Sweet Expectations (12 page)

After a good four hours both of us were tired of the work and ready for a break. Rachel made us ham sandwiches, and I grabbed a couple of sodas from the refrigerator in her apartment. We sat picnic style on a blanket in the center of the newly painted room.

“It looks bigger without all the pictures on the walls,” I said. “I like it less cluttered.”

She pulled the crust off her bread. “It definitely looks different.”

“You want the pictures back?”

“Not all of them. But it would be nice to have some. Our history is important.”

“We'll sift through them later.”

“Sure.” As she said it, Rachel sounded broken and sad. I thought about the pictures of Mike that had been on the wall. One more reminder he was gone.

“I know it's different, Rachel. I wish I could give you your old life back.”

“Thanks.”

“But we're here now, and we've got to make the best of it.”

“I know. And I'm trying.”

“Me, too.”

My cell rang and I glanced at it. “It's Dad.”

She frowned. “Wonder why he's calling you?”

“Let's find out.” I hit Send. “Dad, how goes it?”

“We're hanging tough.” His voice sounded rough and tired.

Chuckling, I said, “Let me put you on speakerphone. I'm here with Rachel.”

“Sure.”

I hit the Speaker button and immediately could hear the girls hollering in the background. I glanced toward Rachel, but she didn't seem worried, as if she'd heard the sound a thousand times.

“Dad,” she said. “Are they driving you insane?”

“They are little angels,” he said. “But they are loud little angels.”

“Where's Mom?” I said.

“She's making sandwiches in the kitchen.”

“Can you put your phone on speaker, Dad?”

“What button do I push?”

“The green one on the top right.” I'd gotten them new phones for Christmas. They had all the bells and whistles, but so far all they'd done was call in and out.

Dad sighed into the phone. “If I lose you then call me back.”

“You won't cut me off.”

I could hear him muttering oaths mixed in with “life was simpler when each house had one phone attached to a wall.”

“Dad? Green button,” I shouted.

“Hello, hello,” he said. “Do I still have you?”

“We're here, Dad,” Rachel said. “Mom, can you hear me?”

“Oh, I sure can, dear,” she shouted. “How are you doing?”

“That's my question to you. Surviving the girls?”

At the sound of their mother's voice the girls stopped singing and squealed. “Mo-oom!!!”

Her eyes brightened. “Hey, girls. Are you being nice to Grandma and Grandpa?”

“Yessss.”

Rachel shook her head. “Are you sure? Are you taking quiet time each day like we talked about?”

Silence.

Mom cleared her throat. “We've been on the go so much there hasn't been much time for sitting, Rachel.”

Rachel leaned toward the phone. “Mom, my angels turn into devils when they are sleep deprived.”

“They've been a delight.”

This was not the woman who raised me. That woman had never sounded calm in the face of chaos.

“How's the bakery, Daisy?” Dad said. “The renovations coming along?”

“We're getting it done one brick at a time. Jean Paul is finishing up wiring today. And the new freezer will be here by Friday or Saturday.” And with luck we wouldn't run into major wiring problems and the floor wouldn't collapse.

“You still painting the front of the store?”

I picked up Rachel's crust and nibbled on it. “As we speak.”

“Same color?”

“Pretty much, Dad.” I glanced at yellow walls needing a second coat to cover the blue. “So how's the weather?”

“Hot,” Mom said. “We are going to putt-putt golf tonight. And then tomorrow we're going to the place where you mine for gemstones. It's in a nice air-conditioned building, they give you a pail of rocks, and you spend hours sitting and digging looking for gems.”

“Will I find a diamond?” Anna said.

“I don't know,” Mom said.

“Will I find a diamond?” Ellie said.

“Count on twenty minutes max, Mom,” Rachel said.

“Send me your positive thoughts, Rachel,” Mom said. “Think at least one hour.”

Smiling, Rachel shook her head. “I will think as hard as I can.”

“Hey, Mom,” I chimed in. “Maybe if you click your heels three times the girls will spend the entire afternoon going through the rocks one by one.”

“Funny, Daisy. Just you wait, dear. One day you will be a mother, and then I will sit back and laugh.”

“My kid is going to be perfect.” The conviction behind the statement surprised me. “She's going to be doing mathematical equations while I read my favorite novel.”

Both my parents laughed.

Dad lowered his voice a notch. “Ten bucks says Daisy's kid is a ballbuster like her old mom.”

“We can only hope,” I said.

“Can I write those words down?” Mom shouted.

