Page 5

“When did you decide this?”

I glanced around the shop at the cookies in the display, the cupcake clock on the wall, the blue trim needing fresh paint. “When we committed to the renovation.”

“You’re going to stop looking for another job?” Surprise and doubt wrapped each word.

My defenses rose. “A year isn’t forever, Margaret. And if the right job came along, I’d sure look at it.”

“You mean like opportunity knocking on the door?”

“Something like that.”

“Kind of Zen and kind of passive for you.” A frown furrowed her brow. “I remember Dad saying that when he was a teen he’d vowed never to work in the bakery. That he wanted to be a pilot. And then his dad died, and life locked him into this place.”

The comparison didn’t sit well. I didn’t resemble the McCrae clan, but temperament-wise I was a lot like Dad. We thought alike. Mom said we both had type A personalities. “I don’t think he has a lot of regrets.”

“He has too. He never says, but those regrets are there. I don’t want you to end up with regrets, Daisy.”

Dad said he was happy with his choices. Had he simply fooled himself, like I was fooling myself now?

My stomach gurgled. Right now, I couldn’t think that far ahead. “Let me get through the next two weeks, and then I’ll worry about the rest of my life. You take this job. In fact, consider yourself fired as of noon today.”

Margaret laughed. “Fired?”

“That’s right. We want you out.” I wagged my finger at the front door. “Don’t ever darken our doorstep again.”

Margaret tapped a ringed finger against her thigh. “And if it doesn’t work out or last?”

“It will.” Better she thought of this as a one-way ticket. Trapdoors, outs, and safety nets had a way of making us not try as hard. “Now would you flip the sign to open ? Customers should be here soon.”

She moved toward the door and spun the sign around. “I thought I was fired.”

“Like I said, you’re fired at noon.”

Margaret stopped and stared at me for a long moment.

“What?” I grumbled.

“Thanks.”

This time my smile was real. “You’re welcome.”

I’d barely slipped on my apron before the first throng of customers arrived.

Saturday was our busiest retail day. Folks who’d denied themselves sweets all week arrived ready to sin and enjoy.

Some planned for Sunday after-church meals, and others were the random tourists who’d found us.

Weeks ago, Rachel and I had visited all the area hotels within walking distance, handed out samples, and offered a 10 percent discount to hotel guests.

The ploy seemed to be working, which made me more frustrated by this much-needed closing.

I’d planned to renovate and move the kitchen in September or October, but when the wholesalers agreed to give us a try, I knew I needed to have the new operation in full swing by fall.

Again, plans and me, we didn’t fare so well.

As Margaret welcomed a customer, I turned toward the saloon doors leading to the back.

As I took a step, an odd wave of energy passed over me.

Cold. Frigid. It took my breath away, and for a moment I froze, not sure what was happening.

Maybe more flu-like symptoms, but this didn’t feel so physical.

The sensation was dread mixed with a jolt of energy.

As my head spun, I imagined the floor under me shifting.

The sounds of Margaret and the customer faded, and the loneliness enveloped me.

Instinctively, my hand slid to my unsteady belly. I was going to be sick.

Stumbling forward, I pushed through the saloon doors and hurried up the back staircase to my room.

I made it to my bathroom seconds before I threw up.

After the nausea had passed, I sat on the bathroom floor, my eyes watering and my head aching.

I leaned my head back against the tiled wall. “This is such bullshit. Such bullshit.”

Whatever was going on with me needed to stop. I didn’t have time to be sick. And I sure as hell didn’t have time to be pregnant.

I’m not sure what drew my gaze to the trash can, but there it went, catching the edge of the pregnancy test strip. Absently, I reached for it so I could stare at the light-pinkish window, which had refused to confirm a pregnancy this morning.

When I looked at the strip, the color was no longer a light pink. It was a dark-pink plus sign. A really dark-pink plus sign.

I blinked, shook the test strip as if a hard jolt would dilute the color, and then looked at it again.

The plus remained as bright and pink as before.

Weren’t these tests no longer valid after twenty or thirty minutes?

I fished out the box and read the back instructions, thinking maybe, just maybe, the plus meant something other than pregnant.

Quickly I scanned the tiny type. I found in bolded letters Results .

A negative sign meant no pregnancy. A plus indicated pregnancy.

