He nodded, a smile teasing the edge of his lips. “You sound like Nancy Drew.”
A laugh bubbled. “If Nancy was as curious about her cases as I am about Jenna, then maybe I finally get ol’ Nancy. As a kid, I read a couple of her books, but she annoyed the hell out of me.”
Laughing, he pulled into traffic. “Why is that?”
“Perfect hair, perfect grades, always had the right answer while I was schlepping around with twenty extra pounds, always angry and without a clue of who I was.”
“You’ve come a long way.”
“Let’s hope.”
The drive around the beltway and then out I-66 west was uneventful though not particularly scenic. But I was grateful there was no traffic, and the day was pretty. It took under an hour before Gordon pulled into the city limits of Winchester.
I dug my phone out of my purse. “I entered her address on my phone before I left the bakery, so here’s hoping GPS can find her.”
Gordon’s wrist rested casually over the steering wheel. Dark shades covered his eyes. Blond hair brushed his collar. And he looked as if he had no care in the world. “This is your show, Daisy. I’m the driver.”
He looked so sexy and cool. It would be easy to forget about Jenna, Walter, and Joey and focus on us. But as much as I wanted to toss every bit of my life aside but him, I couldn’t.
And so I gave him not-so-perfect directions leading us around the outskirts of the town of Winchester past the rows of strip malls and box stores and farm chemical suppliers. Finally, we looped around and headed out toward a rural route cutting through rolling green hills dotted with apple trees.
Gordon seemed content to drive and enjoy the views and the nice weather. I, as always, grew restless without the buzz of conversation and needed to fill the silence.
Searching for a neutral topic, I rejected talk of the weather, choosing an equally banal subject. “Did you know Winchester is noted for its apples?”
He kept his gaze ahead but his lips quirked as if he’d expected I couldn’t take the silence for long. “I did not know.”
“Lots of apples. Rachel buys apples from a guy out this way. She makes apple pies at Thanksgiving. Margaret says after last Thanksgiving she never wants to see another apple again. Said her left hand could have passed for Captain Hook’s claw by the time she was done last year.”
His head cocked like it did when he was thinking big picture. “So you gonna make the pies this year?”
“I suppose so. It’s all hands on deck when the holiday season starts. And now that we have our fancy new freezer in place we can make the pies ahead and freeze them.”
“That doesn’t mess with the taste?” He had a knack for sounding interested no matter what I babbled about.
“I don’t think so but I know we will be taste testing in the fall. Rachel and I will figure it out. And did I mention we also had a couple of e-mail orders today for the frozen cookie dough?”
“I didn’t realize you sold frozen dough.”
“We don’t, or didn’t. Kinda fell into that one last week but it seems to be catching on.” I shook my head. “People like the idea of bringing the bakery home and baking without the work.”
“Bring our bakery home. Sounds like a slogan.”
“Maybe.” His offhand comment had me thinking. “What if we not only baked and froze the pies ahead, but cookies and maybe some bread dough? Maybe cakes. What if we packaged holiday desserts in a box and sold them before Christmas? I’ve been worried about what we’re going to do this Christmas, in case I’m out of commission earlier than I expected.”
Tension rippled through him but he kept his tone light. “It’s good to be thinking ahead.”
Sorry I’d taken a wrong turn in the conversation, I glanced at my phone and then at the road ahead. “According to the phone we should be turning up ahead.”
His gaze followed the direction of my finger, which had zeroed in on a rusted mailbox leaning slightly to the left. By the looks there’d been a name painted on it but the lettering had long ago faded and chipped.
He slowed and we both peered up the long, graveled driveway snaking up the hill. By the driveway was a large sign that read Posted. Beside it another read No Trespassing.
Gordon slid his sunglasses on top of his head and glanced at me. “Doesn’t look very welcoming.”
“I don’t think those signs are for us.”
“Really? What kind of strangers do you think they might be referring to?”
“Bad strangers. We are good strangers.”
