Forgivin' Ain't Forgettin' (22 page)

The following night, the children in bed, Trevor did most of the talking after Cassidy accepted his invitation and sat again, her hand in his, on the back porch. He told her how he’d met Brenda and how Brenda had rejected his first six offers to take her out and what had happened when they finally did have their first date on Brenda’s fifteenth birthday. Trevor recounted some of the stupid things he and Kregg did as teenagers, and he talked briefly about how scared he’d been when he became a first-time father. He shared his future plans for a second Seconds, and finally, Trevor exposed his most embarrassing moment in life. She and Trevor laughed about it, their buoyant tones like musical notes meshing and shaping one happy sound under a postmidnight sky.

“Cassidy?” someone called from the sidewalk behind Cassidy.

She spun around. Grace stood a few feet away, dressed in a moccasin-brown pantsuit, sandals the same color as her clothing, and a smile that surpassed the temperature in warmth. Cassidy flashed a similar smile, and the two hugged like they’d been friends for years.

“Are you here to meet Trevor?” Grace asked. “He had business to take care of, and he’s not back yet.”

“That’s fine. I didn’t tell him I was coming by. I was out for a walk and decided to stop.”

“Well,” Grace offered, “come on in and have a cold drink on the house.”

Cassidy observed the large modern edifice. The tinted windows and revolving middle door gave it the face of a polished office building rather than a bakery, and Cassidy instantly recalled that this facility was once home to an insurance company. “I’ve never been inside Seconds,” Cassidy said.

Grace’s mouth fell open for a moment. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not much of a sweet-eater.”

Grace held the glass side door open, her eyes shining. “Welcome to Seconds.”

Outside, the aroma had been pleasurable. Inside the building, the aroma was simply divine, and Cassidy snatched quick puffs from the air, determined to give a name to the scent.

“Corn bread,” Grace revealed. “People come from all over the city for it. We make blueberry, raspberry, cinnamon raisin, maple pecan, and, of course”—she grinned—“plain ole corn bread.”

Cassidy strolled behind Grace, taking note of everything. The front half of the room housed little round tables and chairs. A pinball machine stood on the left, a jukebox to the right, and potted trees were decoratively placed. Paintings of families from various ethnic backgrounds lined the walls, as well as numerous culinary awards and photographs of many famous Philadelphians who had been patrons. A giant square of display cases filled with every type of baked good one could imagine sat in the middle of the bakery. An espresso-cappuccino machine and soft drink machine were near the registers. Workers, teenaged to seniors, uniformed in denim jeans, white shirts, and navy-blue baseball caps with the Seconds logo above the bill, hustled behind the counters. “How many people does Seconds employ?”

“Forty. We have bakers, decorators, dishwashers, porters, cashiers, and delivery personnel.” She opened and held the door of the kitchen so Cassidy could view the room of wall ovens, ten-burner ranges, mixers with bowls large enough to bathe a small child in, and walk-in refrigerators.

“Why is it called Seconds?” Cassidy questioned, pondering why she had never thought to ask Trevor.

“Take a guess,” Grace suggested.

“Your order is ready in . . .
seconds
?”

“No”—Grace chuckled—“you always come back for more.”

“Apparently,” Cassidy said, observing the long lines. At a display case, a little white-haired woman pointed to a round cake lathered with creamy yellow icing and crowned with a wreath of mint-green petals and vines. Cassidy gave the floral decorations a harder look. “Are those real?”

“They sure do look it, don’t they?” Grace waved a hand. “This way.” She led Cassidy to a room in the rear. Cassidy continued thinking about the cake. Trevor was right. Dessert artist
was
a fitting title for anyone who could decorate a cake with such precision and creativity. “This is our lounge,” Grace said. “Mr. Monroe wanted employees who were also students to have a quiet place to study before or after school. Some Saturday afternoons we rent this space for small birthday parties, and we supply a complimentary cake.”

The women climbed a narrow flight of stairs leading to the second floor. “Occasionally, Mr. Monroe ventures into the kitchen or jumps behind a register,” Grace chatted on the way, “but he mostly works behind the scenes now.” At the top of the steps, she pointed. “Our offices are on this level. She opened the second cherrywood door in a line of three. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

Counterclockwise, Cassidy examined Grace’s office, typical of many: one desk, several chairs, twin plants, and scattered pictures of family from desk to bookshelf to wall. The room had an air of kindliness. Much like the soul it belonged to, Cassidy mused.

