From Scratch (7 page)

As he passed the police station, a piece of plywood, awkwardly nailed over the broken glass, shifted his prayer to a few thanksgivings for the day and the previous evening. The puzzle pieces didn't fit for him. Why would someone deliberately break in to a police station and not take anything? He was a little anxious to discover the answer. He always did like a good mystery. There were so few in Gibson's Run, he was worried it would take a few days to shake the rust off his gold shield. He hoped his long unused skills wouldn't hamper the investigation. Whoever chose to attack the police station deserved justice, and he wanted to be the man to serve it with a lock and key.

He closed his prayer with an “Amen” as his gaze shifted to Only the Basics and his thoughts settled on the shop's owner. After the previous evening's chaos, he hoped she wasn't freaked. As irritating as she could be, he would hate to have to search for another baker to come to town. Although he could likely find a tenant less demanding, he doubted he could find one who could bake as well as Maggie.

He glanced down at his watch and wondered how early she clocked in to begin prepping for the day. Crossing the street, he closed the half of a block from the station to the bake shop in under a minute.

The front of the café was dark, but he saw a flicker of light from the kitchen area in the back. Turning down the side alley, he made a quick right behind the building. The crunch of gravel beneath his feet filled the stillness of the parking lot as he slowed to a walk, allowing his breath to settle.

The backdoor handle reflected a dull shine from the single security lamp posted on the opposite end of the lot. He cranked the knob to the left and shoved open the door, silently berating Maggie for not locking the dead bolt. Hadn't he just warned her that someone had tried to break into the shop? Wasn't a near bombing across the street enough to be vigilant?

He closed the door with a click and followed the fresh aroma of baking bread. He took a single step in the direction of the kitchen, intent on giving her the stern reminder about adhering to upped security measures. But his heart was stunned into silence by the angelic tones wafting over the scent of the bread and the notes filled his spirit with an otherworldly melody. He moved toward the sound; the music grew more intense and vibrant with each step.

Through the doorway of the kitchen, Maggie's shoulders rolled as she kneaded the dough on the marble slab. The rhythmic movement was one he had witnessed much of his childhood when his mother stood in nearly the same spot. But Mom never sang like Maggie. No one ever sang like Maggie.

He leaned his shoulder against the door frame, lacing his arms, and listened.

Her voice was full and rich; she hit notes that sounded as if they'd been transported from the original Christmas Eve angels' choir when Christ was born.

He recognized the song from a musical he endured during a trip to New York years earlier. His girlfriend at the time thought he needed to be culturally aware. Three rows back, he'd achieved cultural awareness via osmosis. But if the lead that night had a voice like Maggie's, snoring would have been the last thing on his mind.

She lost herself in the final bars, tilting her head back as if she were singing for God alone. When she finished, she dropped her head for a moment and then began leisurely kneading the mass of dough, a hum still softly slipping through her lips.

He stood frozen, reveling in the music swimming through him before he clapped his hands in a steady tempo.

She spun, a stray, curl falling from her bun across her forehead.

His hands stopped mid-clap.

Stark terror shone in her gaze.

He stepped toward her and stopped midstride as a quick glimmer off the large chef's knife in her right hand caught his eye. “Whoa. Maggie, it's OK.”

She held the knife steady, pointed directly at his heart, not flinching at his words.

He shoved back the black hood of his sweatshirt, taking another step toward her. “Maggie, it's me. It's Sean.” His voice sounded soft and smooth to his ears in complete opposition to the pounding of his heart. “We're friends, now. Remember?”

Her hand held steady, her face washed in the gray tone of fear; her eyes nearly black as her pupils expanded against her clear, blue irises.

His gaze locked with hers, trying to find his Maggie inside the house of horrors where she had disappeared. He shuffled closer to her, his hands raised in submission. She could easily thrust her knife in his belly. He was willing to take the risk. He trusted her. He needed to get her to trust him. “Maggie…”

Her head tilted to the side. The blade of the knife tipped toward the ground. “Sean?”

