Sunset Bridge (5 page)

“I’ll be fine, dear.” Alice smiled gamely. Then, after Olivia gave Tracy a spontaneous hug, grandmother and granddaughter crossed to the ice-cream counter.

Just in time.

“This what you’re looking for?” a voice said behind her. Tracy whirled to find the young man holding out a battered box picturing a mother and father with a fat pink baby.

“Holy crap,” she said. “Where did
you
come from?”

He looked as if he was taking the question seriously. She was afraid if she didn’t cut him off, he would begin with the moment of
his
conception.

“Look, thanks. I appreciate you finding it for me,” she said, grabbing the package from his hands.

He gave a vacant-eyed nod and wandered off again. Clutching the box, Tracy wandered aisles, ready to shove it behind cold medicine or canned peas until she was sure Alice and Olivia had gone. Once she saw them walking out the door, she took off for the cash register before anybody else she knew arrived.

The trip home was just long enough for Tracy to ask herself how she would feel once she was standing in her bathroom viewing the test strip, though she’d thought of little else since the truth had washed over her on the beach last night.

She and Marsh had only been a “couple” for a few months. They’d moved slowly into a relationship, with too many obstacles blocking an easier passage. From the moment they had finally given in to their obvious attraction and slept together, they had been nearly inseparable. When Marsh was cooking, she went to dinner. When he and Bay craved beach time, they came to Happiness Key to enjoy it with her. She sat in the audience when Bay’s class presented a program, and went with Marsh to meet Bay’s teachers. When something important
was happening at the rec center, the two Egan guys showed up to support her. She had even walked a Wild Florida picket line when the wetlands mall was still a possibility.

She,
Tracy Deloche, had walked a picket line! What more did she have to know about her relationship with Marsh? Before him, “protest” was something she did when her favorite spa discontinued a shade of nail polish.

So maybe things had deepened. Maybe she was happiest when they were together. Maybe eventually the man would admit he needed her, even loved her. But they weren’t there yet. They’d both weathered bad marriages. They had only just begun to weather their differences and find common ground. But a severe thunderstorm like an unplanned pregnancy? Possibly too much weather to weather. She just didn’t know.

And that was only the Marsh part of this cataclysm. What about the Tracy part? She, who had passed on having children the way she passed on having a second martini if she knew she had to drive.

With relief she saw she was home. At top speed she wheeled into her driveway, got out and grabbed the Randall’s bag. She didn’t even bother with her backpack.

Inside, when the door didn’t click shut behind her, she didn’t bother going back. By the time she crossed the living room, she had unbuttoned her jeans, opened the box, removed the contents and tossed the container in the garbage can by the kitchen doorway.

In the bathroom she stood at the sink and ran the water until it was hot enough to wash her hands, then she unfolded the directions, read them and laid them on the counter. Finally she took out the test strip. For a moment she froze. How could she do this if she didn’t even know what to hope for?
Surely she had to hope she wasn’t pregnant, that her life wasn’t about to be altered forever?

Except she couldn’t say that. Not quite. Not yet.

Reminding herself that the results would be the same no matter how she felt, she perched on the toilet seat and followed the directions. When she had finished, she waved the test strip in the air while she grabbed for toilet paper. Then she pulled up her pants and zipped.

She was afraid to look at the test strip. This was not the newest kit on the block. The directions said that five minutes was a definite, but that she might have an answer as soon as forty seconds.

“One Mississippi. Two Mississippi—”

“Hey, Ms. Deloche, you home? We saw your car, and your door was wide open. You okay?”

Tracy closed her eyes. Wanda. Wanda who was part of a mysterious “we.” For a moment Tracy wondered if she could ignore her and whoever else was out there, but it would be just like her brash friend to come charging into the bathroom to check on her.

“Just a minute,” she called. She opened the top drawer beside the sink, cleared a little spot for the test strip and the instructions, and set them inside.

As she washed her hands, she considered taking her time and peeking at the strip in a minute, but she knew Wanda was perfectly capable of pounding on the door if she was in here too long.

After quickly wiping her hands on a towel, she strode down the hall and saw that “we” included Janya.

“You must have been in some kind of hurry,” Wanda said, “leaving your door open like that. And aren’t you supposed to be off camping with that man of yours? Just the two of you
cozying up in the Everglades with the mosquitoes and gators for another couple of nights?”

