Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) (9 page)

Chapter Five

T
he alarm bellowed loud, like an army drill sergeant jarring me awake. Blindly, I reached for the phone, pressed the dismiss button, and dropped back against the pillow. I lay very still for a moment or two, savoring the warmth of the covers in the chilly room. Hoping I'd set the alarm for the wrong time, I rolled on my side and peered at the glowing numbers on the phone's display: three twenty-nine. Damn.

Yesterday, adrenaline had prodded me through the day. Much like the first day of school, the entire experience felt like one big novelty. Today, however, reality hit home with a painful force, making me yearn all the more for what I'd had at Suburban.

A year ago today, I'd been living in Gordon's neat, clutter-free, brand-new condo. Unlike my current digs, Gordon's place boasted all that was modern. Polished chrome fixtures winked in the overhead light, and his pipes didn't rattle when I turned on the hot water tap. A soft beige carpet covered the floors, and there wasn't an uneven, creaky hardwood floor to be found. No drafts chilled me when I slept, and direct and indirect lights offered generous illumination, unlike my attic room's miserly bulbs.

Most mornings at this hour we were where any sane people would be—in bed. Gordon would lie beside me, nestling his body against mine. I liked the feel of his coarse chest hair tickling my skin, and the feel of his erection flickering to life and pressing against me. He'd wake, kiss me on the shoulder, my neck, my ear . . . The heat would rise in me, swift and hot, and I'd roll over, wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him on the lips. His touch would gain urgency and his kisses would travel to my chin, the hollow of my neck, my breasts . . .

In those warm, cocooned moments, the barriers dropped, pretense vanished, and the chaos stilled.

After we'd made love, we'd drift back to sleep entwined in each other's arms. Most mornings when my alarm sounded at six, Gordon would already have showered, dressed, and left for work. I'd lie in bed, his scent still clinging to my body until I'd reluctantly rise and step into the shower.

Now as I lay on the pull-out sofa, the heavy weight of loneliness settled on my chest, crushing the breath in my lungs and conjuring an ache in my throat. I stared at the play of shadows on the peeling plaster ceiling. Weighted by fatigue and sadness I wondered if I'd ever feel light again. I'd not really spoken to Gordon since last October. I'd been packing the last of my clothes and moving for good out of his apartment. He'd come home early and surprised me. That meeting had been awkward and tense, choked with barriers and pretense. We'd continued to work together for several more months but we'd skillfully avoided each other.

Shit.

Another failure.

Another regret.

I rolled out of bed, flipped on the lamp by my sofa bed, and swiped away a stray tear. The cold wood floor prodded me to move so I quickly slipped on yesterday's jeans, a fresh T-shirt, and my clogs, which were still dusted with flour and smelling of cinnamon and sugar.

Suddenly, the chaos that awaited me in the bakery didn't seem so daunting. In fact, I welcomed it. At least in the bakery I didn't have time to think.

I shoved aching fingers through my hair and padded toward the bathroom, negotiating around the untouched boxes and bags, brushed my teeth, tied back my hair, and splashed warm water on my face. I was halfway down the attic staircase when Rachel rounded the corner, two cups of coffee in hand. Her smile wasn't the 100-watt perky kind of smile that was trademark Rachel.

Accepting the cup, I studied the shadows under her eyes and reminded myself that she was only thirty-four, a widow with two small children and a business that teetered on ruin. “Rough night?”

She shrugged as if to say all was well but the gesture was stiff. “Ellie is getting a cold. She didn't sleep well.”

My long fingers wrapped around the mug and greedily accepted the warmth. “Where is she now?”

“She finally fell asleep about an hour ago. With luck, she'll sleep for a few more hours. I doubt she'll make it to school today. I've already told Mom, and she's gotten into my bed with her.”

I sipped the coffee, bracing for the java's bitterness and much-needed jumpstart. When I'd been little and afraid, Mom would get into bed with me. She'd lie beside me, and in her soft voice she'd spin fairy tales that transformed the shadows into wonderful characters in rich stories. Now when I remembered those moments, I pictured Mom rising at the crack of dawn to help Dad in the bakery. She'd never complained about exhaustion but there could have been no escaping it with three children and a business to run.

The coffee warmed me. “Mom will take good care of her.”

The worry in Rachel's eyes faded a fraction but there was no hiding the guilt of a mother who couldn't be there for her sick child. “I know.”

“What about Anna?”

“She's fine.” Rachel drank her coffee and shook her head as if she were trying to figure out a puzzle. “That kid is like you. She has got the constitution of an iron horse.”

