“Give me some credit.”
“Want me to read her mind?’
Katherine grinned. If Barry possessed that skill, he would’ve divorced her years before she’d gotten the nerve to do the deed.
“You found her hard at work, first thing this morning? I’d say Celeste must be the mind reader. She must’ve sensed you’ve been scrambling without her, searching high and low for a helper or two. She must’ve read it in the tarot.”
“Hush up.”
“Never mind. That would be you. So why didn’t you sense her returning?”
“I’m sensing you leaving now. Am I right?”
“Got any mundel bread?” he said, referring to the Jewish pastry she made for him. Sad to say, when she’d tried the biscotti-like cookie at Lamontagne’s, it didn’t sell half as well as actual biscotti, but she hadn’t minded the special request at-home cookie order. She hadn’t minded any of his requests. With the exception of his determination to start a family, the man was too laid-back, too accommodating, too trusting.
Years ago, with Barry out of the room, Katherine’s OB/GYN had asked whether she’d previously given birth. And even though the doctor had seen inside her, even though he was bound to keep her secret, she couldn’t coax the truth past her lips.
To what end? What purpose would her admission serve? She’d gotten pregnant when she’d slept with a stranger. She’d gotten pregnant because back in the day, she used to sleep around. A generous serving of cake, a second glass of wine, a few mind-blowing orgasms? Why deny herself any form of pleasure?
And so, she’d lied to the doctor about whether she’d previously given birth. As far as Barry was concerned, the vague stretch marks on her stomach were easily explained, weight gained from donuts, not delivery. Sometimes she wanted to throttle Barry with the truth.
Divorce had been easier.
“Nope, no mundel bread. Care for a biscotti?”
“No thanks, I’m trying to cut down.” Barry smoothed a hand down his bulge-free belly, and Katherine imagined another woman cooling the ridges of his appendix scar with her fingers, warming the curved white line with her tongue. The image hurt, made Katherine’s center cave in, like a cake at high altitude. She forced herself to hold the thought. Hold tight, so she could do the right thing and let him go.
CHAPTER 2
Three weeks ago, Zach Fitzgerald’s mother kicked him out of the house, changed the locks, and told her twenty-three-year-old son to stop acting like a teenager. That made sense, since the last time he’d really belonged anywhere he’d been twelve.
There were signs, of course, that he’d chosen not to notice. His height for one. Nearly five foot seven by the time he’d turned thirteen, he towered over all of the boys in eighth grade, most of the girls, and both of his parents. His younger brothers couldn’t really be counted upon to measure up ahead of him, but their fair hair should’ve provided a clue. Zach’s dark hair stood out in family photographs, as though he were destined to become the proverbial black sheep. As though he’d never had a choice. And then there was the singing. His parents had met in the Arlington, Massachusetts, Unitarian church choir, both of them soloists there to this day. Zach’s brothers didn’t care much for church, but Ryan studied voice at Berklee, and Donovan, now a senior in high school, was the lead singer for a rock band he’d formed freshman year: Prodigal Son. Even Zach had to admit, his brothers’ singing didn’t suck.
On the other hand, Zach’s singing sucked big-time. He’d rather eat glass than attempt to carry a tune.
And after having eaten his way across two dozen Casco Bay bakeries, he would’ve rather eaten glass than choke down another once-favorite pastry. Gingersnaps burned his tongue, their bite a battle he waged inside his mouth. Cheesecake, a treat his mother made every Thanksgiving, curdled as soon as it passed through his lips. And he could no longer open his mouth for lemon bars. The slight pucker of sour fruit now bathed and numbed his tongue.
Yet here he was. Quarter past six, most of the sleepy town’s storefronts were still dark, and Zach was pulling his dependable Volvo, Matilda, into a vacant spot by Lamontagne’s Bakery, in search of an older woman. Weeks of wandering hadn’t sated that hunger.
According to nonidentifying information, the woman of his dreams was, or had been, a baker. Twenty-four years ago, she must’ve lived in or around Brunswick, Maine. Having completed his canvas of coastal towns from Brunswick to Phippsburg, Zach set his sights on Hidden Harbor’s only bakery.