The instructions had the good sense to remain neutral and oddly calm, though it could have said, Daisy, you dumbass. You’re thirty-four years old, and you’re by no stretch a virgin. So how the hell did you get pregnant? You know better!

Clutching the strip in my hand, I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes. Tests like this weren’t perfect. There was at least a 10 percent margin of error, I was certain. The definitive test, according to Rachel, was a blood test.

Clutching the strip, I swore. “Why couldn’t you have given me a straight answer in the time listed on the back of the box? Then I’d have a real answer. Not a maybe yes . Maybe-this-is-a-bad-test yes .”

Shit.

I thought about another drugstore test, but I couldn’t imagine doing this all over again tomorrow morning. No more dime-store tests, which could have been left in the rain, heat, or cold by a hapless delivery truck driver.

Yeah, the test was faulty. Yeah. Faulty.

The blood test would prove once and for all that I was not pregnant.

Rachel’s smile was as brittle and fragile as spun sugar, which was as easily admired as shattered. As she boxed up assorted cookies for a mother with two toddlers screaming to be let out of their double stroller, she tried to imagine herself at a beach. Soft sand. Cool breeze. The sun on her skin.

But as hard as she tried to summon the image, she couldn’t. She’d not been to the beach since high school, and when she’d been there, it had been with Mike. They had barely started dating. She’d been a cheerleader. He’d been on the football team.

They’d not had much money, but there had been no worries for either of them in those days. Their biggest concerns were getting a base tan before prom, which was weeks away. She’d been so worried her pale skin would all but glow in her new black dress.

The lost, long-ago beach day had been magical. They’d had a beer or two. Soaked up the sun. Laughed with friends. No worries.

Perfect had ended during the car ride home, when she’d broken out in chills. She’d sunburned. Badly. When they’d arrived home, her skin simmered with heat. Mike had laughed and reminded her he’d told her so. Her mother had coated her skin with aloe vera.

“Could you throw in another dozen sugar cookies?”

Rachel glanced up toward the voice, which sounded as if it were a million miles away. The woman wore her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, sunglasses on her head and gold earrings dangling. She looked annoyed.

“Another dozen cookies?” Rachel said. “Sure.”

“Sugar cookies,” she repeated as Rachel reached for the lemon bars.

“Right. Sure.” She carefully stacked the dozen in the box before sealing it with a gold Union Street Bakery sticker. “That’ll be twenty-one dollars.”

The woman handed her a credit card. “I saw the sign out front. So how long are you going to be closed?”

If the woman had seen and read the sign, she’d know. But Rachel summoned a smile as she swiped the card. “Two weeks.”

A manicured finger smoothed over a sleek eyebrow. “My son’s birthday is July thirtieth. I’d like to order a cake.”

Rachel handed her back her card and receipt. “I can take it now.”

“You’re sure you’ll be open on time? I’ve never known construction to go as planned.”

“We’ll be fine. We’ve built in extra days of cushion.”

“It’s been my experience a remodel day turns into weeks.”

“We’ll be fine.” And they would. This was about knocking out one wall and moving kitchen equipment, not rebuilding the entire place. “Would you like me to take the order?”

She opened the cookie box and handed one to each child. “It needs to look like a ninja. A red ninja. Chocolate. Must feed twenty children.”

“A ninja?”

“You can do that, can’t you?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“And he must be red. Billy likes the red ninja. He has a red ninja doll and is obsessed with it.”

“I can do a ninja. And red. Vanilla icing. Chocolate cake.”

“Yes. But not buttercream. I like the icing made from Crisco. I know it’s not the fancy kind, but I like the taste better. Tastes like the canned icing. I know we shouldn’t like it, but we do. So do the kids.”

As Rachel wrote up the order, she pressed so hard with the tip of her pencil it broke, and she had to fish another out of her apron. Ninja. Crisco. What else? Food coloring in the batter? “Sounds good. You’ll pick it up on the thirtieth?”

“Yes.”

She recorded the woman’s information and watched as she left. “Why don’t you go to a chain store at get your ninja cake? Why bother to come here?”

Margaret glanced up from the register. “What are you mumbling about?”

“People who come to a specialty bakery wanting their cake to taste like the ones in the grocery store.”

Margaret looked unworried. “Money is money. Does it matter if they pay?”

Rachel glared at Margaret. “I feel like a cake whore who mixes up whatever to keep the customer happy.”