“Got tired of Porta Potties, so I waited until I got home to go, and I really had to.”

“Really? I saw you come back in Marsh’s truck a little while ago, then leave again.”

“Okay, so I forgot to go the first time. Good grief, Wanda! Isn’t anything private around here?”

Wanda lifted an eyebrow. “Something happen out there? You look like something ugly and mean drug you through the—”

Janya interrupted, always a good idea before Wanda
really
got started. “We were just worried, since we didn’t expect to see you so soon. And the door…” Her voice trailed off.

“I’m fine. Really.” Tracy wondered about that, but the answer was still out of reach in a bathroom drawer. “The trip was a lot more grueling than I expected, and we just called it quits a little early, that’s all.”

“You and Marsh fighting again?”

“No!” Tracy took a deep breath. “I just needed a quiet night in a comfortable bed. My own bed.” She nodded in emphasis, hoping Wanda would get the point. “I’m worn out.”

“Well, I wanted you to know Maggie got in okay, and she’s settling in fine. I told her you’d go down and see her once you got home. But there’s no hurry.”

Janya stepped forward, and Tracy realized she was carrying a plastic bag. “In case you didn’t stop for dinner.”

Tracy peeked inside and saw her friend had packed containers of the meal she had probably served at home that evening. Without thinking, Tracy lifted a lid to inhale. She was a fan of Indian food and had gratefully enjoyed all Janya’s aromatic
native dishes. But the moment the top came off the container, her stomach turned inside out.

She could feel herself going pale, the blood draining to her feet. She thrust the bag back into Janya’s arms and took off for the bathroom.

And not to check the test strip.

Janya was standing beside her with a wet washcloth when Tracy was finally able to stand again.

She took the cloth and looked beyond her friend to Wanda, who was lounging in the doorway.

The older woman held out the test-kit box and shook her head.

“Did you really need this?” she asked. “I could tell you what’s wrong with you.”

Tracy was too weak to protest the invasion of privacy.

“So what’d it say?” Wanda asked.

“I haven’t had a chance to look. I’ve been entertaining my neighbors.”

“Well, go ahead and look now. Just to shore up what we already know.”

Tracy went through the motions. She opened the drawer and stared at the strip. There were two lines where one would have been before she and Marsh began making love two months ago. She shook her head. “Man…”

She looked up and saw Janya’s expression. “I’m sorry, Janya. I know this moment should belong to you.”

Janya rested her hand on Tracy’s shoulder. “No one decreed there will be only one baby at Happiness Key. You have taken nothing from me.”

“I know, but here I am pregnant, without even trying.” Tears filled Tracy’s eyes, and she blinked them away.

“Well, you must have done
something
to make this happen,” Wanda said. “You need a little education?”

Tracy took a deep breath. “No…but I need one thing. From both of you. Promise you won’t tell anybody. I don’t want anybody else to know. For now it’ll be our secret, okay?”

“What about Marsh?” Janya asked. “You will tell him, of course?”

“Marsh Egan is the last person I’m about to tell. Not until I’ve had time to think this through.”

Wanda’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying you don’t want the baby’s father to know? Or you’re saying you don’t know the baby’s father?”

“Wanda!” Janya was clearly shocked. “As if that is our business.”

Tracy held up a hand. “Just stop right there. There’s no question whose baby this is.”

“Well, that ex of yours was sleeping in this house for a while.”

CJ, who had gotten out of prison on a technicality, had been a guest in Tracy’s house during the summer, but she repeated what she’d already told Wanda months ago. “I told you then, and I’m telling you now… CJ was sleeping on my
sofa
. He was not sleeping with
me.
This is Marsh’s baby or it’s an immaculate conception, and I doubt I’d be first pick for that.”

“Then why aren’t you telling the man?” Wanda demanded. “You think he doesn’t have a right to know?”

The reasons were too long, complicated and confusing, and Tracy just shook her head. “I’ve known I’m pregnant for what, a full minute, Wanda? Give me a break. Be a friend, and just this once, back off. Okay?”

Wanda chewed her lip. She wanted to say more. That was perfectly clear. But finally she gave a curt nod. “You need a good talk, you come to me, you hear?”

“I know where to find you.”