The last time Zach had seen this older woman, she’d been younger than he was now. That notion rearranged his insides, like the summer he’d worked as a high-rise window cleaner and his platform outside the John Hancock building’s fifteenth floor snapped, leaving him dangling over Clarendon Street.
Not his favorite odd job.
A couple of guys in work pants and construction boots entered Lamontagne’s, followed by a woman wearing scrubs. Then a guy around Zach’s father’s age made his exit. The older guy stood back from the glass window, hand shading his eyes, and stared inside. He claimed a bike propped beneath the awning, took his time fastening a helmet onto his head, and started off slowly down the street. Zach had half a mind to follow the reluctant cycler out of town. Instead, he worried his St. Anthony pocket token and silently recited the prayer asking for the restoration of things lost or stolen. Dear St. Anthony, please come around, something’s lost and can’t be found. “Amen.”
Inside the bakery, Zach took a breath and played the guessing game. Fruit pies, he figured. Apple and peach. Something chocolate for sure. He could practically taste the cocoa. Éclairs, he wagered. And definitely biscotti.
One of those tall carts on wheels stood beside the glass bakery case, and a woman with brown hair in an old-fashioned bun crouched behind a case arranging éclairs. Bingo! Zach gave himself a point on an imaginary whiteboard, even though no one was playing but him and—let’s face it—the stakes weren’t all that high for this little game. But the woman—
She stood, and Zach’s heart lurched in his chest, thrill overriding disappointment. An older woman’s hairdo on a woman his age. The girl wasn’t who he was looking for, but maybe he’d been looking for the wrong thing all along.
Nice body. Not too skinny. He liked the boobs pressing the top of the apron. Cute girl-next-door face. Huge eyes looked sad—
Busted.
The girl caught his gaze, caught him staring, and her eyes blinked three rapid-fire times, as though he’d startled her. Adrenaline rushed through Zach, better than a coffee buzz. He sent her a half nod and a full smile. But then she folded her arms beneath her chest and tipped her head. She held his gaze but refused to return the smile. “Looking for anything special?”
Zach came over to the counter, eager to take a closer look. Freckles across the bridge of her nose. Full lips he could make good use of. And he was dying to catch a glimpse of what hid beneath the starched apron. Focus, Zach. “What do you recommend? What’s good?”
“Everything’s good. But I recommend the blueberry muffins. They’re special today.”
“Oh?”
“My secret recipe.”
“What’s in them?”
Zach didn’t usually shy away from a pretty girl. But he couldn’t dodge the feeling this one was shaking him down to see where his character settled, and his gaze slid away, canvassing the shop. The construction guys hunched over steaming coffees. The woman in scrubs headed for the door, nose in her bakery bag.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be much of a secret, would it?” the girl said.
Zach’s shoulders twitched, his body adjusting to the bakery’s warmth. Nothing to do with the so-called issue he had with secrets.
When your parents sat you down on your thirteenth birthday and told you that you were adopted, everything in your life simultaneously fell into place and broke apart.
The girl tore bakery paper from a dispenser and swiped a blueberry muffin from the case. “You staying?”
“U
mm.” Zach hadn’t thought about whether he’d stay in Hidden Harbor. Didn’t usually worry about where he was going to sleep until the sun went down. Even then, car camping—
The girl furrowed her brow. But he liked the way her eyes smirked, as if they were sharing a joke, instead of the joke being on him. “Take-out or eat-in?”
“Eat-in. Definitely,” he said. How else could he get her name, her number, and—if he got lucky—a place to stay better than his car?
“Excellent.” The girl nodded. But instead of setting the muffin on a plate, she handed it to him. “It’s on the house, if you tell me what you think.”
Zach never passed up free food, one of the traits he shared with his brothers. And his parents, come to think of it. Fitzgeralds loved to eat.
There he went again, imagining he knew his place.
