Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) (3 page)

“Which reminds me, you cut up my food last night.”

Rachel's laugh held a hint of apology. “Sorry.”

And still she didn't leave.

I pulled the rubber band from my hair, finger-combed it, and then gathered it into a smoother ponytail. “Really, I can pee on my own.”

Rachel traced the rim of her cup and with each turn of her finger her smile faded. “Daisy, I know you don't want to be back. I know this has really got to suck for you.”

I smiled but sensed the effort looked more like a grimace. Faking nice has never been one of my specialties. “Am I that obvious?”

“You are—to me. I think you fooled Mom and Dad well enough.”

“They wanted to be fooled. It was easy.”

Fresh tears glistened in Rachel's eyes. “I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

She wrung trembling hands. “For not being able to keep this place afloat by myself. If I could, you'd be somewhere else.”

“Come on, Rachel, don't cry. I hate it when you cry.” I half expected Mom to bust through the door.
“Daisy, did you make your sister cry again?” “And yeah, I'd be somewhere else. I'd be in an apartment I can no longer afford, and I'd still be jobless. You did me the favor.”

“You don't believe that.”

“I do.”

“Keep saying it out loud and you might believe it.” Rachel swiped away a big, fat tear.

“Stop crying.”

“You know me. I cry over spilled milk.”

“Hey, this could be fun.” A small lie that supported the greater good wasn't so bad, was it?

“It's just since Mike died, I've been doing so much by myself.”

“No more worries. Daisy to the rescue.” I had the sinking feeling that my temporary arrangement with the bakery had just been extended. “Just remember the baking gene skipped me. You'll need to tell me what to mix. I can burn toast.”

That seemed to buck her up a bit. “Who knew flames could shoot that high out of a toaster oven?”

“Don't forget the flaming cheese when I cooked pizza from scratch.” As a teen I'd gained a reputation as a terrible cook. The description had stuck, and though I really had improved over the years no one in the family had really noticed. In their mind I would forever be Daisy, burner of all things edible.

A laugh eased some tension from her shoulders. “Right.”

“Hey, I know my fractions, and I can add and subtract. You stay close for the finesse part of the work, and I'll do the heavy lifting. Between the two of us we're a decent baker.”

“I can do that.” Rachel swiped another tear and straightened her shoulders. A hint of her trademark smile reappeared. “I can do that. I can do that.”

“See? All better.” I patted her on the shoulder, but my hand was stiff and my touch a little too hard. “Now, Rachel, please leave because I really, really have to pee.”

Chapter Two

H
enri, a short willowy man with stooped shoulders, hovered by a large mixer, watching patiently as the large dough hook twisted and molded the dough. His gnarled fingers gripped a handful of flour, which he randomly sprinkled into the stainless steel bowl. What looked haphazard to me, however, was not at all arbitrary to Henri.

Like any master baker, Henri read dough as easily as I read the paper. Too much water? Too humid? A bad batch of flour? Henri knew. When I was a kid, I had been fascinated by the fact that he never went by any written recipe or used measuring cups. I would stand in the corner just a little afraid to talk to the silent man who never mingled with the family and watch him dump his ingredients into the large mixing bowl. I once screwed up the courage to ask him how he knew what to do, when. For a long moment he didn't answer or move his gaze from the dough, and then he'd shrugged and said,
“Je sais.”
I know.

“Henri,” I said, clearing the gravel from my voice and trying not to sound like he still intimidated me a little.
“Que pasa?”

He raised his gaze, and his brow arched as he stared at me. I half imagined he was glad to see me, and then he grunted a greeting before returning to his dough.

Others might have been offended by Henri's abrupt, almost rude response. But I wasn't. In fact, I drew comfort from it. So many people have changed on me, disappointed me, or let me down, but never Henri. I can always count on Henri to worry more about his dough than polite “Good Morning”s
.

I sat my cup down on the large stainless worktable and picked up a white apron hanging from a hook. As I slipped the apron over my head and crisscrossed the ends around my waist, I had a moment of pure panic.

God, please tell me this is a joke!
I was not unemployed or living in my parents' home or working in the family business. I had not gone full circle into a brick wall. Had I?

“I know that look,” Rachel said as she slipped on her apron and tied a crisp bow in the front.

I couldn't even muster a fake smile this go-around. “You mean the look of blinding panic.”

“Exactly.”

For years I surrounded myself with people who didn't really know me, so it was a little unnerving now to be around someone who knew me a little too well. “I won't bolt. I made a promise. I'll see it through.” Gritty determination laced the final words as if someone had just yanked a thorn from the bottom of my foot.

