Hope glimmered in her gaze. “But that could change, right?”
“I don’t know.” As I glanced again at the stack, I feared I’d be happy if I could pay the electric bill.
“Ask me about dough and I can tell you how long it’s been rising, if the flour is organic, or if the texture will be right. Give me five butters, and I’ll tell you where they came from. Sugars, I know. Anything food I know. Money and numbers make me want to cry.”
Staring into her watery blue eyes, I couldn’t hold onto any residual irritation. “It’s going to take hours, if not days, to sort this out. But I will.”
Hope sent tears streaming down Rachel’s cheek. “I will help.”
“Like I said, I appreciate the offer. But you need to worry about customers and keeping Margaret out of my hair.”
She straightened her shoulders. “I can do that. But I can help you, too. I kind of know where the bodies are buried, so to speak.”
Even surrounded by the chaos, I felt oddly in control. Numbers didn’t judge nor did they have hidden agendas. They were what they were. “Don’t you buy supplies Monday afternoon like Dad did?”
“It can wait a few hours. But I’ll need to place an order by four.” She moved toward the desk to reach for an invoice.
I shifted to the right and blocked her path. “When we are in the bakery, you can boss me around all you want. But when you are in this office, I’m boss. I’ll do the bills, and then I’ll let you know how much we have for supplies. This isn’t going to be easy, Rachel.”
“I know, I know. And I’m so fine with you being office boss.”
If I’d said those words to Margaret, she’d have risen up like a warrior queen and fought me as if she were defending her most loyal subjects. Margaret didn’t know shit about finance, but she’d have fought me regardless.
“I control all money-related issues from here on out.”
Tension melted from Rachel’s shoulders and she hugged me. “That is such a deal. Thank you!”
I patted her awkwardly on the back and squirmed free. “Let’s hope you’ll stay this happy.”
“I so will.”
“Good. Now get out of my office.” And just because I was feeling charitable in my new domain I said, “Besides, how bad could it be?”
• • •
Famous last words.
It was a favorite expression of my mother’s, which she’d uttered after one of us kids made a really dumb promise or pledge. Don’t worry, Mom, I can hold the crystal vase and not break it. God, Mom, Mike and I aren’t kids . . . we know how not to get pregnant.
How bad can it be?
How bad? Like real bad. Like some vendors hadn’t been paid in months and were now threatening to cut off supplies if they didn’t get paid. Like quarterly taxes were due soon. Like we weren’t on a leaky rowboat but the SS Titanic.
It didn’t take a brain trust to know the bakery needed an infusion of cash. For a few seconds, as I sat in the office alone, I was aware that the building had grown quiet. The bakery had closed for the day, and I felt alone. I thought about calling Dad. It made sense, after all: This had been the business he’d lovingly nursed and worried over for five decades. He’d want to know.
But he didn’t need to know. Not yet anyway. He’d done his tour of duty in the kitchens and office. He’d suffered heart attacks. And Mom had said she was afraid for him.
Like it or not, it was my turn to carry the weight and fix this mess. I had only one real option, and I dreaded it.
Fearing too much analyzing would make me hesitate, I picked up the old black rotary phone on the desk and dialed. On the third ring I heard a gruff, “Brad Foster.”
“Brad, it’s Daisy McCrae.” Brad was one of the few remaining friends I had at Suburban.
“Daisy.” He drew out my name in a long lazy string, and I imaged him leaning back in his leather chair and staring out his picture window over downtown D.C. “How’s it going?”
“Going pretty well, as a matter of fact.” I didn’t go into a long dissertation about my life over the last three months but said easily, “I’m managing my parents’ bakery.”
“The one on Union Street?”
“The very one.”
“God, I love that place. Every time I’m in Old Town I stop by and get one of those carrot cake cupcakes. They really are a sin.”
“We like to think so,” I said easily. “My sister Rachel is a goddess in the kitchen.”
“Damn, Daisy, I wish I had the stones to walk away from finance and just do something creative like running a bakery.”