“Okay,” I said. They were talking about the grandchild they thought would never be. I was talking about the baby scheduled to arrive by Christmas. Suddenly, all Mom and Dad's jokes took root. Was the kid going to be a ballbuster? Shit.

Rachel stared at me wide-eyed as if to warn me I played with fire. “We've got work to do. If you people of leisure will excuse us, we've got walls to paint.”

“See you two lovebirds in a week.” I turned the cell over to Rachel.

Mom and Dad said their good-byes while Rachel took the phone, retreating to a corner to speak to her girls.

As I tossed the remains of my sandwich away, my thoughts turned to the kid and then to Gordon. I moved to the window and glanced toward his yellow bike shop. We'd had our talk two days ago and I sorta hoped he'd cool off, see I was as thrown as he was, and return. He was always the peacemaker and the one who talked me off the proverbial ledge.

Down the street, he emerged from his shop, shepherding an electric blue bike outside. A teenager followed and watched as he tested the brakes. Frowning, Gordon pulled a screwdriver from his pocket and made adjustments before pronouncing the bike good to go. I'd learned over the last few months he took safety very seriously. I'd kidded him about it weeks ago, and his expression had grown serious. Screw up a company and send it out of business like I did, and you'd worry about the details, too.

Gordon glanced up, a smile on his tanned face. He pushed his long hair back with his fingers and watched the kid ride off. He turned and for an instant his gaze captured mine. I wanted to shrink from the window, but I stood steady, holding his gaze, raising my hand, hoping he'd smile back and saunter to the bakery. Instead, his expression hardened, and he turned and walked back into his shop.

A hard lump formed in my throat as tears burned my eyes. He had every right to be pissed but . . . I really wished he wasn't.

I pulled back my shoulders. I didn't handle rejection well at the best of times. And right now was not the best of times. “Rachel, I need to take a break.”

“What?”

“I'm going for a walk.” I didn't dare face her for fear I'd really cry. “Keep the phone and finish your call. I'll be back in a couple of hours.”

“Okay?”

“Never better.” My hand on the door, I jerked it open.

The door closed behind me, bells jingling madly over my head. I thrust unsteady hands in my pockets and headed down the street away from Gordon's shop. I didn't know where I was going, but I needed to move. To do. And not to think. I didn't want to dwell on the kid, the disaster renovation, or Gordon.

I ambled for several minutes before I remembered Jenna.
The Alexandria Gazette
. Stood to reason she might have been mentioned at some point. A wedding announcement. Birth announcement. Some details to tell me a little more about the woman who'd worked at the bakery. From many of Margaret's ramblings, I remembered the original papers were held in Richmond at the state library, but microfilm copies were available here. It could take hours and days to find a mention of Jenna, and that was time I did not have. Margaret, however, knew the shortcuts.

Realizing I didn't have my phone I went back to my apartment, taking the back staircase to the third floor. There were dozens of important tasks I should have been doing but right now all I cared about was Jenna.

I opened e-mail, knowing Margaret's went straight to her phone, and typed.

Margaret,

Hope your adventures with the dead are as thrilling as you hoped. All's well here. Mystery of recipe box is bugging me big time. Know anyone who has access to local papers who can track references to Jenna? E-mail or text.

I leaned back against the wall and scanned my inbox, which was fairly full of junk. No word from Terry and I couldn't say I was surprised. For her to suddenly open up in an e-mail seemed a stretch.

Still, her nonanswer hurt, not because I was looking for another mother. I had one. But I wanted a connection with the woman who'd given birth to me. And I also wanted information about my birth father's DNA.

I logged on to the Internet and typed on a whim:
Who is Daisy McCrae's birth father?
Bits and pieces of the search popped up. A Daisy in England. A woman searching for her birth father. A McCrae in Kansas. But of course the universe had no illuminating answers for me. It was about as helpful as Terry.

“Who the hell did you hook up with back in the day?”

From my desk drawer I pulled out the picture of Terry and me on the day of my birth. She'd been pretty with her long sleek black hair, and her smile was vivid. She looked happy when she'd been holding me. She'd looked like she was willing to give it her best shot.

Had she gone to my birth father? Had he been at the hospital when I was born or had he taken this picture? Had he rejected her and me? Had she told him, or worse, did she not know who he was?

As a kid I'd never given him much thought. All my musings had been for the woman who'd raised me for three years and then left me on the bakery steps. I'd developed long and complicated stories about her, but he'd barely registered. Once I'd imagined he'd been a brave prince killed in a war, but for the most part he remained faceless and unimportant.

