She sipped her lemonade. “Got to say, I’m a bit curious about Susie and J. I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for both initials when I start sifting through the papers on her desk tomorrow morning.”
I set down my glass. “Do you know of anyone named Terry in Mabel’s family?” An anxious, needy tone that I did not like slipped into my voice.
“Honey, that family has more cousins and nieces than you can shake a stick at. There could be, but I just don’t know. But I don’t think there was anyone by that name in the receiving line after the funeral.” She sat back and studied me with brown eyes that peered over the top of her glasses. “We could spend the next couple of weeks digging through old papers. Maybe we’ll find Terry. Maybe not. But we can try.”
It felt good to talk to someone who didn’t double-think everything I said. “Thanks.”
“Go on home and get your rest. I’ll be sure to save anything I find, and we’ll start doing the real digging on Thursday.”
“About six?”
“Sounds good. Now if you don’t mind, Oprah will be on soon, and I don’t like to miss.”
I rose. “See you on Thursday.”
• • •
That night, I fell into bed just before nine. My body ached and my head throbbed from energy overload. I sensed I was on the edge of something huge. It was something that felt dark and dangerous and like it or not would change my life forever. And as much as I wanted to turn back and run to my old life, I knew that a door had shut and a dead bolt thrown. I could remain in limbo, churning and fearful, but I was ready to creep closer to the edge.
I nestled in my bed, which my mother had fitted with real sheets and a blanket. The sleeping bag was now rolled up and tucked next to the stack of unpacked boxes. As I slid under the sheets and lowered toward the pillow, I noted Mom had also gathered my dirty laundry today, washed, and left it folded in a neat stack at the foot of my bed. She loved me. She was doing her best to take care of me. And I loved her for it. So if I loved Mom so much, why did I care about Terry? Why wasn’t Mom enough?
Because she just wasn’t.
The frenetic pace I’d maintained all my life—the boyfriends, the demanding jobs, the trips—they’d all been about filling a hole I didn’t even want to acknowledge. And no matter how much I crammed inside my days, nothing was ever quite enough.
I really welcomed sleep tonight. I needed a quiet refuge from the day’s demands.
“You’re such a baby, Daisy.” Susie wore a white dress and dark braids secured with blue bows. She twirled in circles, waving her arms in an odd dance.
“I am not a baby.”
“Then prove it. Jump.”
I glanced over the edge of a cliff, which seemed to have no bottom. “I don’t have to prove anything to you.”
“Baby, baby, baby. Jump. Jump. Jump.”
Her teasing stoked frustration and anger. “Leave me alone.”
“Not until you jump!”
Irritated and angry, I gritted my teeth and with my gaze on the girl, I jumped.
• • •
Just after six the next morning, Henri stumbled while he was carrying a tray of unleavened bread. I heard the woof of air come from his lungs and turned in time to see him teeter forward. Thankfully I was close enough to grab the tray, save the dough, and steady him.
He met my gaze, and I saw a worried old man wildly searching the room, fearful that someone besides me might have seen his misstep.
I set the tray on the worktable. “She’s out front. She didn’t see.”
He righted himself and moved a trembling hand through thick, graying hair. For a moment, he did not say anything. Finally, he said, “She worries.”
A half smile tipped my lips. “I worry, too.”
“You are different.”
“Different? That has been the underlying theme in my life.”
“In your case, different is good. You are stronger.”
“I don’t feel so strong.”
He picked up the tray from the counter and carefully carried it toward the ovens. “I have contacted my cousin.”
I opened the latch to the oven. He slid the tray inside. “Your cousin?”
“From France.” He dropped his voice a notch, mindful that Rachel was just on the other side of the door. “Lyon.”
“Does he bake?”
“Oui. He bakes.”
“Did you tell him about this job?”
“I have not spoken to him yet. I have left word with his sister to call me. Sometimes he is hard to find.”
“What does that mean?”
“He travels.” His even tone didn’t hold the least hint of frustration.
I tried to maintain the same equilibrium. “So when do you think he’ll call you back?”
“Soon.”
“As in?”
“Soon.”
I ran nervous hands over my apron-clad hips. “Great.”
Henri met my gaze. “He will call.”
“Let’s hope, because I got nothing on my end when it comes to finding another baker.”
By ten A.M., the morning rush had left the store, and we could enjoy a small lull until the prelunch crowd showed. I’d grown to expect this quiet time and use it to check the register, restock, or take out trash. So when I heard the front bell jingle, I glanced up with more than just a little annoyance thumping in the back of my head.
It was Dad. He wore jeans, a white T-shirt that read UNION STREET BAKERY, a ball cap, and tennis shoes with new inserts ordered by Mom. I knew Dad didn’t like the shoes but he’d relented when Mom told him the shoes would ease the pinched nerves in his feet.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Kiddo, thought things would be slow. No matter how many years I work here, this is always the slow time.”
“Yeah. It’s nice.”
“How about you pour me a cup of coffee and give me a few cookies?”