He chuckled. “Right. Good strangers from Alexandria bring obscure questions about a woman who may or may not have lived here seventy plus years ago.”
“Well, if it were me living up on that hill and seventy years had passed and someone had information about my long-dead sister, I sure would want to know. Wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Gordon. You wouldn’t want to know?”
“Not necessarily.”
I was so starved for information about my biological family that his viewpoint was foreign to me. “I couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting to gather every morsel of information.”
“Not all information adds value.”
I straightened the yellow bow on the box of cookies. “How do you know?”
He shook his head. “You think more than I do.”
“You can trace your line back to the Mayflower. You have all the pieces.”
“True.” Again, he tossed me that heart-stopping smile. “Let’s find out what they say.”
I relaxed back into the seat. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He shifted into first and drove up the hill. Gravel crunched under the tires, and I stared out at the fields covered with tall grass and willowy dandelions reaching toward the hot sun.
As the truck rounded a corner I spotted a dilapidated barn to the right. Ravaged by time, the main support beam had collapsed long ago, pulling the building in on itself. Weeds grew up through the sunbaked beams covered with faded patches of red paint. But set against the crystal-blue sky it had its own kind of beauty. Old and broken, the barn still had a presence that telegraphed it belonged.
Gordon didn’t say a word as we climbed the gravel driveway. He played along, keeping his good humor, but I knew he thought I’d lost my mind. The Daisy he’d known in Washington, D.C., would never have put herself out like this. Sure that Daisy was a ballbuster professionally and would go toe-to-toe with the toughest brokers or bankers, but when it came to personal issues, Daisy never stuck her neck out. That Daisy bristled at the first sign of emotional turmoil. In so many ways, she was so fragile.
And here I was six months out of D.C. with my neck stuck out so far metaphorically with Gordon and Jenna’s family a slight chop would sever my head from my body. And I was oddly okay with the risk. These last months, meeting Terry, connecting with my family, had made me stronger.
Gordon rounded a second corner and this time we came upon a white farmhouse. Clay planters filled with tall, full marigolds stood silent and welcoming at the foot of three steps leading up to a deep, tongue-and-groove porch that wrapped around the front of the house. Twin rockers swayed ever so slightly in the breeze on the porch by floor-to-ceiling windows flanking a large black front door. A simple brass knocker hung on the door.
Faced with the reality of speaking to perfect strangers about a dead woman had my stomach rolling. “The flowers look welcoming.”
Gordon parked the car. “Yeah. And the house looks nice and there isn’t a sign that says Warning.”
I smiled. “So basically the house is saying it wants us here.”
“As long as Freddy Krueger doesn’t answer the front door we should be good.”
“Right.” I slid out of the front seat, box in hand, and met Gordon in front of th
e truck. Together the two of us walked up to the front door. I searched for a bell but when I didn’t see one, I opened the screened door and rapped the knocker against the door a couple of times. I slowly closed the screened door, and we both took a step back. With Freddy Krueger still in mind I wondered how fast I could make it to the truck in a full-on sprint.
Gordon smiled as if he’d read my mind. “I’d beat you to the truck. But don’t worry, I wouldn’t drive off until you have at least one foot in the front seat.”
The tension knotting my back eased. “Thanks. But I’d beat you.”
“You’re pregnant and a girl.”
The pregnant reference came easier and easier to both of us. “My survival instinct is so honed right now it’s as sharp as a razor. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
He grinned when we both heard footsteps in the entryway. Seconds later we saw the rustle of curtains to the right of the door and then heard a lock click open. Slowly the door opened and instead of finding ourselves face-to-face with a fictional killer, we were greeted by an elderly woman.
She barely stood over five feet. Thinning white hair was tied back in a bun and wrinkles deepened the lines around her eyes and mouth. Laugh lines, I thought as I stared into her clear green eyes.
“I don’t entertain solicitors,” the woman said in a crisp voice.