Now, however, he was important. He was half my genetics. One quarter of the kid's DNA. And like it or not, he mattered. I wasn't looking for Father Knows Best or a daddy. I had Dad like I had Mom. But a 411 on my DNA would be good.

“Shit. He's probably a serial killer locked away in Leavenworth. Terry said she didn't have great taste in men, so it stands to reason she'd pick the worst of the worst.”

Absently I smoothed my hand over my puffy belly, which still looked more fat than pregnant.

I wanted to tackle motherhood better than Terry, and part of doing that had to do with DNA. The kid's bio dad wasn't a
Father Knows Best
type. I held no illusions that I'd contact him and he'd rush to my side with an engagement ring in hand. Roger hated, with a capital
H
, kids. He didn't want any. And on some level I was relieved he wouldn't make a big fuss.

But the kid deserved to know him. The kid was going to look at me one day and ask me about Daddy. And I knew I'd have the answers. I would find out more about Roger than his taste in scotch and his favorite stock option. I would. Soon.

Just not right now and not today. One problem at a time. Bakery rehab. Freezer install. Prenatal checkup. And tell the parents they were not only parents to a ballbuster but would by Christmas be grandparents to one.

Christmas. The kid was due at Christmas. I'd yet to live through the holiday season as the manager of a bakery, but I'd lived through enough as a kid. It was all hands on deck. Dad often worked twenty hours a day. Mom worked every second she wasn't doing something for us, and we all helped after school.

By the time I was in high school I'd come to dread the holidays. Yeah, we were closed early on Christmas Eve and on Christmas Day, but we were so tired it was all we could do to heat up lasagna and open presents.

And this year I would be short a sister and birthing a babe in the midst of chaos. Dropping my head back against the desk, I closed my eyes. I did have a knack for choosing the worst time.

We were going to have to hire help. I'd not really thought it through when Margaret had said her good-bye, but I knew we'd have to hire a couple of teenagers to help in the back. I'd make a sign in the morning and put it in the window. We had enough interest from kids in the past, so filling the job shouldn't be but so bad. I hoped.

My computer pinged and an e-mail appeared in my box from Margaret.

I knew u couldn't resist. I've put out the word to the powers that be, and you should have answers soon. Keep checking e-mail. BTW, dead body in iron coffin and submerged in water. Coming up with plan to raise it. This is so f-ing cool.

Margaret

Smiling, I shook my head. Only Margaret would be knee-deep in water and mud with a two-thousand-pound iron coffin and talking about the coolness of her life.

A dozen smart-ass retorts danced in my head, but I couldn't seem to type a one. Instead, I typed,
You go, girl!

I'd no sooner hit the Send button when another e-mail popped up in my inbox. I didn't recognize the e-mail address, but thinking it might have been one of Margaret's network, I opened it. It was from Terry.

Chapter Ten

Wednesday, 3:30
P.M.

9 days, 18.5 hours until grand reopening

Income Lost: $1,500

T
raveling now. Will contact you soon. T.

Terry's brief, terse message lingered with me as I rolled the second coat of yellow paint on the bakery wall. I couldn't shake the simple message she'd most likely tossed out with little thought. I dissected the word choices, the sentence structure, and the way she'd signed with an initial instead of her name.

Traveling. Where was she? I knew she lived in New York. Was she headed back to Alexandria? I was, after all, going to make her a grandmother at fifty-one.

And why couldn't she have said when she was calling me? Would it have killed her to elaborate on
Soon
? A date and time weren't asking much. And how about signing her name? I didn't expect
Mom,
but how about spelling out
Terry
. And what was with her omitting my name in the e-mail?

The spin of senseless questions had me leaning into the paint roller as I applied the second coat. “Shit.”

“What's with the
shit
?” Rachel cut another corner with paint. “Is the baby okay?”

I shoved out a breath. “The kid's fine. I'm actually feeling a little half human.”

“A step in the right direction. Maybe you are through the worst of it.”

“I'm thinking the worst of it arrives when I'm holding my screaming bundle.”

Rachel grinned as she dabbed her brush in the paint can and wiped away all excess paint. “That's the best part. It's the part that makes you glad you went to all the trouble.”

“From your lips to God's ears.” I reloaded the roller. “The
shit
is for Terry.”

Rachel's smile eased. “Did she answer your e-mail?”

“She did. She's traveling. She'll call me soon.”

Cutting a straight neat line along the seam between the wall and ceiling, she shrugged. “That's a good e-mail, Daisy, for her. What are you moping about?”

“I don't know. Why can't she answer a simple question? Who is my birth father?”

“Maybe that's what she's going to do once she contacts you. Might not be an easy conversation or e-mail to send.”