While awaiting Grace’s return, Cassidy noticed two doors. The closest was ajar, so she peeked in, discovering it was a closet. She assumed the other door led to Trevor’s office. Since she knew he wasn’t in, the temptation to open the door and catch a glance of his room was getting the best of her. Another minute and she would have peeped in, but Grace emerged, clutching a tray that held two tall plastic cups and a small white paper bag.

“I brought sugar packets so you can sweeten your iced tea to your preference. There’s a corn muffin in the bag”—she jiggled her eyebrows—“in case you want to be adventurous.”

With a smile, Cassidy thanked Grace and sat in the armchair at the side of the desk.

Grace settled in the padded chair on wheels behind her desk. She crossed her legs and folded her hands atop her knee. “Trevor tells me you’re back to work.”

Cassidy pulled the cup of iced tea away from her lips. “Yes, I didn’t want to stay away from the children too long.”

“Getting back into routine after losing a loved one can be good, but make sure you do what you need to do to heal.”

“Yes, I am. I’ve already been to my first grief support meeting at the church.”

The phone beeped once, interrupting their conversation. “Excuse me,” Grace said, and pushed a button.

The beats of Cassidy’s heart ran closer together as she listened to Trevor’s smooth, low-key voice over the speakerphone. “I’m back in the office,” he said, and she found it too hard not to smile.

“I’d like you to call Rothwell Enterprises, please,” Trevor requested as Grace neared his desk. “Find out if they’re still interested in using us for Sam Rothwell’s birthday party.” He handed a disk across the desk. “Here’s that list of potential clients. Send advertisements out as soon as possible, please.” Trevor grinned, recollecting how intimidated Grace had been by the computer when she started. During the secretarial search, he’d received résumés from more qualified applicants, but Grace, a homemaker much of her adult life, had expressed the desire to do something different, and Trevor had wanted to give her the chance. “Also”—he stuck a fingertip in his ear and scratched—“I ran into Suzanne Holloway today. She was quite satisfied with the dessert bar we set up for that black-tie affair last month, and she wants to use us for her daughter’s wedding next Saturday.”

“Not much notice.”

“They want her married before she starts showing.”

Grace puckered her modestly shaded lips. “I see.”

Trevor leveled full concentration on the stack of baking catalogs that had come in yesterday. Flipping through one, he noticed that Grace was still lodged in place. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” she said, and smiled at him. “There’s someone here to see you.”

Trevor put down the magazine and picked up another. “I wasn’t aware of any appointments this afternoon.”

“It’s Cassidy, Mr. Monroe.”

Trevor faked interest in the cookie cutters on page 17 of
Better Baking
. Grace seemed to be waiting for him to say something. He didn’t, so she asked above the tangible hush, “Should I send her in?”

His head stayed bowed, and his voice held no emotion. “No, I’ll be over in a few minutes.” Grace remained unmoving and quiet, and he sensed her desire to ask questions. She finally turned and left him, closing the door behind her. Trevor unleashed the breath he’d been holding, put down the magazine, and swiveled around to stare through the large square window behind him. He drew his fingertips across his forehead as if he were trying to smooth out the lines, thinking he might be losing his mind. Cassidy had been consistently entwined in his thoughts since the funeral last week. He and Cassidy hadn’t known each other long, yet he felt as if he’d known her all along. And the more time they spent together, the more he wanted to spend with her.

He swung around and lifted the photo of Brenda from his desk. His head was congested with questions, and he began throwing some of them out to God.
Are the feelings I have for Cassidy the real deal?
Maybe he was just looking for a quick replacement.
Shouldn’t I wait a few years before getting involved with someone?
A three- to five-year interim following the death of a beloved spouse seemed honorable.

He placed Brenda’s picture alongside the one of his daughters. Minutes later, outwardly composed, Trevor penetrated the adjoining office. Cassidy was wearing the white denim dress he’d become familiar with, and he thought she looked as beautiful as the white carnations in the vase on Grace’s desk.