Zach bit into the muffin. Not too sweet, like the sugar-laden pastries he’d forced himself to eat over the last few weeks. And, yeah, butter made everything better. The blueberries burst in his mouth, sweet and tangy and still warm. If the muffin were a woman, he’d propose.
The girl leaned a hip against the counter. “Well?”
Zach swallowed, ran his tongue over his teeth, and gave her his honest assessment. “I’m in love.”
The girl laughed, the sound even better than the muffin. She glanced over her shoulder, raised her voice. “Tell that to my boss,” she called into the back room, and then returned her attention to Zach. “She doesn’t like when I change a recipe.”
“Your boss?” Zach said, and another woman came out from the kitchen.
Zach’s shoulders twitched for the second time. Difference was, he didn’t bother trying to convince himself the shudder was due to temperature change.
This woman was the right age. No doubt about that. But if age were the only test, Zach would’ve laid claim to women up and down the rocky coastline. Her height worked. She wasn’t that tall, maybe five-six, five-seven. But she wasn’t short either. And from what he’d read, you estimated a kid’s height by taking the parents’ average and subtracting two inches for a girl, adding two for a boy.
But her hair was the clincher. Dark and shiny. Zach’s gaze hovered at the woman’s hairline, the cowlick Zach had fought for years, until he’d given up and let it do whatever the hell it pleased.
The woman smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She ran a hand across her forehead and smoothed the hair that defied smoothing. “I’m Katherine, the owner of Lamontagne’s. Something I can help you with?”
Katherine.
The back of Zach’s head tingled, as if his brain were firing, searching for a connection to the name. Gut reaction or wishful thinking?
Either way, if Zach had met Katherine ten years ago, he would’ve asked her about all the stuff he thought made him both special and an oddity. Did she think Christmas decorations looked more monotone than magical? Could she tell who was calling, seconds before the phone even rang? Did her left ankle itch before a storm? He would’ve wanted to know if cola cramped her stomach and whether hearing the National Anthem made her want to run to her bedroom, cover her head with a pillow, and cry like a baby.
In recent years, when he’d been flitting between college girls and college majors, he would’ve wanted to know how she’d known she was a baker. How could you decide on one profession, when choosing meant cutting off your options?
Now his options were limited. Now the blueberry muffin spoiled in his belly and threatened to revisit his mouth.
He’d chosen not to alert the Mutual Consent Registry because they would’ve let his birth mother know he was searching for her. That would’ve given her the chance to withdraw her consent to contact and to send him away a second time.
If Katherine was his birth mother, what was stopping her from sending him away in person?
He considered the glass cases filled with pastries, cakes, and pies. The rounder stacked high with loaves of bread peeking from open bags—dark ryes, French baguettes, and sourdough. Coffee service took up a side table. Booths lined either wall. The door jingled, and three women pushing strollers rolled into the shop. Place like this, he bet, would be hopping all day until the two weary bakers turned the sign in the door from Open to Closed.
In terms of odd jobs, he’d done far worse. “The question is,” Zach said, “how can I help you?”
Katherine made a fool of herself looking for her son.
A few years ago at Shaw’s, she’d followed a tall dark-haired man from eggs to paper products, only to have the man turn toward her before the Scott paper towels, revealing his handsome, but Asian, face. She was ashamed to admit, while on a date last year at the Highland Games, she’d caught the eye of another man. Only to discover, upon closer inspection before the whiskey sampling, the man was about ten years too old to be her son. And last summer, a day at Popham Beach had taken an awkward turn when a preschooler on Fox Island had asked why a strange lady was staring at his father.
She should’ve known better.
Unlike Zach Fitzgerald, none of those young men had eyes like sapphires and moved with the sureness of a man on a mission. None of those young men sent the pulse at her neck quickening as though a stranger had ripped her babe from her arms. None of those young men made her think she was being haunted by a ghost from her past.
The return of none of those young men had been predicted in the tarot by a horseshoe spread and the appearance of the Chariot card, depicting a traveler on a mission.
And she’d bet her life that none of those young men shared a January 1, 1976, birthday with her son.
Zach did.