“It’s a dream come true.” I glanced toward the heavens, hoping God wouldn’t strike me down.
“So, you’re getting up in the middle of the night and mixing the dough and stuff?” The words carried a wistful, almost nostalgic tone.
“That’s me. White uniform, hairnet, flour on my shoes and all.”
“Damn. I’m jealous. I always had this dream of being an ice road trucker.” He sounded genuine.
In the computer screen I caught the barest hint of my reflection. My hair sprung out of my ponytail. There was a pencil tucked behind each ear and I’d gotten flour on my face. “You watch too much History Channel.”
“Maybe. Maybe,” he said chuckling. “So what can I do for you?”
Jump or dive. Now or never. I blew out a breath. “I need to sell the remaining stocks I have in Suburban.”
“Daisy, you and I both know the timing on this sucks.” His voice’s dreamy quality vanished under reality’s harsh glare. “You’ll lose a bundle.”
I pressed fingertips to my forehead. “I know. Believe me, I know. But I need cash.”
“If you can hold on a couple of months, you could have twice what you do now. The market is rallying.”
“I know. But a couple of months from now won’t do me any good. I literally need the dough to make dough.”
The lame joke didn’t stir any laughter. “There’s no way you can wait? Do you have any other cash reserves?”
I smoothed my hand over a pile of bills and then thumbed through them. “No.”
He sighed into the phone. “The markets are closed now but I can sell first thing in the morning and have money wired to you tomorrow.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“I wish I could talk you out of this.”
“Like I used to say, in for a penny, in for a pound.”
“Hey, so you are doing well?” Dropping his voice a notch, he’d injected concern I didn’t want.
“Living the dream, baby.” My chair squeaked as I leaned back and turned from the stacks of bills. “You should come by the bakery sometime. I’ll treat you to a carrot cake cupcake.”
He chuckled. “I just might do that.”
My smile felt tight and unnatural. “Great. Would love to see you.”
“I’ll get that money right over to you, Daisy.”
“Thanks, Brad.”
I hung up and laid my head on my desk. The sale would likely net me about five thousand dollars. Two months from now I might have gotten three times that amount, but like I’d told Brad, it was now or never. Those stocks were the last of any kind of nest egg for me, and the cash from their sale would buy the bakery thirty or so days. Of course, I was officially flat broke and shackled to the business.
I breathed deeply. “What have I done?”
“Daisy, Daisy!” My mother’s singsong, baby way of saying my name had me lifting my head from the computer screen toward the office door.
Sitting up, I pulled my ponytail free, combed it with my fingers and retied it. “In here, Mom.”
Mom was an older, much plumper version of Rachel and Margaret. Her short blond hair remained light—but that was thanks to peroxide not nature. Deep lines wrinkled her forehead and the corners of her eyes. And f
or as long as I could remember, she’d worn bright red lipstick and an oversized blue T-shirt, which she thought created a trimmer silhouette.
I tossed my thick black-rimmed glasses on the desk, minimized the screen, rose, and stretched the stiffness from my back. I glanced at the clock and realized it was nearly six.
“I came to check on you, honey.”
“And she’s got Dad with her,” came my father’s deep baritone voice. Dad stood several inches taller than Mom. He claimed to be five foot ten but that would have been on his best day years ago. Stooped shoulders now robbed him of an inch or so. Mother Nature had taken most of his thick hair, and a razor took care of what remained. A white T-shirt hugged his round, hard belly and allowed gray chest hair to curl over the V-shaped neckline. He looked a bit like an old Irish-American version of Mr. Clean.
Mom set a turkey sandwich on whole wheat bread with chips and a pickle on my desk. “You’ve got to be starving.”
I crunched on a chip. “Yes. Starving. Thanks.”
Dad set an unopened can of diet soda next to the plate. His gaze lingered on the desk, searching, and I knew he wished he’d brought his reading glasses. The lines in his forehead deepened. “So what’s the damage? How has Rachel done with the books?”