“Hi, Trevor,” she greeted warmly, and set aside her drink. “I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

Cassidy smiled at Trevor. Her smile was not returned, and she was sure she
had
disturbed him. “Your establishment is quite impressive,” she said, giving friendliness another try. Trevor’s expression remained closed, as did his mouth. Uncomfortable with the gaping silence, she felt obliged to fill it. “That’s a compliment coming from someone who’d rather have vegetables than cake, Trevor.”

Grace chuckled nervously. Trevor shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. “Thank you,” he said flatly.

Grace shot him with a look of chastisement before turning to Cassidy and softening the emotion in her eyes. “Well, now, you didn’t get to see everything.” Grace talked rapidly, as if she were trying to rescue Cassidy. “How about an inside look at how we get the cream in the puffs?”

The stern creases streaking Trevor’s forehead encouraged Cassidy to refuse. She smiled at Grace and said, “Perhaps another day.” Cassidy grabbed her purse and hurried to the door.

“Well, you’re always welcome to come by for a visit,” Grace said, her heels clicking behind Cassidy. “Don’t forget your muffin, love.” The bag passed hands as the phone rang. “That might be the call I’ve been waiting for.” She looked at Trevor as sternly as before, yet her tone held respect. “Why don’t you see Cassidy out?” she said.

“That won’t be necessary, Grace.” Cassidy marched out of the room and down the hall, her glare stamped upon the steel door in front of her.

“Don’t open that,” Trevor warned gently as she was about to push the handle. “It’s a fire exit. You’ll set off the alarms.”

Alarms were going off in Cassidy’s head. What an idiot she’d been. She hadn’t opened the door to her heart, but she had cracked a few of the windows by sitting with Trevor, holding his hand for a pair of nights, dishing out pieces of her life. And every night since, they’d stayed up late, talking at the kitchen table or on the front steps.

Cassidy had felt safe with him.

She was sure it had much to do with the type of person he was. Trevor was a quiet man. The way he handled his daughters, spoke his words, moved his body—all unassuming confidence and strength she admired. She remembered how initially she hated the unnerving way he could enter a room so inconspicuously. Now it was something she found utterly appealing.

And she had not ended up at his workplace today by chance. Wanting to see him and his business, she had come on purpose. During one of their late-evening conversations, Trevor had told her how hard he had worked to start Seconds and how it had flourished. She woke up this morning with the giddy urge to see it firsthand.

“Which way is out?” she bit into the air.

He turned into a narrow corridor and led the way. Stepping aside, he held the door. “These steps will take you down to the main floor. Make a left and go straight.”

Her hand on the banister, Cassidy stomped down the first three stairs before stopping, turning, and lifting her gaze. Her fire-and-vinegar stare tangled with eyes too dark to read. Angry words steamed inside her, but the will to vent them disappeared under a cloud of disappointment. She had thought Trevor was different, but she returned to her original assumption: Trevor was a jerk, no better than Larenz and Minister . . . and nothing at all like Dunbar.

chapter twenty-five

H
ouston sauntered through the entrance of Time Out, and Trevor waved him over to the booth.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” Houston instructed the waiter of the bar-and-grill restaurant. He slid onto the seat, looking to Trevor. “What are you having?”

Trevor lifted his glass. “Strawberry lemonade.”

“Strawberry lemonade it is, then.” Houston smiled at the young waiter.

Trevor passed Houston the small plate on the end of their rectangular table. “Help yourself to the appetizers.”

Houston’s grin looked hungry. “Grace would have a conniption if she saw me eating this stuff. Every meal I’ve had since our barbecue has been green, leafy, and taste-free. It’s been fourteen years since my heart attack, and I’m still under surveillance.”

Trevor hadn’t given Houston’s diet restrictions a thought when he ordered the appetizers. “When the waiter brings your drink, I’ll order you a salad.”

Houston laughed. “You’ll be the one eating it.” He forked two cheese-stuffed potato skins and several spicy chicken fingers onto his plate. “So to what do I owe the pleasure of this invitation?”

Trevor paused as the waiter served Houston’s drink. When they were alone, he said, “I’m having strong feelings for someone.”

Houston wiped his greasy fingers on a napkin and said, “Cassidy Beckett.”