Sweet Expectations (14 page)

Upstairs in my bedroom, I dropped my purse on my bed and went to the computer. I opened e-mail. No message from Terry. But there was a message from Historydude6. I stared at the name and wondered what had happened to Historydudes 1-5. Margaret and her pals.

I clicked open the e-mail, which contained three links to three different articles.

The first, dated May 2, 1944, featured a photograph of the Union Street Bakery. I leaned forward and studied the picture of my grandfather and grandmother holding my dad, who couldn't have been more than eighteen months. My grandparents looked stoic while my dad grinned broadly and clapped his hands. To the right of my grandparents stood three young ladies dressed in white dresses and aprons and very sensible brown shoes. I spotted Jenna instantly. She was on the end, the farthest from my grandparents. Her smile was tentative. Like the other girls, she wore her hair back in a fishnet. She looked young, not more than twenty. The caption below the picture read, “Union Street Bakery Joins War Effort.”

The next link was a small article, no picture, and dated June 1, 1944. “Union Street Bakery baker wins contest. Union Street Bakery counter girl won the prize in the Arlington County fair for the best cookies. Jenna Davis, formerly of Frederick County, Virginia, entered her Maple Brown Sugar cookies and took the top spot. Second place . . .”

I didn't care about second place. I cared about Jenna, who now had a last name and a place of birth. I had more clues.

The last link connected me to an obituary dated December 31, 1944. “Jenna Susan Davis, 21, formerly of Frederick County, Virginia, and an employee of the Union Street Bakery, died Monday at Alexandria Hospital due to complications from delivery. An infant son, reported to be ailing, survives her.”

I sat back and stared at the article. An infant son. I'd been right when I'd looked at the other picture and imagined she was pregnant.

This picture taken in May 1944 didn't show signs of pregnancy but her solemn expression suggested to me more than a heavy mood. It was the face I now saw in the mirror. It was the face of morning sickness. If the baby were term, she'd have been newly pregnant in the May image. She'd also have been pregnant in the other picture taken of her and the two servicemen.

The obituary gave no mention of a husband. Surely if she'd been married there'd have been mention of her husband. So had she been alone with a baby on the way like me?

I dug out the picture of Jenna and the two Marines. All three were grinning. “Which dude is the daddy?”

Soldiers and out-of-wedlock babies weren't a novelty, but in 1944 the stigma would have been huge.

My hands slid to my stomach. A tremendous sense of loss and sadness washed over me, and I found myself mourning for a girl who had died seventy years ago.

Chapter Twelve

Wednesday, 6:45
P.M.

9 days, 17 hours until grand reopening

Income Lost: $1,500

W
hen I came downstairs in search of a snack, I found Rachel gripping the phone in her hand. Her face was pale and her lips a little blue.

“What is it?” I braced for the next disaster. “Are the girls okay? Mom and Dad?”

Carefully she hung up the phone. “They are all fine.”

“Then what is it? Margaret?”

Rachel shook her head. “No, Margaret is fine.”

Fingers fisted at my side. “If you don't tell me what is going on in a second I will scream.”

“It's Simon.”

“He canceled his order. Damn. Too bad I'd counted on the profits. Could have offset some of the losses.”

“No, he did not cancel.” Panicked blue eyes met mine.

“Okay, tell me or I might faint.”

She moistened her lips. “He asked me if I'd like to go to a food and wine demo this evening. Said he thought it was the kind of show I might like to see.”

I shoved out a breath, shutting off the Red Alert buzzer in my brain. “And this is bad because . . .”

Rachel shook her head as if the words refused to be spoken.

“You've talked about this show before,” I coaxed. “You said you always wanted to go.”

“I know. Funny he would remember a trivial detail.”

“So did you say yes?”

“I didn't know what to say at first. I was stunned. And then I said yes, but now . . .” She shook her head. “My God, Daisy, it sounds like a date. A date!”

“That's good,” I ventured.

She shook her head. “I should call him back and pull out.”

“Why?”

“Because, Daisy. It feels
weird
!”

Folding my arms over my chest, I tried not to smile. “How do you mean weird?

“I don't know! Weird.” Her voice had reached a high-pitched, panicked note.

Amusement jostled aside worry. “You mean you're nervous like you used to get before a date?”

Rachel pressed her fingers to her flushed cheeks. “Is this a date?”

“Could be.”

“He never said a
date
. He suggested the food and wine show.”

“What's he supposed to say, Rachel? Alert, Rachel, this is a date!”

“No. Yes. I mean that might have been helpful. If you haven't noticed, I'm out of practice.”

