Sweet Expectations (A Union Street Bakery Novel)

by Taylor, Mary Ellen

  I know you want more information about your birth father, and I wish I could give it to you. But the truth is I was sixteen when I got pregnant with you and I made a lot of bad choices during that time, including excessive drinking.

  I’m not proud to admit this but I don’t know your birth father’s name. I wish I could give you answers, but I can’t.

  You’ve a tough road ahead of you, Daisy, but you are a tough gal. You’ve been a fighter since day one. Here’s hoping your baby is a better napper than you were. I’ve found more pictures that I thought you might like, and I’ve sent them to you Priority Mail. Knowing your curious nature I know they will be of interest to you. I wish you the best.

  Terry

  I sat back in my chair feeling as if the wind had been knocked from my lungs. Tears stung, pooled, and trickled like an endlessly leaky water faucet. I didn’t bother to stop them.

  I wish you the best.

  She was sorry for failing me but there was no mention of a future or a relationship with her grandchild or me. The kid and I were part of her past.

  * * *

  By late afternoon, Jean Paul had finished the drywall and spackling of my new albeit tiny office. As I stood in the rectangular room that measured ten by five, I knew I’d have to be efficient with furnishings. No sprawling or tossing stuff in piles on the floor.

  The space did not have a window, but it did have a door and if I pushed my desk against the far wall, I could glance over my shoulder and see the winery and the brick oven with ease. I could also hear what was happening in the kitchen. For some reason the sound traveled right through the ceiling of my office. That was going to be good and bad.

  Despite the office’s shortcomings, it was done, and after I applied a coat of paint, construction could be classified as officially over.

  I’d considered several colors, but in the end chose the yellow paint left over from the front of the shop. It was enough to cover my walls in two coats and best of all it was already paid for. Watching the money going out in the last week and a half had been stressful, and I was looking forward to seeing it come back into the bakery.

  And so I finished the paint job and tossed out the empty paint can and paint brushes in the Dumpster. I headed up to the front of the store to hang what had been on the walls before. In the end I settled on rehanging the cupcake clock. I didn’t want to rehang the posters Mike had liked, and decided to dig through the old bakery pictures and put together a collage. Another project, one I didn’t need, but it made sense to celebrate the bakery’s history.

  I pushed through the saloon doors so I could offer my help to Rachel.

  My sister stood over the large mixer and was dropping in chunks of butter while Meg watched. Meg had tied back her brown hair and wore a frown on her face as she listened to Rachel’s explanations about mixing. The girl wanted to learn and as far as I was concerned that was more than half the battle.

  “Did Margaret go back to her dig?” I said.

  Rachel unwrapped another pound of butter and dropped it into the mixer. “No, she had an errand to run.”

  Annoyance snapped. “She says she’s here to work and now she’s running an errand?”

  Rachel shrugged. “She took the girls with her, which gives me time. That makes her a goddess in my mind.”

  “Margaret and the girls. What could those three be up to?”

  “My guess is it has to do with chocolate ice cream. I’m fully expecting the girls to come back covered in dirt and hyped on sugar, but at this point, I don’t care as long as it it buys me an extra hour to get this dough mixed so Tim can scoop it and we can have cookies baked for Simon’s party tonight.”

  She met my gaze, her cheeks flushed. A lock of her hair stuck up and her mascara looked a bit smudged as if she’d been rubbing her eyes.

  “Take a deep breath, Rachel,” I said.

  “A deep breath?”

  “We will get it all done.”

  Rachel shook her head and then glanced at Meg. “Have you heard curse words before?”

  Meg giggled. “Yes.”

  “Well, you still might want to cover your ears because I’m about to say one.”

  Meg unwrapped the next pound square of butter. “My mom says bad words. A lot. She said she used to be a nice person before she had kids.”

  Rachel nodded. “And it’s not that she doesn’t love you. It’s not that I don’t love my girls. But I’m about to lose my, well, you-know-what mind.”

  Meg giggled.

  I saw the signs of my sister’s impending breakdown. “Rachel, what can I do?” I said. “Put me to work.”

  She turned on the mixer and the large paddles creamed the butter. “Meg, when it’s creamy, then drop in another chunk of butter. One at a time.”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  Rachel wiped her hands on her apron and motioned me toward a rack filled with trays of cookies. “These need to be iced and these need to be dunked in the chocolate. And they all need to be set back on the tray to dry.”

  “I can do that.”

  “You must be precise. Sloppy does not work.”

  I grinned. “I will be careful. I promise.”

  “When it comes to the numbers you are on track, Daisy. But your mind can wander when you ice. I can’t have that.”

  I patted her on the shoulder. “You are such a bossy little girl. I’m so proud.”

  A half smile tugged the edge of her lips. “Let’s get to work.”

  * * *

  Margaret arrived back at the shop three hours later with the girls just as we were putting the last of the cookies on the trays. The girls were covered in dirt. Chocolate ice cream strained their clean T-shirts. Their shoes were untied and Annie was missing a sock. Margaret looked as she always did, a bit disheveled but unworried as she slurped the last of a milkshake from a paper cup.

