“Then why so glum?”
“Guess the whole adventure was too much of a reminder of where I was and where I am.”
“Sucks to see what you want and know you can’t get it.”
The tone of her voice caught my attention. Was there a hint of sadness there? “Everything all right?”
She brushed away my concern with a casual wave. “Yeah, of course. It’s just since I didn’t get that job at Tulane or Boston I’ve been a little out of sorts.”
“What jobs?”
“I asked Mom not to tell. I was up for two full-time teaching positions. Neither panned out. But I’ve got more irons in the fire.”
“I never put much stock in a job because I’d always had the one I wanted. I get now what it feels like to lose a job you love. It kinda sucks.”
Margaret shook her head. “It sucks balls.”
We both burst out laughing.
“So you think you could get another job in finance?” she said.
A knot formed in my stomach and for a second I wondered if she’d guessed I had an interview. “I went a long way to pissing off a big fish today. It’s a small community and word spreads.”
Margaret snorted. “Rachel told me about Barbie Baker. I think I’d have punched him.”
“It did cross my mind.”
• • •
I couldn’t decide if I was a traitor, a sneak, or a savior as I hustled down the back stairs of the bakery, my hefty bag of work clothes clutched close. I stopped in a local fast-food place and changed in the ladies’ room. As I struggled with panty hose for the first time in three months, I really had to question my sanity. Real women did not have to go through this kind of BS to sit in on a job interview. But apparently women who were afraid of disappointing family and losing their love did.
Shoving swollen feet into heels, I winced and then straightened my skirt. I hustled out of the stall to the mirror and applied my makeup. Smoothing my hands over my skirt again, I looked in the mirror. For a moment I just stared a bit befuddled by the person looking back. It was the Old Daisy—or at least as close proximity as I could manage in a ladies’ room. I liked what I saw and that went a long way to calming my nerves.
A quick cab ride later and I was standing in the lobby of United Capital on Duke Street. My heels clicked on the marble floor as I moved toward the elevator and hit the Up button. Butterflies gnawed at my stomach as I thought about what I was going to say. I’d done my homework. I knew Ralph. I could make small talk, even regale him with stories from the bakery. It was all good. I felt great. Pretty much.
When the doors dinged open, I stepped inside the car, hit 10, and rode up in silence as the car rushed past the floors. Ten arrived, the doors opened, and I crossed plush carpet to a receptionist desk, where a young woman sat.
She smiled up at me. “Ms. McCrae.”
I was expected. A small detail that I’d taken for granted in my old life—but not now. “Yes. I’m here to see Ralph Denton.”
“He’s waiting for you in the conference room.”
“Thank you.” My portfolio tucked under my arm I followed the receptionist down the hallway. I moved deliberately slowly, shoulders back and chin tilted up. She stopped, nodded to an impressive door and left me alone. I knocked on the conference room door and Ralph, head bent over spreadsheets looked up. He grinned and motioned me inside.
I entered and smiled as he rose. “Ralph. It’s good to see you.”
He was a tall, lean man with thinning red hair and a ruddy complexion. One of the smartest guys in the industry, it did not surprise me that he’d landed a job after Suburban’s crash.
“Daisy. You are looking great.” He extended his hand. “Brad tells me you are managing your folks’ bakery?”
“I am.” I learned long ago, less was more. Ralph didn’t need to know I’d been drunk when I said yes or that I’d no longer been able to make my rent payment when Mom had called.
“And it’s going well.”
“It’s been great. Kinda takes me back to the days when I was a kid.”
He nodded. We made a little more small talk. I gave him my resume and a bakery card and then we discussed the particulars of the job: lots of travel, client servicing, long hours. And though we didn’t discuss salary, he hinted that it would be in the six-figure range.
“I like you, Daisy. I’ve always had nothing but great respect for you and if it were up to me you’d have a job offer now. But I’ve got partners and I’m going to need to talk to them.”
I’d have been shocked if I had walked out of there with a job. “That’s reasonable.”
“I’ll call you in a couple of days.”
“Great.”
“And if you’re wondering about timetables, be ready to start in a week or two.”
Next week: the Kushman wedding cake, the meeting with the oven mason, and the health inspector. And after that, Henri’s replacement, finding a manager who didn’t mind Dad’s hovering, Mom rearranging cookies, Margaret’s tardiness, and Rachel’s inability to remember where she put the latest receipt. “I’ll need time to wrap up bakery details so I’ll need some notice.”
He grinned. “That’s what I always liked about you, Daisy. You never leave a loose thread.”
“Thanks, Ralph.” I rose, shook his hand, and made as dignified an exit as I could. As I stepped onto the elevator, I smiled at the receptionist and watched the doors ding closed in front of me.
• • •
Ralph had said he’d call within a couple of days but he didn’t. It really wasn’t surprising, I kept telling myself. He was swamped. He was setting up a whole new company and he didn’t have time for every personnel issue. Whereas days could pass before he even thought about me, I thought about him every hour on the hour.