Janya grabbed Wanda’s arm and tugged, but Wanda didn’t take the hint. She stared at Tracy for a moment; then she stepped forward, pulled her off balance and gave her a squeeze. Afterward, she and Janya left together.

Tracy listened to the sound of their footsteps retreating and, finally, the door closing behind them.

She bowed her head. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So she just stood there and thought about all the ways her life was about to change.

“Y
ou doing okay back there, honey?” Wanda called.

“Feels like old times.” Maggie’s voice floated to the front of Wanda’s Wonderful Pies.

“You just let me know you need anything.” Wanda waited, then realized that was going to be the sum total of their conversation. She sighed.

Maggie was busy in the back of the shop, cranking out piecrust. Wanda had resisted treating her any differently than she’d treated Dana, the only other assistant she’d had who was worth her salt. So this morning early she’d put her right to work. Maggie had grown up making pies, so after a quick tour of the kitchen, and an explanation of what she needed and how best to produce it in bulk, Wanda had left her daughter alone.

She thought Maggie looked particularly nice today, even though she’d been elbow deep in flour and butter for a couple of hours. Her shoulder-length hair was braided tightly against her head, tucked in at the nape and pinned, the way she wore
it when she was in uniform. The look suited her. Feminine yet spare, with only tiny gold hoops and a few escaping tendrils softening the effect. She wore jeans and a forest-green shirt, which were covered now by one of the striped logo aprons Wanda had bought for the shop.

She’d always thought her daughter was a pretty woman who missed being prettier by a thin nose and a rectangular face that was a little long, a little somber. She had golden-brown, Bette Davis eyes that were heavy-lidded and sultry, and hair the color of Maureen O’Hara’s in
The Parent Trap.
Both attributes had come from Wanda’s mother, who had been a Scots-Irish beauty. Wanda’s natural hair color was mousier, but red enough to convince her that the baby they’d placed in her arms in the hospital thirty years ago was her own.

In the past twenty-four hours, she had struck out completely with both her daughter and her landlady. When questioned, Maggie had pointed out that Wanda knew the facts about her life and there was little more to tell. Tracy had also outlined the facts of her situation, but neither woman had been willing to talk about feelings. Maggie had always kept hers to herself, but after those two rotten years of abuse in the sheriff’s department, she had become even less likely to share.

Wanda felt like a kid with her face pressed against the plate-glass window of a candy store.

Feeling surprisingly lonely, she was busy setting red carnations in vases on the tables when the doorbell tinkled and a man walked in. She glanced up and smiled, although she didn’t much feel like it.

“I like a man who wants pie at this hour of the morning,” she said.

He was overweight, but not morbidly so, more like somebody who just enjoyed eating and indulged himself more often than he should. His complexion was ruddy, his hair fair and beginning to recede. She thought he might be pushing forty.

“I’m looking for Wanda Gray,” he said. “Have I found her?”

Wanda was interested. People always guessed she might be the Wanda on the sign, but rarely did they care about last names.

“You’re not from the IRS, are you?”

The man approached and extended his hand. “I’m Phillip Callander, and I’ve got good news for you.”

Wanda tried to remember if she’d entered any contests lately. She’d always wanted to open her door and find half a dozen people with red roses and balloons announcing that she’d won a trip to Las Vegas or a summerhouse in the mountains.

“I like good news,” she said, shaking the proffered hand.

“How’s this? You remember Gaylord’s?”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. Before beginning her career as a baker of pies, she’d waited on tables at a restaurant called the Dancing Shrimp, a well-known, well-loved historic seafood joint on the water. Despite being a favorite among customers, she had been given the ax when a young couple from Manhattan bought the business, changed the name to Gaylord’s and turned it into a tapas bar.

Of course, losing that job had been the push she’d needed to open this shop.

“I know about Gaylord’s,” she said. “Did you eat there and get food poisoning? That would be good news. Although, not so much for you.”

He laughed. It was a deep, musical belly laugh, and Wanda quickly warmed to him. “I
never
ate there,” he said, screwing his face into folds. “The food they tried to pawn off on people? Di-
sas
-ter!”

“Tried?” She knew she sounded hopeful, but she couldn’t help herself. “Past tense?”

“You know how long most new restaurants last? Ten to fifteen percent close every single year, and most of those have only been in business for three years or less.”