  “Hola,” she said.

  The girls ran up to their mom, their dirty faces beaming. They talked so fast and quick, no one could understand them.

  Rachel absently plucked a leaf from Anna’s hair and smoothed out Ellie’s bangs. A year ago if the girls had marched in here this unkempt, Rachel would have scurried them to the showers and cleaned them right up. Now, she seemed in no rush to reestablish perfection.

  Ellie’s eyes widened. “And then we went to the park, and Aunt Margaret bought us ice cream.”

  “And then,” Anna said, “we ate cotton candy and took our shoes off in the park.”

  Ellie smirked and in a stage whisper said, “And then Aunt Margaret told a guy to go to hell.”

  “And she showed him her finger.” Anna held up her index finger.

  “No,” Ellie said. “It was this finger.” She held up her middle finger.

  Margaret’s eyes widened and she moved to explain when Rachel said, “My goodness, it sounds like you had a great day.” Rachel slowly lowered Anna’s index and Ellie’s middle fingers.

  “Can we go with Aunt Margaret again?” Ellie said.

  “She said she’d take us swimming,” Anna hurried to add.

  Rachel nodded. “Sure, sounds good. Maybe you could hang out with Aunt Margaret a little longer today. Maybe she could give you dinner while Aunt Daisy and I deliver these cookies.”

  Margaret shrugged. “Sure. I can feed the munchkins, and I can hose them off if you like and toss them into bed.”

  Rachel brushed a lock of hair from her eyes. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Margaret glanced at me. “She’s not freaking out about the girls being such a mess.”

  I shrugged. “I think we broke her.”

  Rachel lifted a tray of cookies. “I’ll freak out later. Right now, we need to move it.”

  I glanced at the clock. We had a half hour. Just enough time.

  Fifteen minutes later the bakery van sputtered and stopped in the
loading dock of Simon’s sleek office building on Duke Street. I snagged a delivery cart from the loading dock and pushed it down the ramp to the van, and we carefully loaded the cookies onto the cart.

  Rachel glanced up at me. “This is a hell of a way to earn a living.”

  Laughter bubbled in me as I hefted a tray. “You are telling me.”

  Rachel’s eyes didn’t reflect humor. “No really, there must to be an easier way.”

  Fatigue added brittleness to her tone. “If I knew it, I’d do it.”

  We pushed the cookie cart up the ramp to the elevators, and I pressed the button.

  “Seriously,” Rachel said. “My kids look like vagrants, and I don’t have time to clean them up. We’ve been busting our asses the last ten days, and we’re how many thousands behind?”

  “I don’t know.” I did, but Rachel didn’t need a blow-by-blow of our finances. “And the girls are happy, Rachel. That’s all that matters.”

  Tears pooled in her eyes. “But they weren’t having fun with me. In the last two weeks they’ve had more fun than they’ve had in their entire lives, and I wasn’t there for any of it. I was working.”

  “The last two weeks have been a little crazy. And the exception to the rule.” The doors dinged open, and we pushed the cart into the elevator.

  “I’m really afraid it’s always going to be this way. I was back to work when they were three weeks old. We had a big order and Mike needed me. When they turned two, I had to get up early to decorate a wedding cake. I didn’t have time to ice their birthday cake. They start first grade in six weeks, and I honestly can’t tell you where the time has gone.”

  I wanted to assure her there’d be no more missed special days, but I couldn’t. “You’ve said it yourself. The bakery takes a chunk out of your life.”

  Anger brightened her blue eyes. “Yeah, well, what if I don’t want to do it anymore?”

  Shit. Rachel was talking about abandoning the ship. Where she’d go, I didn’t know, and I doubted she did either. But I did know if she bailed I couldn’t hold it together. And if the bakery went under, where would the kid and me go? And what if I did manage to keep her on board. Did I want her life? Did I want to leave a three-week-old infant to return to work?

  I glanced in the mirror doors of the elevator and studied my reflection. My hair stuck up and the buttons on my chef jacket were fastened one loop off. I quickly refastened the jacket and smoothed down my hair.

  I did my best to keep the panic out of my voice. “Let’s get through tonight, and then we’ll talk. I’ll figure it out.”

  She nodded and for a moment we were both silent. Elevator music hummed above our heads.

  “I had two more orders for frozen dough yesterday,” she said as an afterthought.

  “Really?”

  “For chocolate chip cookie dough. Seems Mrs. Ably has been talking about us.”

  “How much did you charge them?”

  “Twenty-five dollars for three dozen.”

  “And if we’d baked them we’d have made thirty-two dollars.”

  “But half the labor and electricity.”

  I did quick calculations. “The profit is slightly higher when we sell the dough.”

  “That’s what I thought but didn’t have time to crunch numbers. Have you thought about being more of a mail-order business?” Rachel said. “We could actually be open for business Friday and Saturday and the rest of the week we make and sell dough?”

  The idea was different. Our business model would change radically. But the idea had merit. “I’m surprised I didn’t think of it.”

  Rachel straightened her shoulders as if a little bit of the weight lifted. “You’ve been distracted.”

  “I’m going to have to really run the numbers, Rachel. It’s not a change we can make overnight.”

