Promises: Star's Bakery (The Baker Girl Book 2)

by Mary Jane Forbes

  “Ty, that’s wonderful.”

  Ty swallowed. “Star, how about we stay here tonight, in Santa Monica? I spotted a bed and breakfast when we drove in … not take you back to LA?”

  Star’s breathing stopped. Was he saying what she thought he was saying … not the words … the meaning? Spend the night with each other? Oh, how she wanted to. She wanted to be in his arms. She couldn’t speak, could only nod, yes.

  • • •

  TYLER CLOSED THE DOOR to their room, turned to Star. Her shoulder bag slid to the floor as he slowly enveloped her in his arms, strong arms, his lips bending down to her lips.

  Star felt the heat rising from her toes, her legs, her stomach, heart, face. Her legs were buckling, she knew she couldn’t trust them another second.

  Ty lifted her, laid her on the bed. How did he do that so easily, so gently? Because he was Superman, of course. He was her Superman.

  Ty lay next to her drawing her close, their kisses soft, warm … turned hot, urgent. Her mind numbed, aware that her halter dress was slithering down from her neck. She was aware of his whispering as he kissed her neck. His whispers that she was so beautiful, that he loved her.

  Love? Oh yes, she loved him, had wanted to be his for so long … saying goodbye when she took him to the airport … saying goodbye as he turned to leave. She wanted to cry out to him … don’t go. And now, here he was, beside her.

  What? What?

  His shirt, trousers dropped to the floor, shoes, then socks.

  Now he was lying beside her again, their bodies touching, hearts beating with desire.

  The ocean was pounding outside the open French doors, or was that her heart as hot sensations spread through her body.

  He kissed her, gazed into her eyes, kissed again. Oh, she prayed she was not a disappointment to him. She wanted to be everything for him. She wanted to fill his every need, desire. Because … she loved him … loved him so much. The heat rose until she couldn’t bear it … rose higher … higher still.

  “I love you, Star.” He cried out the words for the world to hear.

  “I love you,” she cried out to him, again, and again.

  They clung to each other, not wanting to let go, ever, ever.

  Chapter 23

  TWENTY-FOUR HOURS since she landed in Los Angeles, stepped into Tyler’s open arms, and performed a screen test for Mr. Roth.

  Twenty-four hours ago she wondered what it would be like to lay in Ty’s arms, what it would be like if he made love to her.

  Now she knew.

  Her world had tilted. Everything that was twenty-four hours ago was now different. The sun was brighter, the raspberry jam on her muffin sweeter.

  Ty loved her.

  She loved him.

  Tyler hustled down the hall to the inn’s dining room, fixed a tray of coffee, a bowl of cut melons with strawberries and blueberries, and two muffins. Returning to their room he joined Star on the private patio, setting the tray on a small table. He squatted beside her chair, picked up her hand. “I love you, Star.”

  She bent down, grazed her lips over his. “I love you too.”

  He smiled, sitting across the little table from her, fixing her a plate. “Okay, now it’s your turn. The screen test sounds promising. The producer thought he’d be back to you after the holidays. So, how about the bakery? I have to show you the cartoon I drew after I read your text that the Butterworth sisters and Benny were volunteering to help. I’m thinking of adding it to The Little Baker Girl—black shirts with Star’s Bakery printed on their chests.”

  “The bakery is chugging along. But …

  “But?”

  Star gazed out at the ocean. “Money is tight. We’re barely making it. Thanksgiving orders were through the roof. We’re using the influx of cash to gear up for the holidays ... after that, I don’t know. Gran is worn out. She’s dropping hints that maybe it’s time she should return to Hoboken. But when I ask her if she wants to leave, she insists on staying. That I misunderstood her.”

  “If the issues with the bakery were resolved, what would you like to do? What do you dream of doing? Once, it was the bakery—”

  “Yes, but what if Roth wants to hire me for a show?”

  “Is that your dream? What if the job was in Daytona Beach?”

  “I guess it would be exciting … I could do both …maybe.”

  “Beyond the show—say, you’re a big success, then what?”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t know.