She hoped those statistics didn’t include pie shops. “You’re saying they closed?”

“Six weeks into it. Gone. Just like that. Didn’t know the first thing about running a business and couldn’t even hire a decent chef. And you know the worst thing?”

She was leaning forward, trying not to crow with delight. “Nooo…”

“They didn’t have a clue what people
here
like to eat.” He paused. “But I do. So I’m bringing back the Dancing Shrimp.”

Now she crowed unreservedly.

“I can see we’re on the same menu page,” Phillip Callander said with a grin. “We’re deep into renovations. They paneled the whole place, painted everything that wasn’t moving black, even put in windows so narrow no light can shine through. They were right on the water, and they shut out the view.”

“They also got rid of all their good servers, but we won’t go into that,” Wanda said. “So you’re putting it back the way it was?”

“Close. It’ll be a tad more upscale, but comfortable, the way the old place was. I’ll bring back the most popular items on the menu, but add others with more complexity. I’ll sure keep
those shrimp-stuffed hush puppies, and I won’t be serving them with hoisin sauce, either.”

Wanda thought she might be in love with this man. The Dancing Shrimp might be getting some new duds, but it sounded like the same old gal.

“And along with being the owner, I’m also the chef. That’s why I’m here.”

Wanda held up her hands. “Sorry, but I’ve got my own gig now. I’m not going back to serving. If you want help recreating the menu, I could think about it.”

“No, no, I’ve got menus, recipes. The original owner was delighted to part with them. No, what I need only you can give me.”

She waited, charmed.

“Pies,” he said, drawing out the word as if savoring it. “Dancing Shrimp pies. Signature pies only we serve. Pies
you’ve
created for us. What do you say?”

“Me?”

“Who better?” he asked. “I’ve been sampling on the sly for a couple of weeks now. And your pies are the best I’ve ever eaten. Pie goes with my menu like fish with fries, lemon with sweet tea. But I don’t like baking, and I’m not half as good as you are anyway. So why hire a pastry chef when I can buy pies from you? A standing order. We’ll even pick them up in the morning to save you delivery costs.”

“I’ll be!”

“And you know what? I want a chatty, happy menu. Stories, not just descriptions, so there’ll be something on the menu about you, and how you used to work at the Dancing Shrimp until you became a famous pie baker. What do you say?”

Wanda didn’t know what to say. This was better than red
roses and balloons, if not quite as good as a summerhouse. This was a standing order, one she could count on almost every single day. And the publicity? The publicity would be fabulous.

“Darned tootin’,” she said. “How many kinds, and how many pies a day?”

“Come up with some ideas and we’ll talk details. Something decadent and chocolaty, for sure. Something citrus, but not plain old Key lime. Everybody in Florida has plain old, plain old.”

Her mind was whirling. “About when will this happen?”

“I’m hoping to open up in six months at the earliest. Eight at the latest.”

“Now, that’s a shame.”

“Tell me about it.” Despite his words, he was still smiling. “But there’s more good news. I’ve got another proposition for you, and I don’t think you’ll want to turn this one down, either.”

Wanda had a strange desire to pull out one of her chairs and flop into it. Good news was exhausting. “What?” she asked. “You want me to make pies for the governor?”

His grin widened. “Dream bigger, Wanda. That’s what dreams are for.”

Maggie liked her new home well enough. The cottage was small and nothing special, a concrete block like all the houses in the tiny development, clean, but still with the required tinge of Florida mildew. All in all it suited her fine. There was even an extra room off the bathroom, in case somebody came to visit. Not that she was passing out her address to old friends. Eventually Felo would find her, but she was happy to delay the inevitable.

The kitchen was well equipped. Maggie could make almost anything she wanted in it, although most of the time when she was alone, she cooked simple things, if she cooked at all. When gourmet was called for, Felo had been their chef, creating mouthwatering Cuban specialties like stuffed pork or arroz con pollo, which was nothing like the more anemic farm-table version. His black beans were redolent of garlic, pork and chili powder, and his picadillo was served over rice that was fluffy enough to stuff a pillow. Unless she had baked a pie, Felo usually ended with a coconut-rum flan that was sexy enough to make any woman love him.

And many probably had.

She didn’t want to think about Felo.