“We aren’t solicitors, ma’am. We’re from Alexandria. My name is Daisy McCrae. I manage the Union Street Bakery. And this is Gordon Singletary, a . . .” Who was this man standing next to me? “. . . a good friend of mine. We came to ask you about a recipe box.”
A slight cock of the woman’s head conveyed annoyance more than curiosity. “I don’t know about a recipe box.”
She didn’t make a move to open the screen door, and I didn’t ask her to. This had to be so weird. I dug in my satchel purse and held it up. “We were renovating the bakery and taking out walls last week. We found this box in the wall. It belonged to a woman who used to work at the bakery. Her name was Jenna Davis.”
The old woman’s gaze sharpened as she dropped it from my face to the box. “How do you know the box belonged to Jenna?”
Yes, she looked at me like I was crazy, but I also knew in an instant she recognized Jenna’s name. Excitement rushed through me. “You knew Jenna?”
The older woman pursed her lips, but her gaze remained on the box. “I didn’t say that.”
A cloud of impatience swirled around and I could hear the chant, Find him, find him, find him.
Annoyed, I swiped a lock of hair away from my eyes as if I could also brush away the restlessness. “Her first name was written inside the box and then I searched bakery records from 1940 onward. I found the name Jenna Davis. From there I traced a picture I found of her and two soldiers. And then I was given a letter Jenna had written that gave this address. I took a chance she still had family living here.”
The woman stood silent for a long moment. Her hands trembled slightly and she nibbled her bottom lip.
“Did you know Jenna?” I asked.
The woman looked at me, her sharp eyes now watery. “Yes, I knew Jenna.” She unlatched the screened door and pushed it open. “My name is Kate Simmons.”
“You’re Jenna’s sister.”
She swallowed, as if struggling with emotions. “Why don’t you come in, and I’ll fix you a lemonade.”
I smiled and glanced back at Gordon, very grateful he was there. I wasn’t sure why, but I was suddenly unsure of this entire trip. I clearly had dug into a deep and painful wound this woman harbored. Understanding what it was like to carry such a wound, I took pity on her.
We followed her into the house, lighted by the sunlight streaming in through the large windows. Instead of being dark or dreary, the room had a bright, cheery feel. White lace curtains hung from clean windows and fresh daisies filled several mason jars and vases in the room. A soft beige color gave the walls a fresh look and there were dozens of framed black-and-white photos. A rose floral fabric covered a couple of wing chairs and an overstuffed couch. All old and well-worn but well cared for.
Along the hallway Gordon and I followed Kate, drawn deeper into the house by the soft, sweet smell of goodies baking in the oven. It reminded me of the maple cookies I’d baked this morning. Jenna’s cookies.
Kate nodded toward a chrome kitchen table surrounded by six chairs, seats covered in red leather. In the center of the table sat a ceramic bowl filled with oranges and apples. “Have a seat.”
I hovered close to a chair but stood, too nervous to sit.
Kate opened a refrigerator that dated to the 1970s and reached for a pitcherful of lemonade. She glanced at my belly. “Go on, have a seat. You shouldn’t be standing too much.”
I took a seat at the table but couldn’t relax back into it. Carefully, I let my purse fall to the floor as I set the recipe box on the table. “Thanks.”
“Can I help you with that?” Gordon said.
She glanced toward him, surprised, as if she wasn’t accustomed to help. I expected her to refuse but she said, “Thanks. That would be real nice.”
Gordon took the pitcher and carried it to the table. I glanced up at him, and he looked at me as if to say, Speak.
“The lemonade looks great,” I said.
Gordon cocked an eyebrow. Really? That’s the best you’ve got?
I shrugged.
Kate retrieved three glasses from a whitewashed cabinet. Gordon took the glasses from her and filled them before replacing the lemonade in the refrigerator.
Kate carried a platter of cookies to the table. “Have a seat.”