  She brushed a lock of hair from her eyes. “I don’t need overnight as long as I know there might be a light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “Understood.”

  “We need to think differently, Daisy.”

  “Oh, I’m totally hearing you. I am.” And I was. My mind was already spinning in a dozen different directions.

  The doors opened to Davenport Developers and a very thin and sleek receptionist watched as we pushed the cart into the reception area.

  I grinned. “The Union Street Bakery order has arrived.”

  The receptionist’s plucked eyebrows raised. “In the conference room.”

  We’d delivered here before and knew the drill. As we made our way over the carpeted hallway past the slick development pictures on the walls, an odd sense of disconnect settled on my shoulders. Six months ago I’d have sold my soul to be readmitted to this sterile corporate world. I liked the air-conditioned air, the windows that did not open and offered a distant view of the Potomac, and the distance from life.

  But as we unloaded the vibrant, rich cookies onto the polished mahogany conference table, I wasn’t so sure this was for me anymore. I liked the idea of my kid stumbling into the bakery with Aunt Margaret covered in dirt and ice cream. I liked calling the shots and knowing the risk I took with the business was on me, and not some guy at corporate. I liked having my family close.

  Odd that Rachel would pull away from the business as I moved closer to it. But maybe I could figure a solution workable for us both.

  Simon appeared in the doorway as he did before every corporate event we’d catered to inspect what had been delivered. He wore a neatly tailored charcoal gray suit, white shirt, and gold cuff links. Rachel kept her gaze on the cookies but I could see her hands now trembled a little and a faint blush colored her cheeks.

  Smiling, I turned to Simon ready to run interference. “Simon, thank you again for using Union Street Bakery.”

  His gaze shifted from Rachel’s bent head to me and he smiled. “Your work is always a big hit with our employees.”

  “We aim to please.”

  Rachel straightened, turned and faced Simon. She held out her hand and moved to shake his. “Thank you for your business.”

  He took her hand. Instead of speaking he simply stared at her.

  I’d been around enough to know when a man craved a woman. Not merely liked but craved a woman. Blushing myself, I quickly rearranged already perfect cookies.

  “Simon,” Rachel said. “We got off on a bad foot the last time.”

  I stiffened. Was Rachel taking the bull by the horns? She wasn’t scurrying for cover? Crap. I’d seen it all.

  He didn’t smile, but his eyes softened. Instead of answering he remained quiet. A good negotiator didn’t tip his hand, especially when the stakes were high.

  “I’m so far out of practice when it comes to life outside of work or motherhood. I was out of my depth and I wasn’t very entertaining.” She drew in a breath. “If you’re interested, I’d like to take you out to dinner.”

  His head cocked a fraction. I’d done my share of negotiations and I knew a win when I saw it. Rachel had Simon.

  Slowly he nodded. “What do you propose?”

  He was going to make her work for it, which told me he really liked my sister. He was a guy who didn’t like sweets and yet had placed six orders with the bakery in the last six months. His employees lost work time and complained about getting fat and still he ordered baked goods from the Union Street Bakery—from Rachel.

  Rachel moistened her lips. “We’ve our grand opening on Saturday so I am booked solid until then. But maybe Saturday after next. There’s an art show in town and we close at noon.”

  Silent, he seemed to consider her offer and then slowly he nodded. “Sounds intriguing.”

  “I’ll pick you up?” she offered.

  I pictured Rachel pulling up in front of Simon’s sleek building in the Union Street Bakery van, or worse, in her old Toyota. That was a scene I’d pay money to s
ee.

  “I’ll pick you up,” he countered as if the image skittered through his mind.

  “I don’t mind driving. Really,” Rachel said.

  A smile tugged at the edge of his lips as if he seemed to like this assertive version of Rachel. “I can manage the drive.”

  She nodded as if she finally remembered to breathe. “Good. Would two o’clock work?”

  “It does.”

  I felt like the fairy godmother in Cinderella. Forgetting she was plump and gray, I focused on her sparkly blue dress, which I’d always envied as a kid.

  When the awkward silence settled between the two, I said, “Rachel, we’ve a bakery to fill.”

  “Right.” She smiled at Simon. “See you next week.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  Neither one of us said a word as we left the offices and rode the elevators to the first floor. It wasn’t until we were in the van and I fired up the engine that I grinned and said, “Who’s the brazen hussy now?”

  Her eyes widened with shock. “Was I?”

  I laughed as we pulled onto Duke Street. “No. You were not. I’m teasing.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Shaking my head, I checked the rearview mirror for traffic. “I think old Simon is shier than you are.”

  She pressed her palms to her rosy cheeks. “I don’t think so. He is so in control.”

  “It doesn’t take a lot to stay in control. It takes balls to put yourself in the game when there are a million of reasons not to.”

  She flopped back against the seat. “I can’t believe I asked him out. I mean I’ve been thinking about it, but I never thought the words would come out of my mouth. And then I was asking him out.”

  “You did it.”

  She rolled her head to me. “What am I going to wear?”

  “We are not going to spend the week obsessing over this date, Rachel. We are not.”