Page 6

The three of us worked for several hours. While I cleaned out my office, Margaret and Rachel packed all the cooking supplies, pots, pans, and spoons. Jean Paul finished his repairs to the brick oven.

By four we’d cleared out the space, and we were ready to demo the wall of my office.

The wall had been in place for as long as I could remember and was made of brick.

Jean Paul had gone to the basement, studied the floor joists, and determined the office wall was not load bearing and we were safe to remove it.

“Don’t worry,” he said.

Hammer and chisel in hand, I stared at the wall. “You’re sure about the wall?”

He shrugged and brushed back a lock of hair with his long fingers. “Of course.”

“If the bakery collapses, Jean Paul, I’m coming after you.”

He grunted, took the hammer and chisel from me, and cut into a chunk of mortar. The first bricks were slow going, but after about the fifth or sixth removal, the demolition went faster. Soon, my sisters and I were carrying bricks to the back alley behind the bakery and stacking them in neat piles.

Since Jean Paul’s arrival, I’d noticed whatever he did, he did very well. However, he could only do one task at a time, and he couldn’t be rushed. So when we had no bricks to move, I swept mortar from the floor, Margaret texted friends, and Rachel paced.

It wasn’t an efficient system, but like I said, Jean Paul wasn’t charging more than his baker’s salary, and I didn’t have the money to hire a real builder. And so we moved slowly and carefully.

In a couple of hours, about 40 percent of the wall had been dismantled. We’d created a neat hole into the space that had been my domain for the last couple of months.

“I’m going to miss this space.” Closing the office door had been a treat. The space had been small, but it was a sanctuary of sorts. And soon it would be gone for good.

Rachel shook her head. “Not me. I always tensed up in the space. Balancing the budget made me want to cry.”

Margaret texted. “Maybe you can make an office in the basement. Other than the bread oven, space is now open, right?”

“Twelve hundred square feet.” We could use it as storage, but the basement square footage needed to work for us to survive. I didn’t know what we’d do with it yet, but we needed ideas.

An unlit cigarette dangled from Jean Paul’s mouth as he studied his work. Hands rested casually on his lean hips. “Make it a wine cellar.”

“Wine? We’re bakers,” I said.

“Bread and wine are natural pairings,” Margaret said. “A loaf of bread, a bit of cheese, and a bottle of wine. Perfect for a day by the river.”

“I don’t know anything about wine. I know what I like, but I wouldn’t know how to sell it.”

Jean Paul shrugged as if this were a simple problem. “I might know a guy.”

“A guy?”

“He’s selling his restaurant. He has wine to sell.”

“How much?”

Jean Paul straightened, as lazy as a cat on a hot day. “I’ll ask.”

With no further explanation, we returned to work. As the day went on, the heat outside rose, and the temperatures in the kitchen grew hotter. We had the back door propped open to allow a breeze because Jean Paul had shut off the AC so the intake didn’t suck up the dust.

“This is BS,” Margaret said. Her good humor of the morning had faded. “I can’t believe we’re doing this ourselves. Why don’t you hire someone, Daisy?”

I swiped sweat from my brow. “Can’t afford a someone. We’re it.”

“We’re bakers, not construction workers,” she said as she accepted a brick.

Rachel had been silent through the afternoon, but it was clear she didn’t like this any better than Margaret or me. Normally she found positive topics to talk about, but not today. Something chipped at her good humor as Jean Paul chipped at the mortar.

He set his chisel against a chunk of mortar and hit hard. The mortar fell free, and he wrestled another brick loose. This was a maddening process. My head pounded, and I was considering calling it quits for the day when Jean Paul said, “That is unusual.”

No surprises, please. “What?”

“There’s a hole where the side wall meets the main wall.” He took a small dented silver flashlight, clicked it on, and peered into the crevice left by the missing bricks.

“Do you see anything?” Margaret said.

“Always the archaeologist,” I said.

She shrugged. “Be nice to land a big discovery during this adventure. Makes the chipped nails and sore back muscles worth it.”

“Maybe it’s buried treasure,” I teased.

Margaret’s eyes brightened. “Now that would be totally cool.”

“I hope whatever it is,” Rachel said, “it’s worth a ton of money. Then we can hire someone else to do this, and we can go on vacation with Mom, Dad, and the girls.”

“Poverty is a drag,” I said.

When I’d first rejoined the bakery, I’d seen the income issues as an exciting challenge.

I was sure I could come up with a scheme to turn this place around and make real money.

I’d slashed costs and turned a very marginal profit, which was enough to pay the quarterly taxes and cushion us for fourteen days of downtime. Hardly setting the world on fire.