  After satisfying their hunger with the bowl of fruit and muffins at the inn, they walked down the Third Street promenade. The atmosphere was festive—tourists gathering in the warmth of the late morning sunshine. Musicians and mimes were already out. A variety of shops were open, people browsing, buying trinkets and souvenirs.

  The lovers strolled along, Ty’s arm draped around her shoulders, or waist, or hands clasped swinging between them.

  Star stopped at a little bakery. The door was propped open. “Can we go in here a minute?”

  Ty nodded, he would wait for her at the open-air café next door.

  The manager of the bakery hurried up to Star. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Your bread smells wonderful. Sour dough?”

  “Yes, our specialty. Can I wrap up a loaf for you?”

  “Not just now. I was walking by. Is this your bakery?”

  “Oh, no. The owner is running an errand. Seems there is always something he needs, or that he runs out of. I don’t know how he keeps going.”

  “Thank you for your time. I love your shop.”

  Star stepped out the door, paused, seeing Ty drawing on the back of the café’s paper placemat, a remnant of fudge on a napkin. He was intent on his sketch, a shock of his dark brown hair falling forward to his brow.

  Sliding onto the chair beside him, exchanging a quick delicious kiss of chocolate fudge, she looked at his latest cartoon. It was a little girl sitting on a big white horse, the carousel horse. She was smiling, her eyes shining as she looked across at a little boy riding a horse next to her.

  Tipping her head, Star studied his drawing. “Ty, I want to publish a children’s cookbook. An e-book. A talking e-book. A little girl talking out of the screen to another child, girl or boy, showing how to scramble an egg, mix batter for a cupcake, bake it, frost it, lick the chocolate off the wooden spoon. Your cartoons … could you bring the little girl to life? To talk?”

  “Sure, little Star—”

  “Oh, perfect. Manny and Liz just had a baby girl. She has red ringlets. We’ll call your little cartoon person Lizzie and her red—”

  “Oh, no. My little baker girl is a blonde and her name is Star.”

  “No problem,” Star said smugly. “Your little baker girl is Star, and my little baker girl, a teacher, is Lizzie with red ringlets.”

  “Okay. That works.”

  “See there, our first compromise.”

  • • •

  HER WORLD HAD more than tilted. It was upside down. In thirty-six hours everything had changed. Tyler drove, leaving Santa Monica behind. They made small talk—about the carousel, laughed at being on the beach under the stars on a different coast. He held her hand across the car’s console.

  They kept saying in two weeks, in two weeks, in two weeks they would be together again.

  So hard to say goodbye, the final quick kiss, swiping away a tear. She was at once filled with excitement over the beginning of something new, terrified at the prospect, not knowing how she was going to manage, not knowing exactly what something new meant.

  Ty kept telling her, what was it, oh yes—we take one day at a time.

  There were many unknowns, unanswered questions, swaying in the wind and neither one could foresee how they would shake out.

  But one thing they did know for sure—they loved each other.

  Too fast. The past hours dissolved one to the other too fast. Wanda would be at the airport to pick her up, take her back to her life at the bakery.


  Buckled in her seat, the plane taxied, rose up, up, this time flying east. Star looked out the window, looked at the bright lights of Los Angeles. She strained against the seatbelt as the lights receded, as the plane climbed into the starry night. Tyler was there somewhere … looking up at the plane, the stars. She knew he was. She pulled her short red jacket tight around her, blocking the cold air of the plane, feeling the warmth of his arms.

  He promised to be home as early as possible for Christmas, the day before, or maybe two days before if he could swing it.

  And, he added, “Superman keeps his promise.”

  Chapter 24

  Dallas, Texas

  LOUISE CHECKED HER WATCH, reached into her shoulder bag for her lipstick, the sticky note with the tip line number stuck to the tube. “Silly, the investigator hasn’t returned my call, might as well throw the number away,” she muttered. She applied the deep red lip stain, dropped the tube back into her bag, with the note still stuck to it. She’d deal with it later. Right now she was late for her appointment, a new charity needed funding, an organization to assist border guards wounded or killed in the line of duty. The meeting was only two blocks from her office. Her last patient had just left and if she hurried she wouldn’t hold up the others by much.