“You know we've all bet on how long you'll last.” She smiled but her eyes harbored a hint of desperation that broke my heart a little and ensured I would not run this time.

Casually, I moved toward the small stainless sink, turned on the hot water, and pumped soap from a dispenser. I washed my hands. “No huge surprise there. Dad turns everything into a bet or a race.”

Rachel moved beside me and washed her hands. “You do have a reputation for frequently changing jobs and boyfriends.” Her tone projected more simmering worry and fear.

“So how do the bets look?” I grabbed a freshly laundered towel from the laundry stack, dried my hands, and tucked the towel under my tied apron strings. Through the course of the day, I'd use a dozen towels like this one, not only drying hands, but also wiping down countertops or cleaning dishes.

“Mom says a month. Dad says two. Margaret says two days.”

“Two days?” My older sister and I have been oil and water since day one. She was five when I was adopted, and for reasons I can't explain she always resented my presence. “That's wishful thinking on her part.”

“You know Margaret. She was ruler of the house until you came along. You've usurped her authority at every turn.”

“I enjoyed rattling her cage.” Even if this place burned to the ground this morning, I would stay on-site working for more than two days if only to spite Margaret.

“You think?”

Margaret was a problem that I didn't have to face until seven
A.M.
, and for now I refused to consider the battles to come. “So what kind of bet did you place?”

“A year.”

“That's optimistic.” I didn't even try to hide the surprise. If I'd bet, I'd have wagered three months, tops.

“This is a good place for you, Daisy. You just don't believe it yet.”

I grunted, Henri style. “You really think I'll last a year?”

“I think you'll last longer. This is where you belong.” A sheepish smile undercut her light tone. “Plus, I'll need a good year of solid help to get myself together.”

My mind suddenly tripped back to my first days at the bakery. It couldn't have been long after Renee left. I'd been crying. So lost. And Rachel had gotten out of the twin bed next to mine and given me one of her Barbies to hold. I hadn't wanted the doll. In fact, I think I threw it on the floor. But I'd never forgotten that she'd tried.

“I don't know if I belong but if it takes a year to get you settled, it takes a year. I said I'd stay until you found real help, and I will.”

Damn Barbie.

Shoving aside the sharp prick of emotion, I focused on the workroom and took a moment to look past the shine of the stainless. Neat as a pin didn't hide the room's age. The state-of-the-art equipment my parents had installed thirty years ago now looked dated and tired.
Rode hard and put away wet
came to mind. “How's the equipment running?”

“It gets the job done.” Rachel moved toward the large industrial refrigerator and pulled out an armload of butter.

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“Sometimes I have to tinker and cajole to keep the motor running on the big mixers, but they still keep spinning.”

Closer inspection revealed nicks and scratches in the stainless patina. A dent in the side of the large mixing bowl was evidence that it had been dropped, and I could imagine Rachel trying to single-handedly heft the bowl. Full of dough, it easily weighed over a hundred pounds. The image fueled my guilt at not having done something earlier. “We should get someone in here to have a look at the equipment?”

Henri grunted but did not raise his head.

“Is that a yes or a no, Henri?” I asked.

Rachel hoisted a thirty-pound bag of flour. “It's a yes. But repairs cost money.”

“It may be necessary, no matter what it costs.” I glanced at the stainless modern ovens for baking cakes, which looked to be in decent shape. But a glimpse at the brick oven was another matter. This was the oven we used to make our breads. It's the oven that added a flavor few other bakers in the region could match. It was what distinguished Union Street Bakery Bread from the stuff on grocery store shelves.

Chunks of mortar were missing from the oven's sides, and the cast-iron door was rigged closed with a wooden spoon.

In a low voice, Rachel added, “Henri says he does not want to learn how to use a new oven. He likes his oven.”

“Does Henri not speak for himself anymore?” I whispered.

Rachel's gaze was so serious. “He never talks when he bakes, don't you remember?”

My gaze flickered from the stone oven to Henri, who'd always seemed strong. Now when he turned sideways, I could see how slim he'd become and that the perpetual hunch in his shoulders looked more like a hump.

Henri and his stove didn't have as much time as Rachel hoped. Like the mixer and the oven, I sensed he was hanging on only for Rachel.

One last gulp of coffee wasn't nearly enough fortification, but I set down the cup. “God help me, I'm going to work. You said bread first?”

Rachel grinned. “Then bagels, cakes, and cookies.”