“Yeah, because I'm still her dirty little secret. She still hasn't told her husband and sons about me.”

Rachel pursed her lips. “You don't know for sure.”

“I know.” Rushing to get paint on the wall, I overloaded the roller and a huge dollop fell on my shoe. “Damn it.”

“Look, Daisy. Slow down. I know you've a lot on your plate right now. I know. Take it one step at a time.”

Shoving out a breath, I grabbed a cloth rag and wiped the paint from my shoe. “I know. I know.”

A knock on the front door had us both turning to find a slender thirtysomething man with short dark hair. He wore a white collared shirt and khakis and carried a clipboard.

I smiled but said without moving my lips, “Clipboards never bode well.”

Rachel stood and also grinned. “Health inspector.”

I laid my roller in the paint pan and wiped my hands. “Or building inspector.”

“Place a bet?”

“Two million dollars.”

“You are on.” Rachel moved to the door and opened it. “Can I help you?”

He nodded glancing past her to me. “I'm with the building inspector's office. I'm here to check the progress of your electrical wiring.”

“Our builder is on a break,” I said.

He frowned.

I smiled. “Builders are a tough bunch to wrangle.”

He nodded, no sign of humor. “Is there someone who can answer questions for him?”

“I can. I'm Daisy McCrae and this is my sister Rachel. We own the bakery.”

“Grant Fraser. I'm with the city.”

“Nice to meet you.” I grinned, as if I were meeting a billion-dollar client at the investment firm, and shook his hand.

Mr. Fraser's hand was dry but his grip tentative. “I received a call to do the rough-in electrical inspection.”

“Right.”

His eyes narrowed. “Did you call me?”

My smile brightened. “My contractor called, Jean Paul Martin. Rachel, why don't you find Jean Paul and ask him to join us?”

Rachel gladly latched onto the reason to leave. “Will do. See you in a few.”

She beat feet out of the place as if Mr. Fraser had announced he carried the Black Plague. We were going to have to work on her fear of confrontation. When the kid came, she'd have to take the reins for at least a little while.

“As you can see we are using the time to paint the front of the store.”

He pulled a pen from his back pocket and clicked it. He glanced at the freshly painted walls and didn't appear impressed. “Where are you doing the construction?”

“In the back. The kitchen.” I moved toward the saloon doors. “We are knocking out a wall, getting rid of what had been my office so we can make room for a new freezer.”

“Why do you need the freezer?”

“So we can prep ahead of time. Make one batch of cookies and might as well bake twenty. With the new freezer we can make ahead more. Right now we have about a week's worth of freezer space.”

“I thought bakeries baked fresh daily.”

I pushed through the saloon doors. “We do bake fresh daily. But some batters and dough, like cookies, bake better if they've been in the refrigerator or freezer for at least twenty-four hours.”

“Why's that?”

“You'll have to ask Rachel. She is our master baker. She can tell you why a cookie or cake does what it does. When it comes to the kitchen she is in charge. I do what she says.”

I recapped Jean Paul's work on the floor. “And my job is finance, marketing, and long-term planning.”

He nodded, as he knelt and studied the floor joists. He made notes on his clipboard.

“We're fixing that,” I said. “That crew arrives tomorrow.”

He nodded, but didn't speak.

I leaned over his shoulder, trying to read his handwriting but found it next to impossible.

Jean Paul and Rachel appeared at the back door. She looked hurried and harassed. He looked bored and a bit annoyed.

“Here is our builder,” I said. “This is Jean Paul Martin. Jean Paul, this is Grant Fraser with the city building inspector's office.”

Jean Paul nodded and shook his hand.

Mr. Fraser fired off several questions about the supplies Jean Paul was using. Jean Paul answered most but a couple of times seemed to struggle with the English words. I had no doubt he understood. This was a trick he'd used on me a couple of times when I asked him questions he did not want to answer.

Mr. Fraser, however, was not aware of this ploy and several times re-asked the question.

“Would you like to see our permits?” I offered. “We were told the only change we could not make was to the brick oven. And we have not altered the stove.” For the most part.

Mr. Fraser shook his head, unwilling to keep asking questions. “No. Let me have a look at the electrical work.”

“I have finished,” Jean Paul said.

Mr. Fraser moved toward the wires, studying connections and pathways closely. His world was black and white. The wires were correct or they were not.

There'd been a time, with so many deadlines looming, I'd have rushed him through his inspection. But not today. I wanted to know the wires were right. Rachel's children lived in this building. The kid would live here. “How does it look?”