In the days since my interview, I had gone from excited to guilt-ridden to anxious to pissed. And by the time I met Margaret at Florence’s at precisely two P.M. on Sunday, I had decided Ralph wasn’t going to call. It was business, I told myself. It wasn’t personal. It was karma. I was willing to leave the bakery and my family. Damn.
Unlike me, Margaret was grinning from ear to ear and her cheeks were flushed. Her aura buzzed with excitement and I had to admit it felt good to see my sister happy.
Florence greeted us at the door as if we were old friends. “Well, isn’t this nice.”
She wore a white dress that gathered at the neck and then opened over her large breasts and full body. From a gold chain, a long thick cross dangled at her neckline.
Stockings remained in place but she’d kicked off her shoes.
“Excuse me, ladies, I’m running a bit late from a church luncheon. The deacon wanted to hold a prayer session for Miss Mabel, and it wouldn’t have been right for me to leave early.”
“Is this still a good time?” This was my attempt at politeness; in my heart of hearts, though, I didn’t care if the time was good or not. I wanted to go up into the attic and dive back into the past, which for now felt like the safest place to be. And I could sense by Margaret’s shifting stance behind me she was just as anxious. We both smiled, waited patiently just as Mom had raised us.
“The time is fine.” She peered around me at Margaret. “And seeing as you brought your sister again, you won’t need me climbing up in that attic to help. That young man coming again?”
Margaret grinned. “No. Hugo had some other gig today but he wished us luck. Daisy and I have strong backs and can manage the dirty work, Miss Florence. Why don’t you sit and rest a bit? We’ll give a shout if we find anything.”
“Suits me just fine, girls. My butt is still too fat and old to climb those stairs anyway. Care for some lemonade before you go up there?”
“Maybe after?” I suggested.
“Sounds good, baby. You two know the way.” She moved up the stairs to the second fl
oor and opened the door that led to the attic staircase. “Call out if you need me. Oh, and you may want to do some of your hunting in the back right corner. For some reason, I’m thinking that’s where you’ll find stuff of interest.”
“Thanks,” I said.
The instant the door to the attic was opened, a rush of musty, warm air washed over us. I didn’t get the sense of being greeted but of being warned that I don’t belong up here. The sensation almost made me smile. If something was up there looking for a fight, I was more than ready to mix it up.
We climbed the stairs and I jerked the chain and the bulb flickered on.
Margaret reached in her knapsack and pulled out two scuffed silver flashlights. “I assumed you forgot your light again.”
“Guilty.” I accepted the light. “Two points to the history geek.”
She clicked on her light. “I want to start digging.”
“Will do.”
A quick pass with the flashlights revealed the area that we’d cleared out the other day and then the other side that remained stuffed. We’d stayed away from that side the other day because the area was small with barely enough clearance for our heads. Clothes hung from the rafters and boxes, trunks and old furniture ate up just about all the floor space.
My light skimmed over more boxes. “So you think we’ll find more pictures?” I said.
“Worried about old Simon?”
“Not worried but curious.”
“No more woo-woo stuff at the bakery.”
“Not really.”
Margaret pushed past me and weaved through the boxes toward the back wall. “It would be so cool if he showed today. So cool.”
She’d yet to feel the thickening of the air, the rush of adrenaline and a racing heart as she pulled in a breath. “Yeah, cool.” Crouching, I followed. “So where do we start this time?”
“Like all good archaeologists. The top layer.” She set her light down on a box and opened the one next to it. “We’ll start with a general sort. See what’s in the boxes. If it’s of general interest, we’ll dig a little deeper. If it makes the cut, we’ll haul it downstairs.”
It was a plan, and I can do anything if I had a plan. Logic. Numbers. Plans. That was me. “Tell me what to do, boss.”
Margaret raised her head and smiled. “Boss. I do love the sound of that.”
There were only a few times in my life that I’d really appreciated Margaret. She had, after all, been put on this earth to torture me. But in this moment, I did appreciate her. I’d be a little bewildered without her. And life was never quite as interesting when she wasn’t around. “Don’t let it swell your head.”
“No. Never.” She dropped her gaze to the box and began to plow through what looked like clothes. Not ancient clothes but like a- couple-of-decades-old clothes. “This box is a no; 1960s stuff. We want much older.” She handed me the box. “Put it on the other side of the attic. We want to be methodical about this.”
I took the box. “Margaret and methodical. I never would have thought I could use those two words together.”
“Hey, you see me at my worst every morning. Most nights I’m up till two doing real work, and then I have to drag my carcass out of the bed to ring that register. Not my best time.”
“It’s a paycheck.”
She snorted. “Believe me, there are better ways to earn a living.”
I raised a brow. “Then why do you do it?”
For a moment, her hands stilled. “Same reason as you, Rachel, Mom, and Dad. You and I are more alike than you realize.”
An uneasy knot formed in my gut. “Please.”
“We’ve both given up lives we loved to work in the bakery.”
“I lost my job.”
“Don’t bullshit me or yourself. If you’d really wanted to stay in the industry, you could have gone to another city. There is work out there, but you’re not willing to relocate. You are tied to this area, like it or not.” She rummaged through the next box and closed it. “This is a no. More ’60s shit.”