•   •   •

Two hours later, I stood in the center of the basement bakeshop covered in flour. My back ached from hefting bread dough from the industrial mixer that mixed forty pounds of dough at a time. The repetitive motion of forming more bagels than a single human should have to produce in a day left my fingers stiff and cramped.

Rachel looked cool and composed as she hummed, as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Even Henri looked a bit younger and a little less hunched than he had hours ago.

I realized that the invisible burden had been lifted from their shoulders and placed squarely on mine. Everyone really believed that my presence was going to save the day. God help us all.

My dough-shaping efforts were a sad attempt compared to Henri's and Rachel's practiced efficiency. My work was the work of a novice, not a bakery savior.

I didn't want to be a savior. I wanted my air-conditioned office back. The office door that closed so easily. I wanted to look out the window that didn't open and overlooked the bustling street in D.C. I wanted to run and hide. But this was my family . . . my
only
pack. And the idea of letting them sink terrified me more than working here.

“This is God's curse,” I said, tossing another round of dough on a sheet.

Rachel arched a brow. “What do you mean? Together we move four times as fast as I did with Dad.”

Using the back of my forearm, I brushed aside wispy strands of hair from my eyes. “I can't believe you do this every day.”

“It's not so bad once you get used to it. And in time, you'll see that all we do here has a real Zen quality.”

The last time I'd heard talk like that was when I'd paid money for a yoga retreat. After a few hours of deep breathing and chanting, I'd slipped out the back and gone home to have a beer. “Zen. Shit.”

Henri grunted.

Rachel laughed and hummed as she opened the large stainless refrigerator and pulled out several more pounds of butter so they could warm and soften before mixing. “You'll see the art once you've tasted the bread. In fact, you will stop hating bread once you've tasted USB bread.”

“I don't hate bread. I love bread. I had a bagel a few months ago.” The markets had rallied and it appeared Suburban would survive. The bagel had been my mini-celebration. “Bread just doesn't love me back.”

“How can you say that? Of course it loves you. You've turned your back on bread because you are rebelling against this place.”

“It's not a rebellion thing. It's a jeans-that-have-grown-too-tight-to-zip kind of thing.”

Her eyes sparked with challenge. “Did that bagel taste as good as mine?”

“No. Too doughy, as I remember.”

Her gaze narrowed as she seemed to flip through the baking process. “No doubt they rushed the cooking time.”

“I didn't double back and question them.”

“You should have. Always good to know what the competition is doing.”

“They aren't my competition.”

“They are now.”

Responding to that comment suggested I was really a baker, and I had not made that leap yet. “At the time, I never gave any thought to the lady behind the bagel counter or the poor slob locked in the basement grinding the bagels out.”

Rachel's laugh rang clear and bright. “And now you are that poor slob.”

“I'm in hell.”

•   •   •

By seven, the earthy fragrance of freshly baked bread perfumed the shop. The front display cases burst with breads, cookies, and pies. The place was transformed from a dark cold space to a warm inviting retreat that beckoned those who passed. Rachel had done this. She had brought the sunshine.

Rachel flipped the
CLOSED
sign to
OPEN
as I wiped the flour from my palms onto my apron. I should have been enjoying this moment of peace sandwiched between the morning baking and the rush of the day's first customers. But butterflies chewed at my gut with ravenous voracity. At Suburban, I'd shouted down my fair share of brokers, consultants, and traders and never broke a sweat. So why was I so freaked now?

I moved out to the patio. I opened the umbrellas, wiped off the tables and chairs, and pulled out the planter. The dewy street was quiet, but the nearby rumble of trucks and honk of horns told me the city was awake. I remembered that our first customers, if they weren't waiting outside for us to open, arrived minutes after opening.

Our regular customers had deep ties to the area. Many lived in the historic town houses that lined the narrow cobblestone streets or worked in the retail shops that dotted the blocks near the waterfront. A good many had grown up starting their day with Union Street Bakery bread. Dad had said the number of customers had dwindled in recent years; the lure of low-carb diets and inexpensive grocery store bread had hit USB like a one-two punch.

I moved back into the store and stood directly behind the counter, where it felt just a little safer. I hadn't stood behind this counter since the summer before college, seventeen years ago, and I wasn't looking forward to doing it today. In a small community like Alexandria, comments about my return, which I'd no desire to field, would be unavoidable.

I retied the strings of my apron and smoothed my hands over my hips as Rachel pushed through the saloon doors. “Where is Margaret? I thought she was supposed to work the front counter.”