Gordon pulled out a chair for her and when she sat, he took the chair beside me. I shouldn’t have been nervous. I offered information to Kate. This wasn’t like searching for my birth mother. The moments and seconds shouldn’t have been loaded with emotion but every ticking second was charged with a nervous energy I didn’t understand.
I held up my bakery box wrapped in yellow ribbon. “I baked cookies today, too. Maple cookies.”
Kate stared at the box but didn’t reach for it. “I haven’t baked them in years.”
I sipped, needing a task more than I needed refreshment. The lemonade blended sweet and tart. “I’m sorry to drop in on you like this.”
Instead of reaching for one of my cookies she opened the recipe box. Her thickly veined, bent fingers trembled a little when she fingered the first card.
I traced the rim of my glass as I watched her thumb through the cards. Carefully, I picked up one of her warm cookies. “When we found the recipe box we couldn’t resist baking some of Jenna’s recipes. These cookies are Jenna’s maple cookies.”
“Jenna always had a knack for baking.” Her head cocked as she removed a card and studied it. “I haven’t seen her handwriting in so long.”
“We had a mini–grand reopening yesterday and sold cookies like this. We sold out in an hour.”
Kate nodded. “That would have made Jenna happy. She liked to watch people eat what she baked.”
I searched the old woman’s face for similarities to the pictures I had of Jenna. There seemed little resemblance except for the eyes. They were Jenna’s eyes.
“The cookie recipe was our mother’s. We grew up making these cookies every Saturday to have with Sunday dinner. Like I said, I’ve not baked them in years, but today I had a hankering for the sweet taste. I made them by memory and wasn’t sure if I’d get them right.”
I took a bite. “They are perfect.”
She smiled and nodded. “How did you say you found this?”
“We were taking out a wall in the bakery and I found this wedged between the beams.”
I reached in my purse and pulled out the photos I had found. Gently, I slid them toward her. “I found these pictures of Jenna.”
Kate picked up the picture of Jenna, Walter, and Joe
y standing arm in arm smiling in front of the bakery. “She was so full of energy and life. She was two years older than me, and I followed her around everywhere. I cried fiercely when she left for the city.”
“Why did she leave?”
“She wanted to see the city. It was the fall of 1943. Daddy wanted her to get married but she’d have none of it. They fought something fierce. But he couldn’t sway her. She was supposed to be gone six months. Daddy wouldn’t speak her name after she left but I know he missed her. We all figured she’d come back within the year.”
By the fall of 1944 Jenna would have been noticeably pregnant. “She didn’t come home, did she?”
“No. I wrote her in October of 1944 and told her I was getting married at Christmas. She wrote me back right away and told me about her young man.”
After seventy years, Kate still protected Jenna. “Did she tell you about the baby?”
Tears welled in Kate’s eyes. “She did. Said she’d met Walter, and she’d received word he’d died in the Pacific. He wanted to marry her but never got the chance. She was afraid and alone.” She traced the line of Jenna’s young and smiling face with gnarled fingers. I had the sense she’d cut through the years and had landed in the past. “I told Mama. She shook her head as if she’d known all along Jenna was in trouble. She told me not to tell Daddy. Said Jenna needed time to find a husband or a home for a baby he’d not want.”
A baby he didn’t want. My throat tightened and for a moment I couldn’t speak.
Gordon cleared his throat. “What did your mother do?”
Kate swiped a tear from her lined cheek. “I told Mama she had to tell him, and finally she did. He was furious. Said he didn’t want to talk about Jenna ever again because she’d disgraced her family. Mama wasn’t one to argue with Daddy, but she did that night. Said she’d send him to the barn to live before she turned her back on her girl.” A faint smile tugged at the edge of Kate’s mouth. “I told my Billy what was happening and that I wanted to take the baby. No one needed to know where it came from. We could make up a story that hid the truth. And he agreed.” Tears again filled her eyes. “Lord, but I loved that man.”
Sweet Expectations (A Union Street Bakery Novel) Page 30