Zach’s job application trembled in Katherine’s hand, and Zach followed her through the café. She nodded at her newest regulars, two well-muscled men, sitting at their usual two-top, construction ready and right on schedule. The men pushed back from their seats and got up to refill their carryout coffees. Then they’d head down the street to work on the siding at Suzy Q’s Soft Serve.
The Wednesday morning mothers’ group occupied the booth on the right—three women who’d taken Katherine’s advice regarding lemon bars representing the sweet and sour experience of motherhood and then promptly gotten pregnant within weeks of one another. Despite what Barry called Katherine’s woo-woo leanings, she’d lifted that bit of cosmic insight from the air on a day when she’d had too many lemon bars and too little shelf space. Placebo treatment? Did the remedy really matter if you believed?
Zach slid onto the brand spanking new seat cushion, the vandal-inspired speed delivery. Not unlike the three-hour birth of her son that supposedly never happened with first-time moms.
There were exceptions to every rule.
“So . . .” Zach set his hands, palms down, on the tabletop, in the way of a man trying to hasten a decision in his favor.
Katherine tried superimposing Zach’s jawline, shadowed by beard stubble, with the faded memory of a tiny, peach-soft face that had fit in the palms of her hands. Delicate nose and pouty lips. Her son’s gray eyes had stared so deeply into hers, she was convinced he was taking mental notes and memorizing her features. Worse, she was certain he was gazing straight to her soul. That could describe millions of newborns. Did that describe Zach Fitzgerald on the day he was born?
When Zach caught her staring, tears pressed behind her eyes. “Give me a moment.” Katherine dropped her gaze to Zach’s job application. She took a slow breath and ran a finger down the page, even though she’d already memorized his most telling details.
His fingers were long, like hers. His muscles moved with the ease of a body accustomed to activity. His list of jobs ranged from chimney sweep to ski instructor. He’d even tried his hand at high-rise window washing, proving himself a thrill-seeking daredevil. Like another man she used to know?
Like a man Katherine was once upon a time acquainted with, back when her body had moved with ease. Back when she’d mistakenly thought a one-night, or weeklong, fling between consenting adults didn’t leave any lasting
marks. Before she’d made the biggest mistake of her life.
She’d thought, briefly, that any guy who, like her, lived without ties might’ve been the one who could tie her down. And the tarot’s Wheel of Fortune card had heralded momentous change and confirmed her assumption.
No one came to the tarot without a whole host of assumptions.
The magnetic feeling of being watched raised Katherine’s gaze.
“Thanks for giving me a chance,” Zach said, as though she’d already hired him for general help, a salesman assuming the sale. Above the table, his body jostled, a side effect of below-the-table leg jiggling.
Twenty-five years ago, a man named Adam had sat in the same seat, unmoving, looked into her eyes, and then, lightning-quick, worked his way into her bed.
Truth be told, it hadn’t taken much work. And the bed had been his.
Actually, the bed had been owned by Holiday Inn.
“Like I said,” Zach continued, “what I lack in experience, I more than make up for in enthusiasm.”
“I’d need you for busing, restocking the bakery cases, dishwashing. . .” With each task Katherine rattled off, Zach nodded, the smile never wavering from his lips. “Cleaning toilets,” Katherine added, and Zach laughed.
Katherine kept a straight face.
“Oh, you’re serious.” Zach leaned across the table. Because he was at ease with himself or eager to compare features? If Zach was her son looking for her, wouldn’t he pipe up and say so? “Sorry, yeah, that’s not a problem, Katherine.” Same as the stranger who’d breezed through Hidden Harbor years ago, Zach pronounced her name in three distinct syllables—Kath-ther-ine—the sounds lingering in his mouth.
Later that same man had told her he liked having her lingering in his mouth.
Next booth over and behind Zach’s head, one-year-old Christopher bounced on his mother’s lap and gave Katherine a wide grin, his eyes gleaming with recognition. A single dimple punctuated his left cheek. Katherine smiled back, and Christopher tried to shove his entire fist into his mouth, drooling around his chapped knuckles onto his mother’s shoulder.
A Measure of Happiness Page 3