to question my sanity.

My bakery staff was working like crazy, and I was here chasing the destiny of a man who’d died over a half century ago. This quest made no sense.

Inside, my nose wrinkled at the thick scent of antiseptic and metal. It smelled of old people. Not dirty or foul, but stale, as if life had been sucked out of the air.

Mere feet inside the front door, I followed welcome signs and found the receptionist. She was as simple and unassuming as the desk she sat behind. Dirty blond hair tied at the nape of her neck accentuated a round face and wide-set eyes. No makeup and a pale-yellow shirt robbed her of any features.

She glanced up over half glasses at me. “May I help you?”

Thankfully, her voice wasn’t as bland as her face. “I’m Daisy McCrae. I’ve an appointment with Joey Lawrence at two. I was told that was a good time to see him. He’s apparently finished his nap and had lunch by now.”

The woman rose. “You called Monday?”

“Yes.” Well, Margaret called, but I didn’t want to get into the whole story. “And then this morning.”

Her gaze skimmed over my face, Union Street Bakery T-shirt, and rounded belly. “Are you family?”

“No. But I knew someone that knew him years ago, and I thought we could talk.” To get into a description of why I needed to see Joey would surely have sunk my chances with this woman.

“He’s in his room. He was a little surprised when someone called asking for him.”

My fingernail scraped at the bakery box in my hands. “Two weeks ago, I’d never have pictured myself here either.”

She squared her shoulders and pursed her lips. “No one ever pictures themselves here, dear. Not a dream location.”

The bite under her tone had me reassessing her. I sensed steel under the soft exterior. Vivid blue eyes glanced at the box in my hands. “What’s that?”

“Cookies. I own the Union Street Bakery. I thought Mr. Lawrence would like a cookie.”

She arched a brow. “I’ll have to ask our resident dietitian if he can have a cookie. Many of our guests are on strict diets.”

I lifted the lid to the Union Street Bakery box, knowing Rachel’s cookies could soften the hardest of souls. “Would you like a cookie or two?”

As if pulled by an invisible string, her gaze dropped to the box. The harshness softened, and the hint of a smile tugged at the edge of her mouth. “Maybe one or two.”

I wasn’t above using cookies to get what I wanted. “Our chocolate chip is made with real chocolate we hand chop, and our sugar cookies are made with the best butter. The maple is our newest cookie. We use real maple syrup.”

She moistened her lips. “Hard to decide.”

“Take one of each.” The devil would have been proud of my ability to tempt.

She plucked three cookies from the box and bit into the chocolate chip. “My God.”

A conspirator’s smile curled the edges of my lips. “I know. Heaven. Have one more.”

She took a maple. “Mr. Lawrence is this way.”

As I followed her along the very industrial hallway, I wondered why anyone would want to be on a strict diet here. Sugar and fat killed you a little early. There were worse ways to go than death by cupcake.

The sunroom was located at the end of the hall and thankfully really was sunny.

It appeared to have been a recent addition, made of glass walls with a sliding glass door leading out onto a patio.

The backyard of the home was small and rimmed by a privacy fence separating the property from a housing development butting up to the property line.

However, a collection of lush green potted plants softened the hard edges of the fence.

The soft light shining through the glass created a cheery look and eased the hum of emptiness I’d sensed when I’d first arrived. If I lived in this facility, I thought I’d spend as much time as I could in the sunniest spots of this room.

“Where’s everyone?” I asked. “Seems it would be full of folks enjoying the sunshine.”

“It’s a little hot for many this time of day. We have a lot out here in the morning and evening, but not so much about this time. Joey is our exception. He’s not fond of crowds.”

I liked Joey already.

“I’ll go get him.” She held up the cookies. “And thanks for these.”

“My pleasure.” She left me standing alone in the sunroom, and I stared at the marigolds, begonias, and pansies contained in the pots.

Beyond the fence I could see the rooftops of several houses and through an open window heard the laughter of young children.

“I can push myself.” The old man’s voice was hoarse and raspy, but he had fired each word like a bullet.

I turned to see the receptionist wheel in a man who sat hunched in a chair.

His white hair was all but gone, and what remained was cut in a signature marine’s high and tight.

Gnarled hands curled inward with arthritis, but he wore a white dress shirt, creased khaki pants, and tennis shoes secured with crisp bows.

She leaned closer to his ear. “Gunnery Sergeant, this is your visitor. Her name is Daisy McCrae.”

He lifted a watery gaze to me. He studied me a beat before his eyes narrowed. “I don’t know a Daisy McCrae. She’s not one of those damn social workers, is she?”

“No, Gunny, she’s not a social worker. She’s here to talk to you about someone you know.”

“All the people I know are dead.”

My admiration for this crusty old guy grew with each salty glance he tossed my way.

He wasn’t taking old age lying down. I hoped I barreled into old age kicking and screaming until I skidded into the grave.

“Mr. Lawrence,” I said. “I’m trying to find a man who served with you during World War II.

You both fought in the Battle of Saipan in June of 1944. He died in July of the same year.”

Joey’s eyes narrowed, and he seemed to turn inward as if recalling the faces of too many men he’d lost during the battle. “That was nearly seventy years ago. There were a lot of good boys that died, and I’m sorry to say I don’t remember all the names.”

I’d been lucky with Sara Morgan’s sharp memory. The chances of me hitting pay dirt twice appeared slim. “Yes, sir, I understand. But I hoped if I told you a name, it might jog your memory.” I moved closer to him and pulled out my paltry collection of pictures.

“You smell like cinnamon.” He lifted his gaze and really met mine for the first time. I was struck by how clear and bright they were.

Smiling, I took a seat beside him. “I own a bakery.”

He arched a brow. “Did you bring me a cookie?” He nodded to the receptionist. “She had cookies in her hand.”

“I brought cookies. But the receptionist said you might be on a special diet.”

“I’m ninety-five years old, and she cares about me eating sweets?” Humor underscored the words. “Sooner rather than later I’m going to die. Rather it be a cookie that kills me.”

Grinning, I opened the box. “Chocolate chip, sugar, or maple. Pick your poison.”

He sniffed. “Grab me a sugar cookie.” I chose the most perfect one and handed it to him.

He took a bite and then a second before nodding. “What did you say your name was?”

“Daisy McCrae.”

“McCrae?” The name teased a memory.

“I own the Union Street Bakery.”

He cocked his head. “Union Street. In Alexandria?”

“That’s right.”

He waved a gnarled finger at my pictures. “What you got there?”

“Pictures of three people taken in front of the Union Street Bakery in 1944. I know the woman’s name is Jenna. And one of the men is Walter.”

His brow furrowed and his head cocked a little as if he didn’t trust his hearing. “You got a picture of Jenna?”

“Yes, sir. We were knocking out a wall at the bakery, and I found Jenna’s recipe box. I found her in the bakery records. This picture was in her box.”