“You’re not supposed to eat sweets.”
He winked. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“Sure.”
I filled a mug with hot robust coffee and plunked two sugar cubes and a dollop of cream into the mug. I slid it across the counter. “There ya go.”
He took the cup and sipped. “Thanks. I see you made changes to the menu.”
“Rachel was not pleased.”
“So I gathered.”
“Did she come running to you?”
“No, but it doesn’t take much to figure out what’s going on in this place.”
I grabbed a piece of paper and snapped up two sugar cookies, which I knew were his favorite. I handed them to him. “I told her she could cut whatever she wanted as long as she cut the line up by 15 percent. She did a good job but still kept that pumpkin bread, which never sells well.”
“It was one of Mike’s specialties.”
“Maybe in time she’ll learn to let it go.”
He bit into the cookie. “You’re an angel.”
I grinned. “That’s not what Margaret called me this morning.”
“She can be prickly when you pull her away from her books and broken pieces of pottery.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
He came around the counter and I had the odd sense that he’d just invaded my domain. I’d made the back office mine almost immediately but wasn’t sure when I’d decided the bakery had become mine as well.
“Why don’t you sit?” he said.
“I can talk and work.”
“You should sit.”
“Drives me nuts.” I grabbed a bottle of Windex and a handful of paper towels as I moved around the front of the display case. My old friend Tammy had come in again this morning, dragging a couple of kids who’d smeared my clean glass with their pudgy little fingers. “And as I remember, Mom could never g
et you to sit.”
“That was different. I had a family to support.”
“So do I.” I sprayed the cleaner on the blurry glass.
Dad frowned as he moved back around the counter. “I didn’t mean for you to take on all this. I know it’s not what you wanted.”
“It was never in the plan.” I wiped the smudge away with unnecessary ferocity. Maybe if I made the smudges go away, I could make Dad’s worried expression disappear. I didn’t like seeing him upset. “But plans change.”
He drank his coffee but didn’t eat his cookies. “You’re doing a yeoman’s job here, Daisy. You’ve stepped up and I appreciate it.”
“Happy to help.”
“So what are your plans once you get this place back on its feet?”
I stopped wiping. “You’re the first person who thinks this might not be forever.”
“I want you to do what you want to do. Life is too short.” He stared into his coffee. “I never planned on spending a lifetime here. I had dreams of going off to school.”
He’d never told me this before. “Why didn’t you?”
“My dad died. Someone had to step up and take over. My mother couldn’t do it alone. I was the only child.” There was no hint of self-pity as he stated the facts.
I’d never really thought of my father as a real person. He was just the guy who worked, who went all out with the Christmas decorations, and the guy who kept us safe. “I always thought that you loved this place.”
“I don’t love it, but I respect it. And I understand now that life isn’t about doing what you want to do but what you need to do.”
“That’s what I’m doing.”
His expression turned grim. “And that was okay for me, but it’s not okay for you. I want more for you.”
“If not me, then who? Rachel can’t do this alone, Dad. You and Mom have done enough. And Margaret, well, she’s a bit of a witch when she stays here too long.”
That tickled a smile. “How is Henri holding up?”
It didn’t surprise me that Dad had noticed Henri’s stooped shoulders and worn features. “He’s leaving at the end of June.”
Dad drew in a breath. “I’m not surprised. I know his back has been troubling him the last couple of years.”
I brushed a strand of hair away from my eyes with the back of my hand. “He’s holding on for Rachel.”
His lips flattened. “But now that you’re here, he’s leaving.”
I sprayed more cleaner on the glass and attacked another set of prints. “He says he has a cousin. He’s put a call in to him.”
“When will you know?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. But he says soon, and I trust him.”
He glanced around the room seemingly cataloging every crack and flaw. “That’s the thing about this place, it’s never satisfied. Just when you think you’ve done enough, it wants more.”
“I’m starting to see that.” I stared up at him. “Did you ever resent this place?”
“Sure. Probably more times than I could count in the early days. But it gave me a life, put a roof over my head and my family’s. And I’ve met a lot of good folks in this community because of the bakery. I met your mother here.”
“But it’s not what you wanted.”
“Maybe not in the beginning, but over time I stopped wondering where it ended and where I started. One door closes and another opens. That’s life.”
Nervous laughter bubbled inside of me. “I’m starting to feel that way.”
“You’re more like me than Rachel and Margaret. They’re like Mom.”
He meant that as a compliment but it irritated me for some reason. “The non-McCrae is the real McCrae.”
A deep frown creased his forehead. “You’re a real McCrae. Mom and I never thought otherwise.”
“I am, but I’m not. I am connected to a whole other family.” I could never say this to Mom. Her eyes would have filled with tears as her gaze looked away.
Dad, however, was more practical. Life had left him with little patience for shades of gray. “Then call that woman, Daisy. Ask her what the hell is going on.”
“I am.”
He studied me as if trying to peel the layers away. “When?”