A silent moan escaped his lips. He cautiously laid his right hand on her shoulder and removed the knife from her slack grip with his left hand. Setting the knife toward the back of a wire shelf, he kept his focus trained on Maggie's downturned face. With a slight nudge, she slid limply onto the step stool beside the baker's rack. He squatted in front of her and took her hands, gently rubbing the backs with his thumbs.

She dropped her focus to her pinstripe, black cotton chef pants.

“Do you want to talk about it?” His voice was low.

She lifted her gaze to his. The pain etched in the crystal blue depths of her eyes twisted his heart. What had happened to her?

She shook her head and rolled her shoulders. The corner of her mouth curled. “I'm fine. You just startled me.”

“Someone who's startled throws flour in the air or screams. She doesn't pull a knife on someone with the intent to slice his belly.”

Yanking her hands from his protective grasp, she forced him back on his heels as she shot up. She swiveled toward the pile of dough and began banging and punching as if she were in a self-defense class. “What are you doing here, anyway? You shouldn't be sneaking up on people when bombs are going off in the neighborhood. That's just rude.”

Sean stood, his gaze trained on her back. How had she gone from singing angel, to scared rabbit, to outraged she-cat, in barely a heartbeat? “My question, first…what's going on with you, Maggie?” He crossed his arms.

Silence hung in the room punctuated by her rhythmic pummeling of the dough. Her back was taut with pressure as she kneaded.

He leaned against the shelves. He could wait. He was a patient man. His patience had helped him break more than one squirrelly witness. A hot-tempered baker should be a snap.

~*~

The simple question hung in the air. His gaze drilled holes in her back. His voice, sharp with the edge of police steel, sliced through her mind as his question danced through her seeking an answer partner.

She fought to control the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. What could she say? Oh, sorry about the knife. I thought you were the maniac who used to track my every move. He was released from prison. It's got me a little jumpy. You understand, right? No harm. No foul. Have a nice day. Yep, that would do it. Sure, right after he kicked her out of the shop and apartment for being a whacko who attracted stalkers.

To be fair, there was only one stalker and she was fairly certain he didn't know where or who she was anymore. She sucked in a deep breath. Between the attempted break-in Sean mentioned a few nights ago at the bakery and the explosion at the police station last night, she felt herself slipping into old patterns, jumping, screaming and apparently pulling knives with every creak and noise in the shop.

This morning, when she was fully given over to singing for The Lord, her defenses were down and she had panicked with the first clap.

A knife? Really? How was she going to wiggle out of that brilliant move? She sighed. Eventually, she needed to face him. The dough was nearly smooth to her touch. She wouldn't be able to hide behind it much longer or she would have to trash the whole batch for over-kneading.

He wasn't moving. Why couldn't he be like other men who stomped off when she ignored them? Why did he have to be special?

She patted the dough and stretched to lift the damp dishcloth draped across the sink. Wiping the residue flour from her hands, she centered her mind, trying to convince herself that thick framed glasses weren't still superimposed over Sean's face. Be brave. Just take a peek. You can do it. She twisted the damp cloth between her hands as she turned, slowly raising her gaze. Peace washed over her like a tidal wave.

No glasses.

Only Sean. He didn't look happy. Not mad or angry. He looked resolute. Leaning casually against the tall baker's rack, his arms were crossed loosely over the logo embroidered on his sweatshirt.

Even now, when she was trying to think up a viable excuse for her crazy-lady-wielding-a-knife routine and her world seemed to be slowly cracking like the top-crust of her zucchini bread, she couldn't help the slight clench of her stomach at his handsome face.

Why did his heart have to shine through his melty, chocolate-brown eyes? She'd never been able to resist chocolate.
Shield up, sister. You can't afford any extra calories today.
She stretched her mouth wide, laced her arms over her stomach, and lifted her shoulders in a quick shrug. “Thank you for your concern. But there really isn't anything to discuss. I got spooked. What with the bomb last night and all. I wouldn't actually have cut you.”