“So he asked you out. Go. It will be fun.” I'd remembered how Simon had looked at Rachel at the bar Sunday night. He'd definitely been into her. “And it's to a place you've always wanted to attend.”

She nodded. “I mentioned it to Mike once or twice, but at the end of the day he was always so tired.”

“Well, now you have the chance to go.”

She wrung her hands. “But it feels weird. I always thought when I went it would be with Mike.”

I laid my hand on her shoulder. “When is this outing supposed to take place?”

“One hour.”

“One hour?”

She paced back and forth. “He said it was casual, and he could come right after work.”

“Casual is good, Rachel. Just two friends going to enjoy food and wine.”

She thrust her arms up in the air. “But what does casual mean, Daisy? I have no idea what people wear in the outside world.”

“Outside world?”

She pointed toward the door. “Out there where people wear more than mom jeans, T-shirts, and aprons. I don't speak that language anymore.” She shook her head. “Do you realize, I've not been on a date in seventeen years.”

“Weird, but not terrible. Besides it's not like he's going to jump your bones or ask you to marry him.”

Her eyes rose with relief. “Really?”

Now I did laugh. “Really. This is a few hours of fun with a nice guy. And if he doesn't act like a gentleman, I will act as Dad's surrogate and show up in a wife-beater T-shirt, toting a shotgun.”

She laughed. “You're not bald enough to pull off a Dad impersonation.”

“Maybe not, but I've the potbelly.”

Rachel glanced at my hand on my round belly. Her eyes widened. “I can't believe I forgot to ask. How did it go at the doctor's?”

“All's good. The kid is fine and set to arrive at Christmas.”

Rachel shook her head. “Your kid would show up at the busiest season.”

“Stirring the pot from day one. Chip off the old block.”

Rachel sighed and her eyes grew a little misty. “Has she moved yet?”

I rubbed circles on my belly. “Once, a little. She's laying low. But the doc says soon.”

“The girls really moved around fifteen or sixteen weeks.”

“Then it's any day now. But enough about the kid and me. You have a date, I mean, an evening out with a guy you casually know. We have clothes to pick out for you.”

Rachel shook her head. “I hate this feeling.”

“What feeling?”

Her cheeks flushed a bright red. “Dizzy, out of control, not sure what is next.”

“Ah, my three favorite emotions. Don't worry, you'll get used to it.”

“I don't want to get used to it. I want predictable back.”

Directing her toward her apartment, I gave her a gentle push. “Tell it to the judge. Now let's get to your apartment.”

I followed her up the stairs and into her room. She opened her closet, now noticeably half-empty, and stood and stared. “So this is going to be business dress casual.”

Her gaze on a collection of jeans, she said, “In English, please.”

“Dark slacks, a nice blouse and maybe heels.”

“Okay.” Settling a fraction she moved to the closet with purpose, dug into the racks and pulled out a pair of black slacks and a white top.

I touched the material. “The pants are wool. You will die of the heat. Do you have a lighter-weight material?”

Horror flickered before she turned and dug into the closet again and this time removed a pair of blue lightweight capri pants and a white silk top. “I have scarves for color somewhere.”

“With a pair of wedges it might be cute. Try the pants on real quick and let's see.”

She slid off her jeans and pulled on the dress pants. She wriggled into them with some effort but she had to suck in her breath to barely zip up the zipper. It took three tries to fasten the top button. “I can't breathe.”

“Pre-baby pants?”

“Yes,” she whispered as she struggled not to pass out.

“Breathing always makes a date more fun. Got any other pants?”

She unfastened the pants, and let them fall to the floor.

“No. I had a winter pair and a summer pair. But I've not been out during the summer since the girls were born. Damn. I'm getting fat.”

“Join the club.”

She pulled out a dress she'd worn to a funeral months ago. “This is nice.”

“Church lady, funeral dress. What about skirts?”

“Skirt. Makes sense.” She stepped out of the pants pooling at her ankles and found an A-line dark skirt with an elastic waist. “I wore this after the girls were born. We had some meeting with the bankers.” She slid on the skirt and then tried on the white silk top. I dug a brown belt from the closet and a pair of brown sandals. I shook my head. “The look is causal but nicely pulled together. It says I care, but I'm not so obsessed I spend hours in front of the mirror.”

“Like Dragon Lady?”

“Exactly.”

“Does it say low maintenance?”

“It says fun.”

Rachel shook her head. “I don't want it to say I'm too low maintenance. I mean I know I'm happy with a cracker and a juice box, but I'd like to be a little more difficult.”