I’d razzed my sisters in a heartbeat when it was the three of us. In fact, growing up I took great pleasure in pointing out their mistakes to them. But for reasons unknown to me, if they screwed up so badly that Mom and Dad had to get involved, I covered it up. “Not bad at all. I’ve been able to jump right in.”
Never mind the fact that my finances had officially tanked.
Dad glanced sharply at me as if trying to determine the truthfulness of my words. “You sure? Rachel is a great baker but she can barely add two and two.”
“No worries, Dad. Really. I’ve got it under control.” The lie tripped so easily off my tongue.
Mom grinned and hooked her arm in my father’s. Some would see it as a loving gesture but I knew Mom. She was bracing to drag him out of here, if need be. “See, Frank, I told you the bakery was fine. Rachel did just fine. And now Daisy will make things even better.”
“No worries, Dad. Really. Rachel did a great job holding it together.”
Dad straightened, not yet swayed. “Mind if I have a look at the books?”
Mom tightened her hold.
“I do mind, Dad. I’m just getting this sorted to my way of doing things, but I’m not at the point I can talk about it without getting a little turned around. Give me until month’s end and we’ll have a major powwow.”
“A couple of weeks?” He arched a brow, but the worry faded a fraction, as if just having a deadline was a relief.
“By month’s end, Dad.”
“That’s not so long, Frank,” Mom said.
“It’s fifteen days, Sheila.” He was a man who had spent his life measuring everything: ounces, minutes, dollars, and days.
“We will go over it all,” I promised.
Dad grunted. “Did Margaret show up on time?”
“Right on the dot.” Five minutes late was right on the dot in Margaret time.
His gaze narrowed. “How did the baking go this morning?”
“Clockwork.” I knew the word was a favorite of my mother’s.
Mom grinned. “See, Frank? All good. Clockwork. The display cases in the front of the shop looked like you’d just about sold out.”
“We had a very busy morning. Margaret said my return generated some curiosity in town. It accounted for a few sales.”
“Did your friends give you a nice welcome home?” Mom prompted.
“I think a lot of folks were curious about my return after my dramatic exit years ago. And a few knew I’d lost my job.” People don’t watch the Indy 500 to see cars go in circles. They watch for the big wrecks.
Mom frowned. “No one cares about any of that, honey. That is already a lifetime ago.”
“Mrs. W. remembered. And she made a point to mention it.”
“Mabel Woodrow?” Mom said. “Good lord, I’m amazed she made it by. She’s been in bed for months. We thought we’d lost her last week.”
Woodrow. Mabel Woodrow. That was her name. The lost name had been niggling at me since morning. “She came by and shared all kinds of crazy stories.”
“Well, she’s an old woman, honey,” Mom said. “She speaks her mind a little too much.”
“I think her memory is a little off.”
Dad shook his head. “I’m amazed the woman was here at all. Did she order the sweet buns?”
“She did.”
“We all said a prayer for her at church last Sunday, and I went by to see her,” Mom added.
“Her nurse said thank you for the bread.”
Her smile was genuine. “Oh, that was sweet of her. I spoke to Florence and Mrs. Woodrow and told them you were moving home. That perked Mrs. Woodrow up a bit. I need to make a point to get by and see her.”
Mom had told Mrs. W. last week that I was coming back. Couldn’t anyone around here maintain a good lie? I opted to let it go. “She looked spry today.”
Dad scratched the back of his head. “I can’t believe Florence let her buy the sweet buns. The woman’s been a diabetic for years.”
“Florence tried to stop her but Mrs. Woodrow wasn’t hearing of it. The old lady might be batty but she knows what she wants.”
“She’s been like that since I was a kid,” Dad said. “She’d set her mind to something and that was that. No one changed it.”
“I sort of remember her, but not much. What’s her story?”