I put the box aside. “I’m not saying you’re right about me. But you’re not exactly wrong, either. If ever I got back into the industry, I’d stay local.”
“If ever?” she said.
“Just saying.”
If not for the attic’s treasures, she might have picked up on the guilty tension rising in my body. Interviewing with Ralph was feeling akin to adultery.
But she was too lost in the past and kept digging into boxes and rejecting them. After about thirty minutes, I could feel the sweat trickling down my back and the dense, dusty air clinging to my skin.
“So how is it that Mabel would have had Susie’s diary? I haven’t seen the connection.”
“Remember, this is the Randolph house. More than likely, Susie hid the diary and someone along the way found it. Maybe it was Mabel.”
“Okay. Then what is the connection to us? It’s got to be more than she liked the bakery’s sweet buns.”
“I think that is the puzzle Mabel has left for us.”
I brushed my hair out of my eyes with the back of my hand. “Why not just tell us?”
“Where is the fun in that?”
“Would she really do that? Turn this into a game?”
“Maybe. Maybe she figured you wouldn’t sit and listen to what she said but you’d care more if you had to dig. Maybe she just couldn’t remember as well as she used to. Who knows?”
Despite it all, the search grew boring for me over the next hour. My back hurt and I was getting hungry. Margaret, on the other hand, was energized despite the mountain of misses. If I’d been alone, I’d have given up by the third box, but with her I was willing to stick it out—if not for my sake then for hers.
Twenty minutes and five boxes later, Margaret let out a low whistle that had me turning. “What does that mean?”
“It means I just found a box of letters that date back to the nineteenth century. They are from a woman named Sally Good, and she’s writing the letters to Shaun McCrae.”
“Our Shaun?”
“It’s addressed to McCrae Bakery.”
“Sally Good, the woman he married.”
She tapped her finger on the side of the wooden box. “That is correct.”
“How did they get here?”
“I don’t know. Yet.” Gingerly, she thumbed through the collection of yellowed envelopes. “I don’t think I can get back to my office fast enough to read these.”
“Don’t forget that Mabel’s nephews are rolling into town this week. This might be our only chance to dig and get what we can. Is there anything else in this area? That might be the first of several items.”
“Good point. You’re thinking like an archaeologist now. Very good.”
“I like to think I can adapt.” My energy returning, I held out my hands for the box. “Give that to me and keep digging.”
We rummaged for another two hours but most of what we found was furniture, knickknacks, lanterns, and picture frames.
When we came down the attic stairs after too many dusty hours, we’d hauled down all the boxes we’d inspected and then found Florence sitting at the kitchen table sipping her lemonade. She’d changed into a blue housecoat and traded her white low heels for house slippers. A small television on the kitchen counter blared a televangelist’s sermon. When the floorboards creaked under our feet, she glanced up from the screen.
With a groan, she pushed to her feet. “I was thinking you two might have gotten lost up there.”
“Lots of stuff up there,” I said. “We hauled down a good many boxes and left them in the hallway.”
“Good. Got to be a lot. There’s a lifetime or two of memories.” Florence’s gaze dropped to the box in Margaret’s hands. “Looks like you found something.”
“We did,” I said. “A box of lett
ers from a woman named Sally Good.”
Florence shook her head. “Can’t say as I know that name.”
“We’ve not had time to read them,” Margaret said. “But we think she was the woman who married our great-great-grandfather.”
Dark brows rose in interest. “That so?”
Margaret’s blue shirt was covered in dust and sweat. I glanced in the glass-paneled door and caught a hint of my reflection. Like Margaret, I looked like I’d been dragged through the mud. My hair stuck up and my shirt was covered in dirt smudges. We resembled Thelma and Louise after their lives had gone wrong.
“I was hoping you would allow us to take them back to the center so we can read them properly,” Margaret said.
“Keep them for all I care,” she said. “Those nephews are gonna toss or sell what’s in this house, and I’d rather know that they went to someone who cares about them.”
“Thanks,” I said. I thought about all that was up in that attic. “When did you say the boys were coming?”
“Tuesday.”
“I don’t think we’ll be able to get by again,” I said.
Margaret knitted her hands as if in prayer. “Yeah. Darn.”
“Well, if they happen to haul anything down of interest, I’ll pull it aside.”
“Thanks,” Margaret said.
“I do appreciate it.”
“Mabel wanted you digging for a reason, so it seems right I should help if I can.” She clapped her hands together. “Now, let me get you girls lemonade and sandwiches. You’ve got to be hungry. Maybe you could read me one of those letters.”
My stomach grumbled.
Florence laughed. “Sit yourselves down.”
As Florence poured the lemonade, I watched as Margaret gingerly pulled out a letter. The faded ivory envelope was yellowed around the edges and the pages crinkled when she pulled out the first page.
“I really shouldn’t be touching this,” she said. “I should have gloves.”
“I got my white church gloves,” Florence offered as she stirred the lemonade in the glass pitcher.
“Actually, that would be great,” Margaret said.
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