“A shower and makeup will help with the image. Go ahead and clean up. I'll help you with your hair.”

“Right. Clean is good.”

She hurried to the bathroom, pulling her bra off as she went. Soon the hot spray of the shower swooshed from the bathroom.

I laid out the clothes on the bed and went to her jewelry box and dug out a couple of long chains of costume gold jewelry and hoop earrings.

Before I'd dated Gordon, he had been the man to catch in the office, which meant I'd gone out of my way to hide my interest. When he'd finally asked me out I'd refused. I didn't want to be a quick yes. I suggested he try again. I had always been standoffish with men and gave them a reason not to come back. Many didn't come back, but Gordon had. Two weeks after his first offering he'd countered with a second. A concert. Despite all my defenses I'd been charmed and the date really had been lovely. We'd ended up in bed within hours.

Rachel emerged from the steamy bathroom, her body and hair wrapped in towels. She sat in front of her makeup stand and met my gaze in the mirror. “What am I going to talk about with him?”

I removed the towel and brushed out her hair. “Whatever you want to talk about. The renovations are a good start. Tell him about the recipe box and Jenna Davis.”

She met my gaze in the mirror. “Davis. When did you get her last name?”

“Margaret knows someone who sent me links.”

“I swear, Margaret and her connections. Frightening.”

“I know.” I gave Rachel the latest on Jenna, wishing it had been a happy ending.

She reached for moisturizer and dabbed it on her face. “What do you think happened to the baby?”

“I don't know.”

“He survived her?”

“The obit said he was ailing.”

“And what about the dad?”

“Not mentioned.”

A rush of sudden strong emotions welled up. I wanted to cry. What the hell? Crying was not me. And yet unshed tears burned my throat.

I grabbed the hair dryer and switched it on. While I dried her hair she applied her makeup. Within fifteen minutes her hair and makeup were done, and she was slipping into her skirt. Ten minutes later she was nibbling her lip as she stepped over the threshold of her apartment. “In high school only the geeks stood by the corner and waited for their dates.”

My hands on her shoulders, I gave her a push. “Yeah. But you're not in high school, and it doesn't hurt to pretend to care.”

She dug in her heels. “Would you come with me to meet him?”

“Why?”

“We can be pretending to talk about inventory or the renovation. I'm not really waiting downstairs for him, but I am working with you. What do you think we should be talking about when he pulls up?”

I laughed, tugging her down the stairs. “It's not like we need an elaborate backstory, Rachel. We can just be around.” She nibbled her bottom lip more. At the rate she was going she'd not have a lip when Simon pulled up. “But I guess we could be figuring out where we're going to rehang pictures.”

“Or maybe we could talk about our new wine cellar. Fits perfectly with the evening.”

“And it will give you the flawless jumping-off spot for the evening. Our new wine cellar.”

She frowned. “It will be a fun evening.”

“Don't make it sound so forced. It will be fun.”

“Right.” She picked up a clipboard, which I suppose was a prop in our little play.

On the main floor we waited in the front part of the store. The fumes of the yellow paint had eased and the color had softened a fraction. The room had a bright, sunny feel and I imagined our grand reopening, the cases uncovered, sparkling clean and filled with pastries.

Outside, a long sleek black car pulled up in front of the bakery. Simon got out of the car and moved toward the front door.

Rachel handed me a clipboard. “He's here.”

I glanced at the clipboard and pretended to read. “He's coming to the door. What a nice young man.”

“Daisy, he's older than you are.”

I pointed to an imaginary notation and grinned. “Manners always count.”

“Jesus, you sound like Mom.” Pretending to look at the clipboard, she shook her head. “The change is starting.”

I kept my gaze on the board. “What change?”

“You're turning into a Mom.”

“Oh, I so am not!”

Rachel chuckled. “Wait, you'll see. Before you know it you'll be wearing jackets with big pockets crammed with kid crackers and bottles.”

I wrapped my knuckle on the clipboard. “Never. I am not going to be nerd mom. I'll be a supercool mom.”

“Wait until you are so tired you can't see straight. Then you won't care if you are covered in spit-up or if your socks match.”

After the twins were born Rachel had looked like she'd been hit by a truck. Baby spit-up had been her new accessory and sweats and T-shirts her daytime look. I remembered thinking then I definitely didn't want to be a mother. Babies, it seemed, sucked the life out of you. “I'll care.”

Her grin broadened. “Yeah, sure.”

The sound of Simon's knuckles rapping on the front door erased Rachel's smile. She took a step back, and I wasn't sure if she'd go to the door or run back upstairs.