“Soon.”
“Time to rip the Band-Aid off, Daisy, and see what you’ve got. If you don’t, you’ll never know.”
“What if it’s bad?”
“Better to know than spend the rest of your life wondering.”
Chapter Thirteen
Oh, you are so not going to believe what I found.” Margaret’s voice jumped through the phone when I answered it just after seven on Friday night.
I plopped on my bed and kicked off my shoes. I stared at my swollen feet. “What?”
“Pictures. I found pictures of the Randolph family.”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed. “As in the Randolphs mentioned in the diary?”
“One in the same.” She sounded quite pleased with herself.
I had to concede that when it came to all things historical, Margaret was gifted and driven. “Really? Where?”
“Digging through tons of files and archives. So are you coming over to see them or not?”
I glanced toward the window. The sun clung to the sky but it wouldn’t hold onto the light much longer. “Where are you?”
“At the Archaeology Center. The front doors are locked now but I’ll wait for you. Ten minutes.”
“Fifteen.” I scrambled swollen feet into clogs and grabbed a sweatshirt. Though the temps had hit the low eighties today, the spring air cooled quickly as the sun set. I moved down the attic stairs softly, not really interested in catching Rachel’s attention, which could trigger a Q&A session. Since Terry’s letter arrived, she’d seemed more motherly toward me. And right now the last thing I needed was another mother.
Through her door I heard the girls giggling and Rachel singing. Pausing, I listened as the trio managed a rendition of the “Itsy Bitsy Spider.” The peals of laughter triggered an unexpected tightening in my throat and I found myself longing for the connection that Rachel shared with her daughters. Their losses had bound them closer and I knew no matter how bad things got, Rachel would never leave her kids in a café bakery with a couple of cookies and a lousy, “Be a good girl.”
Drawing in a deep breath, I straightened my shoulders and headed down the remaining stairs. The cool air outside had me shoving hands in my pockets as I hurried down the uneven brick sidewalk along the waterfront. The orange-red sun had dipped in the sky casting a soft glow over the waters of the Potomac. Scattered sailing boats passed slowly through the shallow waters. Sails low, they searched for a place to dock for the night.
The Archaeology Center was located on the third floor of the Torpedo Factory. The Torpedo Factory earned its name because it had actually been a torpedo and munitions factory back in the ’30s or ’40s. Sometime in the early ’80s, it had been converted to an art center and now housed artists on all three of its floors.
I hurried north on Union Street toward the factory. Inside the large glass doors stood Margaret, her hands folded over her chest. Tense fingers drummed her forearms until she saw me, muttered something I couldn’t decipher, and opened the front door. “That was fairly fast.”
“I aim to please.” My voice echoed inside the large concrete building and bounced off the center foyer, which stretched up to the third floor. I had never taken the time to stroll through the hallways and visit the artists’ shops. It was one of those really-should-do things but it had never climbed far enough up the priority list to require action.
I followed Margaret up the metal center staircase to the Archaeology Center, which took up a better part of the north side of the third floor. The center’s glass walls gave passersby a view into the long white tables that held
displays of recent digs in the city. A large sign in one corner read SHUTER’S HILL and featured volunteers digging on a site near the Masonic Temple at the end of King Street. Margaret had said Shuter’s Hill was the site of an eighteenth-century home that volunteers and professionals were slowly unearthing. On the table were bits of pottery, buttons, doorknobs, and bricks.
There were older displays. One featured Civil War soldiers in Alexandria and another highlighted Jamison’s Bakery, which I’d been told had been one of Shaun McCrae’s biggest competitors in the 1850s.
Beyond the first set of white tables was a collection of photos that had been laid out in a long, neat row. The pictures varied in size from several inches in diameter to more than a foot in length.
“All those pictures are of the Randolph family?”
“Or people they knew. I’ve arranged them so that they tell a story.”
As I moved toward the table, I couldn’t help but admire Margaret’s dedication. “Damn, Margaret, there has to be two dozen photos here. Where did you find all these?”
She hooked her thumbs in her belt loop. “I put a 411 call out to my sources, and they really came through. Some come from private collections, others private museums, the Barrett Library’s collection, and, of course, our own files.”
Several of the old black-and-white photos were yellowed and had cracked or curled on the edges. Some looked so delicate that I was afraid to touch them. They stood testament to Margaret’s cache in the historical world. “You are amazing.”
“I know.”
Laughter bubbled. “One is never a prophet in their own land.”
“Exactly.”
Excited, I pushed up my sleeves. “So what do we have here? You said a story?”
“A story indeed.” She pulled dark framed glasses from her pocket, cleaned the lenses, and then settled them on her nose. “Let’s start at the photo closest to us.”
The man in that daguerreotype had closely cropped black hair parted severely on the right side. He had a high slash of cheekbones and vivid eyes that held no hint of laughter. He stared not directly into the camera’s lenses but off to the side as if he had been caught in a daydream. “A young man.”
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