He didn't answer right away as he studied still exposed wires and junction boxes. I'd relied heavily on Jean Paul up until now, and I realized I'd gambled heavily.

Finally, Mr. Fraser sniffed and stepped back. “The work seems to be correct. I'll be back when you've installed the electrical boxes for the final inspection.”

“When will that be?” I said.

Mr. Fraser fastened his pencil to his clipboard. “How soon can you have them installed?”

Jean Paul shrugged. “Soon.”

Soon
. Crap. Did the man ever speak a specific word in his life?

I willed the tension out of my voice. “Is it possible to have it done tomorrow?”

Jean Paul shrugged. “Of course.”

Mr. Fraser nodded. “As soon as the work is done and I have your request for a new inspection, I'll put you on my schedule.”

Another deadline, another line to stand in. “Do you have a rough idea when you could come back?”

“I can't make that determination until I have the request.”

“I called you today,” Jean Paul said. “And here you are within hours.”

“Your timing was perfect. I had an opening so I came.”

Of course. Jean Paul never, ever worried and the universe opened up for him. The universe, however, had a way of turning its back on me. I would put in the request as soon as I could, and Mr. Fraser's schedule would be overwhelmed and he'd not be able to return for weeks. “Thank you.”

“Have a good evening.”

After the inspector left, I looked at Jean Paul. “Tell me you can do that work by tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

“When should I put in the application for the next inspection?”

“I cannot predict problems. I cannot give you a time.”

Realizing I was grinding my teeth, I relaxed my jaw. “What if I go by before closing today, put in the request and then hope you are done by the time he returns.”

He sniffed. “Always a rush.”

“I need to keep this reno moving forward. I am not making five hundred dollars a day right now. Which means you might be getting paid but Rachel and I are not. We need to get the final approval so you can finish the wall, fix the floor, and we can plug in our new freezer which arrives in two days.”

“You worry too much. It will happen.”

“I know it will. Or I'm going to kill you and stuff you in the new freezer waiting to be plugged in.”

He arched a thick brow but overall seemed nonplussed by my somewhat empty threat. I marched back into the front of the store and picked up my roller. “Shit.”

Rachel followed. “Daisy, we are going to get this worked out.”

“It would have been worked out if I'd been more on top of the details. I've let my brain slide the last couple of weeks. This never would have happened to me a year ago. I'd have been a step ahead of Jean Paul with the applications. Now I am a step behind we cannot afford.”

“Go ahead and submit the application. He'll get them done tonight. Mr. Fraser will return tomorrow for the final. It will work out.”

“How do you know that?”

No smile or rousing cheer, only, “Because it has to.” She picked up her brush. “Now we need to paint. It will happen. Sorta like wax on, wax off, grasshopper.”

“You mixed
Karate Kid
and
Kung Fu
.”

“Whatever, Daisy. Paint your damn wall.” Her eyes blazed blue and an edgy irritation sharpened her words.

Surprised, I looked at her closely. “You okay?”

“Me okay?” She pretended to think. “Let's see. My husband is dead. My children are in another state with aging parents who will likely die from the exertion of babysitting. My bakery is inside out. The floor is rotting and the Frenchman doesn't seem to give a crap about anything. Other than that, I'm great.”

Despite it all, I giggled. “You're spending too much time with me. I'm rubbing off.”

“Maybe it's about time I grew a set.”

Laughing, I pretended to dab a tear from the corner of my eye. “I think my little girl has grown up. Before I know it she will be giving the finger to a cab driver and swearing when she adds numbers.”

Rachel raised a brow. “Really? Did I sound like a bitch?”

“Oh, yeah.”

She pulled back her shoulders as she raised a brush to the wall. “Score.”

* * *

Rachel and I stood back and studied the second coat of buttery yellow paint that had now completely covered the blue. The room looked bright, clean, and fresh.

“For the first time, I feel like I've made my mark on this place,” I said.

Rachel wiped the yellow paint from her hands and arms. “What are you talking about? You blew in here like a steamroller and made the place your own within days.”

Late-afternoon sunlight reflected off the walls. “I've balanced the books and the expenses are under control. Not exactly a lasting mark.”

“If you hadn't made that mark we'd not be standing here now doing this. You are as much a part of the bakery now as I am, Daisy.”

Instead of feeling fear or dread, pride welled. “I couldn't have imagined us having this conversation last year.”

“Me either.”

I pushed back a strand of hair. “I have to give credit to the bakery. It's not such a bad place.”

“You give credit to the bakery?” Rachel raised her gaze heavenward and giggled. “Take me, Jesus, I've heard it all.”