“She’s lived in the same house all her ninety-nine years. Her brothers and sisters moved away but she always stayed put. Married when she was young but he was injured in World War II. He died a few years later. Family money has kept her afloat for years.”
I remembered what she’d said about my birth mother. Batty or no, she’d seemed so clear about Renee.
It would have been so easy just to ask my folks about Renee but the last time I’d brought my birth mother up to my parents, it hadn’t gone so well. Mom had told me to ask whatever I wanted but her eyes went all soft and gooey like she’d burst into tears. Feeling like a real traitor, I’d dropped the subject almost as fast as I had brought it up.
Besides, I had enough in the present to worry about. My real job was gone. My real savings were gone. And I’d thrown my lot in with one sister who couldn’t add a column of numbers and another who’d rather have her head in ruins.
Whatever nonsense Mrs. Woodrow had spouted shouldn’t have ranked on the priority list.
And still . . . the mention of Renee had triggered memories. No one had mentioned my birth mother in years. I guess they figured I’d forgotten. But I hadn’t forgotten. I just didn’t know who to talk to about it.
Just my luck. The one person who might be a resource was a crazy old bird. I could go right now or even tomorrow and visit Mrs. Woodrow’s house and ask her about Renee. I could. And I would, soon. But for right now, my plate was filled with this bakery and the shambles of my life. Tossing in a birth-mother search was more than I needed now. As much as I wanted to know about Renee, I didn’t have the energy to deal with the fading memories of an old woman today. But I would.
Soon . . .
• • •
By the time I climbed the staircase to my room, the cupcake clock chimed ten times. Bone tired, my body ached and my head throbbed. Sorting the books had been just as complicated as I’d feared. I should have taken it a bit at a time, but I’d been unable to move away from the desk until I really understood what was happening with the bakery’s finances.
The bottom line appeared to be that we weren’t generating enough business based on the number of employees and the number of goods we manufactured. Today’s flood of customers had been the anomaly. Most d
ays, business was at least 30 percent less. Since firing a sister wasn’t an option, the bakery needed to find ways to cut inventory and market. From what I could tell, we were totally dependent on walk-in traffic, and the only catering we did was around the Christmas holidays. We needed more catering. More weddings. Maybe even a deal with a high-end grocery store willing to carry our bread.
In my room, I kicked off my clogs, tugged off my clothes, and dropped them in a pile by my bed before slipping on a flannel nightgown. As much as I’d have liked a shower, I just didn’t have the energy. I brushed my teeth, splashed water on my face, and climbed into my sleeping bag on the lumpy sofa. One moment I was aware of closing my eyes and the next, I tumbled immediately into a deep sleep.
I dreamed of two little girls laughing.
“What game do you want to play today? It’s your birthday so you can choose!” The little girl’s smile was so wide, deep dimples burrowed into her cheeks.
I sat cross-legged on my bed staring at my friend Susie. The little girl wore her hair in tight, neat braids secured with blue ribbons that teased the tops of thin shoulders covered with a starched white dress. Susie had a light mocha complexion that soaked up the sun in the summer. Like me, she was about twelve.
“I don’t want to play a game.”
Susie frowned. “Why not? You always want to play. I know you love I Spy.” Susie tapped her finger to her lips. “Let’s see, I Spy something blue.”
“No.” My mood had been sour since I’d risen and no amount of coaxing would draw me out. My mom had grown frustrated and grumbled about me being selfish. “I don’t want to play.”
Susie cocked her head. “Why are you such a Sour Sally on your birthday?”
I folded arms over my chest, trying to understand the anger that stalked me today. “I don’t know.”
Susie leaned forward and in a singsong voice said, “There’s always a reason. Tell me.”
When I didn’t answer, Susie rose up from the bed and started to dance around the room. “Tell me. Tell me. I won’t go away until you tell me, Daisy McCrae!”
Frustrated, I watched Susie twirl and twirl as she sang. Susie had been the only one today who had wanted to understand my moodiness. She’d been the only one who didn’t wonder why I was so ungrateful.
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