“Cake whore?” Margaret cocked her head. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

Rachel could see the surprise in her sister’s gaze but didn’t really care. “What am I supposed to sound like?”

“I don’t know, happy I suppose. Daisy and I are the bitter, grumbly ones, remember? You’re supposed to be the happy one.”

“Maybe I don’t feel like happy. Maybe I’m a little bit annoyed in general today.

” The bells rang on the front door as several more customers wandered in.

Rachel watched as they absently searched the menu above for ideas, and she realized if she had to answer one more question about the difference between white chocolate and chocolate, she’d scream.

Without a word, she left Margaret to deal.

She considered escaping to the kitchen and baking to burn off stress but remembered the ovens had been unplugged and Jean Paul was downstairs dismantling them for the move.

She smoothed her hands over her hips and rolled her head from side to side, trying to work the kinks out of her neck. Margaret was right. She was the happy one. She didn’t get pissed and didn’t do bitter well. And yet here she stood, annoyed and angry, living in skin tightening by the moment.

Daisy reappeared, red eyed and pale.

“Where have you been?”

The sharp edges on her words had Daisy raising a brow. “Bathroom.”

“Are you hungover or something? Gordon’s been gone since Thursday night on his bike trip, and you’re not the type to sit in your room and drink alone.”

Daisy moistened her lips. “It’s less like a hangover and more like something . A bit of a bug, I think.”

Immediately contrite, Rachel struggled with her anger, as if she didn’t have the right to express negative emotion with anyone, especially Daisy, who had damn near ridden to her rescue months ago. “You need to hang back when we pack and move equipment.”

“No. I’m good. I already feel like I’m on the mend.” Daisy glanced at the clock on the wall. “T-minus fifteen minutes.”

“And the bakery closes for fourteen days.”

“Margaret out front?”

“Figured I’d leave it to her since she’s abandoning us.” Bitterness melted into her voice.

“That’s not exactly fair. She’s hung in there with you.”

“Yeah, she has. And Mom and Dad helped her with grad school, and last I checked the bakery pays her for her time.” She rubbed her hands over her arms, craving a beer. She’d had a couple since Mike died, always denying herself a second, fearing if she gave into the grief, she’d never stop drinking.

“You on the rag?” Daisy challenged.

Rachel shook her head. “Can’t I be annoyed without being on my cycle?”

“You’re only edgy during your period.”

“Well, today, I’m annoyed, and I’m not on the rag.”

Daisy’s gaze narrowed as she studied Rachel. “How was the girls’ sleepover with Mom and Dad?”

She huffed out a breath. “No one called, so all systems must be go.” Mom and Dad had offered to take the girls on a beach vacation when Daisy had proposed the renovation.

It had made sense to all, so her parents rented a cottage on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

The Sunday-to-Sunday rental began tomorrow, but Rachel had been worried about her aging parents chasing after very busy twin five-year-olds.

She’d suggested sleepovers as practice. So far, they’d gone well.

The girls had been happy, and Mom and Dad hadn’t died from exhaustion.

“The acid test will be the beach vacation. Ellie and Anna are going to kick their asses.”

Rachel loved her girls more than life, but she needed this break. Needed a little time to reacquaint herself with Rachel. “They raised us,” Daisy offered.

“You lose the stamina quick. If I had to go back to the infant stage now, I think I’d die. All those sleepless nights. I thought I’d go insane.”

Daisy’s gaze sharpened. “Mike helped, didn’t he?”

“When he could. But he had to be up at three to bake, so for the most part I took care of the babies.”

“Yeah, but you had two.”

“True. But all it takes is one with colic and life as you know it is over. Gone. Dead in the water.”

Daisy untied her apron and carefully hung it on the wall. “Good to know.”

“What do you have to worry about? You’re on the no-kid plan.”

“Right.”

The front doorbells jangled, Margaret wished the last customer good day, and then she pushed through the saloon doors. “Mission accomplished. We’re now officially closed.”

“We pack up equipment now, right?” Rachel said.

“Sure,” Margaret agreed. “I’m about all packed on the home front, so you have me all afternoon.”

Daisy’s smile made her pale features look a little ghoulish.

“Great.” Seeing the finish line brought with it a kind of euphoria, and Margaret could seemingly see hers.

Rachel had been robbing Peter to pay Paul, time-wise, for so long she’d forgotten what it felt like to be excited.

Her finish line was so far off in the distance, she wondered if it existed.