He uncrossed his arms and took a step toward her. “You could have fooled me.” A slight grin tugged at his mouth.

“I've been on my own for a long time. A girl needs to at least appear as if she can defend herself.” She turned from his intense stare, praying he couldn't read the fibs fumbling out of her mouth. She flipped the hot water lever and placed her hands directly under the steady stream, scrubbing her hands with intensity.

Sensing him directly behind her, his presence a tangible reality, she didn't turn. Her carefully constructed veneer would shatter if she faced him again. One look into those eyes and her wobbly constitution could topple like Humpty-Dumpty. And, she didn't have a single king's man on speed dial.

Butter. Sugar. Bake. She needed to bake something, to create something rich and decadent. The intake and the sharing of heavenly loaded caloric gifts was always a cure for patching up the cracks in her life. She knew only God could give her the ultimate tending, but, for a momentary fix, she couldn't pass up a delicious alternative starting with butter and sugar.

Sean's hands rested lightly on her shoulders, giving her a gentle squeeze. His touch was reassuring, not romantic, but she welcomed the tender pressure. With the weight of his hands, the tension of the last few moments eased from her body.

“I will leave you to your work.” With a light pat on her shoulders, he stepped away. “Although, it appears you can take care of yourself. I'll lock the back door on my way out. Something you should remember to do.”

The door wasn't locked? She shut her eyes and swallowed the bile rolling up her throat.

His running shoes squeaked as he made his way toward the back exit. The squeaking stopped at the doorway.

She held her breath. Keep going. Keep going. Please don't ask me why. Her self-preservation was nearly spent. One understanding look from those soulful brown eyes and she would spill faster than a corporate whistle-blower. And then, she would have to vanish. Again.

“Be careful today,” he said. “I don't want any unnecessary knife fights on my hands. I like my town nice and quiet.” There was a chuckle in his voice as he retreated.

With the soft click of the lock, she released a breath. A burning sensation registered in her muddled brain and she yanked her reddened hands from the now scalding water. She leaned against the stainless steel sink and tears streamed down her cheeks as she laid back her head and prayed. “Will it ever just go away, God? Will I ever be free?”

~*~

Sean jiggled the handle to make sure it was locked before taking a short cut to his small 1920's home on Maple Street. His run through town would have to wait until tomorrow. His detour had taken more time than he'd anticipated.

After all these months, nothing should surprise him when it came to Maggie McKitrick, but knife-wielding-freak-out was one he hadn't anticipated. Her excuse that she was “spooked” seemed somewhat reasonable, but the cop in him never was satisfied with the obvious answer. Six months ago, a wall of red-tape and a lily-white rap sheet greeted him when he ran a background check on her. He had waivered on signing the lease, but Jane gave him the my-puppy-just-died look and he handed the keys over to Maggie. Now, he wasn't so sure that had been the best choice.

He slid his key into his front door. A twig snapped in the near distance. He yanked the key from his door and leaped over the railing of the front porch. He jogged down the side of the house, careful to keep his steps soft and virtually silent. Approaching the rear of his house, he pressed his back against the wide, wooden siding, determined to surprise whoever was skulking around his property. Slowly, he slid around the corner of the house.

His neighbor's cat, Fred, was sprawled across the backdoor mat, as he tried to scratch an unseen itch.

His heart slowed. “Hey Fred.”

The white and tan tabby, whose belly revealed pink flesh between cracks of fur, tilted his head to the side before he resumed his intense scratch.

“Guess you're my prowler.”

The incident with Maggie must have affected him more than he thought. One little knife and he was jumping over railings at the sound of a snapped twig like he was a TV cop rather than a small town chief. Stepping over Fred, he jerked open the screen door and slid his key in the back lock. He needed to think like the rational, well-trained detective that he was. His intruder may have been Fred, but something was needling his instincts. Something wasn't right in Gibson's Run. He could feel it. And his gut told him that something started with his pretty little tenant.

The door slammed as he jogged up the narrow back staircase. He needed to take a shower and get to the station. It was time for him to do some real investigative work again.