  Louise didn’t flag a cab, preferring to walk, her high heeled shoes clicking on the sidewalk—faster than a cab anyway given the traffic at lunchtime.

  Her cell rang and without looking at the display she answered. “Dr. Wainwright.”

  “Ah, finally we reach you. We’ve left several messages. I’m a private investigator, Manny Salinas, along with my colleague, Elizabeth Stitchway. You called the tip line, Daytona Beach Police Department, spoke with Detective Fred Watson—”

  “Mr. Salinas, it was a mistake. I told the detective it was a mistake. I’m not sure why I even called. I’m also sure I don’t know who your John Doe is. Now, if you will excuse me I’m late—”

  “Wait, wait, Dr. Wainwright. I’m sending you a picture of John Doe.”

  It was a woman’s voice.

  “Look, Miss. … Miss.—”

  “Elizabeth, Liz Stitchway. I’m Mr. Salinas’s partner. Take a look at the picture, Dr. Wainwright. Then we’ll stop bothering you.”

  A notification pinged on Louise’s smart phone—a text message. Louise flicked to the message. The picture the investigator sent filled the display.

  “Dr. Wainwright, Dr. Wainwright, are you there?” Liz asked.

  Louise’s hand began to shake. She backed against a display window, a bookstore with a display of children’s books, leaned against the plate glass for support, staring at her phone. Clusters of men and women continued along the sidewalk, in a hurry, passing by the woman with a phone in her hand.

  “Dr. Wainwright, this is Investigator Salinas. Do you recognize the man?”

  “Yes … he’s … he’s my father.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “You’re sure?” Liz asked.

  “Yes. Dale Wainwright. My father.”

  “Dr. Wainwright, are you okay? This has to be a shock. Can we call someone? How can we help?”

  “Where … where is he?”

  “Daytona Beach morgue. Dr. Wainwright, this is Manny Salinas. We have several questions and Detective Watson can’t release the body without a positive identification. Did Mr. Wainwright have a doctor? A personal physician?”

  “Yes. Dr. Sandler. I’ll email you his number.”

  “Dr. Wainwright, this is Liz again. Can you come to Florida to identify the body … answer some questions? Talk to Detective Watson so you can claim your father’s body? Oh, and one more thing. Can you email us a current picture, or the latest one you have? I imagine you’d like to transport his body to Dallas for burial?”

  “Yes. Of course. Where … Orlando—”

  “Orlando, or Daytona Beach. Either way, we’ll meet you. Just let us know—”

  “I’ll arrange for a flight tonight … with my husband. I’ll send you a picture as soon as I hang up. This picture you sent … looks like my father … but I have to be positive—”

  “Dr. Wainwright, what is your husband’s name?” Manny asked.

  “Jude Rattigan. I’m a psychiatrist … kept my maiden name when were married. Hang on a minute … okay, I just replied to your text message. My home phone and office number.”

  “Thanks. Got it. Dr. Wainwright, we’re so sorry … about your father. Are you sure there isn’t someone you’d like us to call, to be with you?” Liz asked.

  “No. I’ll be all right. My husband, my daughter … I’ll call them. You said there were questions. Well, I have one. How did my father die?”

  “Dr. Wainwright, that’s one reason we want to talk to his doctor. We have to ascertain if he had a medical condition,” Manny said

  “What? A heart attack? He never mentioned anything about his heart.”

  “Dr. Wainwright, he may have been the victim of foul play.”

  Chapter 25

  Daytona Beach

  MANNY CLOSED HIS CELL and turned to Liz. She wasn’t there. He grinned, hearing the clicking of the keys on her computer keyboard from their office.

  Checking that little Lizzie was still asleep in her crib, Manny returned to the kitchen. Divvying up the last of the coffee into two mugs, he joined his wife. He loved to watch her in action. Her body language—tense, onto something juicy, right knee bouncing, barefoot heel tapping the floor. So many tidbits of information were dropped by Louise Wainwright during their conversation.