After being on her feet all day, Maggie was tired tonight. She had put a lot of energy into rolling out crusts, grinding and chopping fruit, scrubbing and rescrubbing the kitchen. Her mother had done the serving, schmoozing and selling, but Maggie knew she would graduate to that, as well.

She still couldn’t believe she was doing any of it.

She didn’t want to think about
that,
either.

A soft knock at the door saved her from unwelcome introspection. She expected to see her mother ferrying leftovers, but the woman on the doorstep was a contemporary, with dark shoulder-length hair and a million-dollar smile. The stranger’s eyes were gray in the twilight, and for someone who lived on the beach, she was pale. Maggie decided this was a woman who knew how to take care of her skin, and that she, like Maggie herself, had to use sunscreen frequently to keep from burning.

“Tracy Deloche,” the woman said, and held out a basket.

Maggie had already correctly guessed Tracy’s identity. She
took the basket and stepped aside to let her inside. “What have we here?” she asked as Tracy moved past her.

“Some dinner things to get you through while you settle in. Some mixes, soups, nothing that takes more than five minutes to prepare.”

“You must know all about me. I bet Mom’s been pumping you full of information.”

“No, but I think you’ve led a busy life, and it probably never lent itself to leisurely sessions in the kitchen after work.”

Maggie smiled her thanks. “I appreciate this. I’d like to stay out of fast-food lanes if I can.”

“Tell me about it. I just spent the summer losing fast-food weight.” Tracy hesitated, then said something that made no sense to Maggie. “Of course, what difference does that make now?”

“I’m sorry?”

Tracy looked at her. “Um…” Then she shrugged. “I’m muttering to myself.”

“Now I have to guess. You just broke up with a guy, the reason you wanted to look slim and perfect?”

“Not exactly.” Tracy took in the decor. “I like the new slipcovers. Your mom must have bought them. The sofa’s comfortable, but worn, so that’s a huge improvement. Although this isn’t exactly Wanda’s taste, is it?”

“You mean it’s not bright enough?” Maggie examined the subdued beige-and-white-striped fabric covering a chair and sofa. The pillows were floral, but not the eye-popping prints Wanda always chose for herself.

“I ask myself why, but I like the colors your mother’s used at her place. Those orchid walls always give me a jolt, then I start to feel right at home.”

“Mom always says paint’s cheap and life’s short.”

“I can’t imagine growing up with Wanda.”

Maggie didn’t feel insulted, because who
could
imagine it?

“It must have been so much fun,” Tracy finished, surprising her.

Maggie thought she was going to like her landlady. “Let me put this in the kitchen,” she said, nodding at the basket. “Would you like a drink?”

Tracy followed and stood in the doorway. “Would I like one? No question. Will I have one? Water will do.”

Maggie turned. “Not drinking tonight? Or not drinking ever?” She’d seen her share of alcoholic cops and didn’t feel shy about asking. Recovering alcoholics were usually only too happy to get that secret out in the open so they didn’t have to field frequent invitations to fall off the wagon.

“Not drinking for nine months,” Tracy said.

Maggie stopped, hand halfway to the cabinet to get a glass for ice water. “Oh.”

“Not telling people, either, but your mother knows, and if Wanda knows, you will, too, even if she doesn’t plan it that way.”

“So that explains why a diet seems futile now.”

“This wasn’t on my mind at the time.” Tracy patted her flat tummy. “In fact, it was never on my mind.” She looked up. “That probably sounds awful.”

“Not to me. It wasn’t on my mind, either. My…” Maggie lifted her hands in question. “What do we call the men in our lives? Partner was the detective I worked with every day. Significant other? Too cumbersome. Lover? Too much information. Boyfriend? Too adolescent.”

“How about guy? Not so much baggage.”

“In my case, my
former
guy, Felo—that’s his name—wanted children. I wasn’t ready.”

“I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about babies, and I don’t know the slightest thing about taking care of one. Besides, my ex-husband would have been a horrifying father. And the guy I’m with now? Has a kid already and doesn’t know he’s about to have another.”

“Did you just find out?”

“Yesterday. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”

At that moment Rumba streaked by on her way from the bedroom to her new favorite perch on the back of the sofa.

“Meet Rumba,” Maggie said. “Mom told you I’d be bringing her, right?”