When I was in finance, the money had been great.

And I’d spent it freely, enjoying all the fruits of my labors.

I’d assumed the job would always be there and the money would keep rolling in to my bank account.

I cringed now when I thought about how much I’d spent on shoes and eating out and trips.

If I’d saved 20 percent, I’d have no worries now.

But I’d pissed it all away on crap. And now the job had vanished, and I was here, schlepping bricks in the heat.

Jean Paul ignored us as he always did, peering inside the hole. Finally, he grunted, pushed up his sleeve, and put his arm into the opening.

“Is that such a good idea?” I said as his arm vanished. “You don’t know what’s in there.”

He grunted and leaned deeper into the hole. And then without warning he screamed as if in agony. He thrashed. Screamed more. We all squealed. Rachel jumped up and down as I raced toward Jean Paul. Please don’t let his arm get bitten off. The thought of blood made my stomach flip-flop.

“I’ll call 9-1-1!” Margaret shouted as she reached for her cell.

I reached Jean Paul ready to do ... I don’t know what, but I was there ready to attempt a rescue. And then the anguished expression on his face vanished, and he smiled. He pulled his arm effortlessly out of the hole. Clutched in his nonbloody fingers was a dusty wooden box.

My heart racing, I stared at him through narrowed eyes as he laughed. “Women. So easy to scare.”

I took a step back and glanced at my sisters. The anger burning in their gazes mirrored mine. “Should we kill him fast or slow, ladies?”

“Definitely slow,” Rachel said. Her cheeks remained flushed, and her eyes were wide with lingering worry.

“Super slow.” Margaret tucked her phone back into her rear pocket.

Chuckling, Jean Paul handed me the box and then glanced up at the clock on the wall. “It’s nearly six. Time to stop.”

Thank God! I can now crawl into bed and focus on not throwing up. However, despite my first reaction, I said, “What do you mean, ‘stop’? We have a couple of hours of daylight.”

One of his thick brows arched. “It’s a beautiful day. And I’ve plans with friends.”

“Friends? You moved here a month ago.” I’d lived here my whole life and had, well, no friends other than my sisters and Gordon. I wasn’t sure if my current circumstance was my fault or the bakery’s.

Another casual shrug lifted his shoulders. “It’s not so hard to make friends.”

Instead of summoning a rebuttal, I glanced at the box. “What is it?”

“A box,” Jean Paul said.

“Thanks. I did figure that much out.”

He reached in his pocket for his rumpled pack of cigarettes and headed toward the back door. “Until tomorrow.”

As he vanished out the door, Margaret peered over my shoulder. “Open it.”

Rachel pushed her hand through her hair. “If we’re knocking off, I’m headed upstairs. I want to make sure Mom packed everything the girls need.”

“Don’t you want to see what’s in the box?” Margaret said.

Rachel waved a tired hand. “Pass.”

“Suit yourself,” she said.

As I went to the refrigerator, peeled back the plastic now covering it, and pulled out a ginger ale, she opened the box. Rusted hinges squeaked and groaned. I popped the top and savored several small sips. “What’s inside?”

“Looks like recipes.”

“Recipes?” As the liquid hit my stomach, it lurched. I refused to get sick again today. “No gold?”

She shook her head. “No gold, silver, or precious gems. Old recipes. And ...” She fished her fingers into the box. “A set of dog tags.”

“Dog tags? For whom?”

Margaret squinted and studied the embossed lettering. “For a Walter F. Jacob.”

“Who would put a box of recipes in a wall with a set of dog tags?”

“This wall must have been installed in the early 1940s. So, this must have been put in as it was being built.”

“Yeah, but why?”

“A mystery.” Margaret handed the box to me. “Which I do not have time to consider. I’ve friends to meet for drinks soon, and it would be nice to take a shower before I meet up with them.”

I traced my fingers through the dust coating the top of the box. “Sure, fine. Leave me alone.”

Margaret arched a brow. “Is self-pity lingering under those words? Really, Daisy, that’s beneath you.”

Wallowing wasn’t my usual way, which meant I should be entitled to it occasionally. “What if it is?”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “Whining does not become you, Daisy. You love solitude.”

“Not always.”

“Where’s Gordon?”

I traced my finger through the dust on the box. “On a hundred-mile bike ride in the Shenandoah Valley with a group of tourists from Japan.”

“One hundred miles?”

“I know. Crazy. But he loves to ride, and his adventure/extreme tours are becoming popular.”

Margaret scrunched up her face as if she’d bitten into a lemon. “Popular with who? Masochists? That’s not exercise. It’s torture.”

“You’re preaching to the choir.”