  Without looking up, accepting the mug of coffee with one hand, Liz pointed to the screen with the other. “Look at this, Manny. Mr. Dale Wainwright is an oil man, or was. Must be a billionaire. A billion-billionaire. Big philanthropist. ‘Daughter Louise, psychiatrist, represents her father in his charities.’ Standard bio stuff. You call that doctor Louise told us about. She sent us an email, quick, as promised. A professional woman … must be a type A personality. Here, I printed the doc’s number, her numbers, and email address. It’s almost noon in Dallas. Maybe we can get him eating a sandwich at his desk.”

  “Sandwich at his desk?”

  “Sure. Busy doc. Grabs a sandwich at his desk,” Liz said as she punched in the number. Hit the speaker button, handing the phone to Manny. Liz turned back to her computer, tapped the keyboard entering another search.

  “Dr. Sandler.” The voice was that of a mature man, fiftyish.

  “Dr. Sandler, my name is Manny Salinas. I’m a private investigator in Daytona Beach, Florida. My colleague, Elizabeth Stitchway, and I just spoke with the daughter of one of your patients by the name of Dale Wainwright.”

  “Is Dale all right? I haven’t heard from him for months. I’ve been extremely worried … tried reaching him several times.”

  “Dr. Sandler, I’m sorry, but the man we believe to be Dale Wainwright is dead.”

  “Oh, no. I warned Dale to take care of himself, take his meds. But … you sound as if there’s some question the man you’re speaking about is Dale?”

  “Yes and no. From what his daughter said, she recognized the man, from the picture we sent, to be her father, but she hasn’t seen him yet. She’s planning to fly to Daytona Beach with her husband tonight. The man we believe to be Dale Wainwright was found dead on our beach. He’s been listed as a John Doe, that is until a half hour ago. We’re hoping you can help in a positive identification.”

  “I see. I will have my staff send the coroner … this man, this John Doe is in the Daytona Beach morgue?”

  “Yes. The officer in charge of the case is Detective Fred Watson. I’ll email you his name, the Daytona Beach Police Department number, his cell for your records and verification as to where you’re sending Mr. Wainwright’s health records. Detective Watson asked me and Ms. Stitchway to investigate the case … you know, get an identification of the body and help with the cause of death—”

  “The cause of death I’m sure was his cancer. Bad. Terminal. He knew he h
ad little more than a year to live the last time I saw him. He couldn’t sleep, kept on the move. He wanted to cram a lot of living into the time he had left. I prescribed something to help him sleep. He called several months back to renew the prescription. Come to think of it, he was in Florida when he called. Orlando I believe. But I’m sure my staff can tell you the drugstore location, where the medication was picked up. We generally sent his refill orders to Walgreens where he’s on file so he can request a refill wherever he happens to be.”

  “When we talked with his daughter, she was surprised that he had been found in Daytona Beach—”

  “A John Doe you said, Investigator? Surely he had identification on him.”

  “No. No wallet or jewelry, just his clothes. A designer label—Yohji Yamamoto.”

  Dr. Sandler chuckled. “That sounds like Dale. He loved Yamamoto. But, I believe he switched to another designer. Don’t remember who.”

  Liz shrugged at Manny. John Doe was wearing another man’s Yamamoto.

  “By the way, it wasn’t unusual for Louise not to know where her father was. They were rather estranged. She said she never knew where he laid his head on a pillow, except for the times he sent her a postcard. But then he was rather eccentric. Being a wealthy, very wealthy oil man, one can become most anything.”

  Chapter 26

  Daytona Beach

  THE FLIGHT FROM DALLAS to Daytona Beach, the two private investigators meeting the flight, the appointment with the coroner, all took place as scheduled.

  Scheduled or not, when the coroner opened the body bag revealing John Doe’s head and shoulders, Louise gasped, grabbed for Jude’s arm. Identifying John Doe as her father, seeing his lifeless face, hit Louise Wainwright in the gut.

  Louise shivered, sucked in a breath of the chorine filled air, looked down at her father. A wave of emotion swept through her system. Her head dropped forward, eyes closed as if in prayer. Jude turned away from his wife and the corpse, as Louise raised her eyelids. Her fingers tentatively reached out, paused. She didn’t touch her father’s skin, instead reached higher stroking his silver streaked hair.