It was a bit odd that my niece and I were so much alike. She'd inherited my olive complexion from, I guess, her father's side, and like me enjoyed books, strawberry ice cream, and saying the occasional expletive. At thirty-four I'd learned when to hold my tongue; Anna, however, at age five had yet to understand that teachers didn't appreciate frustrated kindergarteners dropping the
S
word. More than once Rachel had been summoned to the principal's office to deal with the latest Anna event.

“I take no responsibility for anything genetic when it comes to you or your kids. Of course, if their behavior is stellar, then we'll chalk it up to Auntie Daisy's nurturing.”

Rachel laughed. “Duly noted.”

We moved downstairs to the first floor and then the basement. “Did you order your supplies yesterday?”

“I did,” Rachel said. “We'll have our regular delivery tomorrow, but I think the driver will want to talk to you. He's gonna need a check.”

The money from Suburban should hit today and if the vendor held the check a day or two the wire would clear in time. “The vendor give you any trouble?”

“Oh, no, Ike is always so nice to me. But he was just adamant about getting a check.”

“How much?”

“Fifty percent.”

I did a rough calculation. Fifty percent equated to about one thousand dollars. The money from my liquidated stocks was not going to last long. “Okay.”

“On the bright side, Chase Sugars was all smiles yesterday.”

“That's because I sent them enough money to get our accounts updated. We owed them a chunk of change.”

She looked shocked. “I could have sworn I sent them a check.”

“You did. Four months ago.”

She chewed her bottom lip. “So do we have enough to cover the bills?”

“We do for this month but we're gonna have to hustle to make up ground for next month.”

The sparkle returned to her gaze. “Business was great yesterday.”

“Let's hope the novelty of my return continues.”

We found Henri at his mixer, stabbing the risen dough with his finger. I'd learned long ago that if you poke a floured finger into the dough and the hole doesn't collapse, the dough had risen enough and was ready to be kneaded. He frowned as he stared at the dough, studied the indention a moment or two, and then turned his attention to a batch of cookies.

“The dough is slow today,” he muttered. “It is too cold.”

Rachel sipped her coffee, hurrying to the row of hooks on the wall that held our aprons. As I slipped my apron over my head, I recognized the worn cotton smells of something freshly laundered. Sometime during the evening hours Mom had taken the aprons, washed, and returned them. The simple gesture teased a smile from me.

I crisscrossed the apron strings and tied them in front. “So we shape the dough?”

Henri grunted. “The dough needs a few more minutes. It's Tuesday. We do croissants on Tuesdays. Shape the croissants.”

“Right.” There were daily staples that we offered—sweet buns, carrot cake, cookies, and pies. But we had certain specials each day of the week. Tomorrow was walnut wheat raisin bread, and Thursday was Asiago bread. But I didn't remember beyond that.

I moved to the large refrigerator and pulled out the “books”—squares of dough folded over and over smaller rectangles of butter mixed with flour. Rachel had prepared today's books yesterday, mixing and rolling out and folding the slabs twice. This afternoon she'd chop walnuts and soak the raisins in rum in preparation for tomorrow.

By the time I rolled out the book for the third time, there were thirty-six layers of butter and flour ready to rise and puff to life. If I'd learned anything about working in a bakery it was that good pastry could not be rushed. Dough needed time to rest and chill before it would really respond to the baker's touch.

I laid the book on the wooden work surface, unwrapped it from the plastic and grabbed a rolling pin. A flick of the wrist and Henri and Rachel could dust the dough with just the right amount of flour. Not enough and the dough stuck to the rolling pin. Too much and it would end up tough. It was a delicate, practiced touch I'd yet to master.

Though I couldn't toss the flour with their precise flourish, I knew not to overdo. Soon I had the book rolled out into a long rectangle, had squared off the rough, uneven edges, and cut away a long strip from the topside. This strip would be cut into squares for chocolate croissants, and the remaining rectangle would be cut into triangles, which I'd stretch and shape into crescents. My efforts weren't perfect but better than yesterday, and I sensed in a few days I'd be able to move much faster.

The three of us worked quietly, each focused on a specific task. By seven, the chilled kitchen had warmed and smelled of butter and cinnamon. Henri had his baguettes and grunted a good day to us as he left through the back door. The shop opened at seven, and as expected Margaret breezed through the front door ten minutes late. She was either too tired or too distracted to make any smart-ass comments, however, so I let the “Glad you could join us, Princess” crack pass.

I realized how little I knew about Margaret's life. Since I'd moved away to college I'd lost track of her. I knew about the dissertation but couldn't say much about whom she dated, what she did for fun, or whom she'd befriended. It occurred to me that when we saw each other on birthdays or holidays we were polite for Mom's sake but we'd not gone out of our way to ask each other too many questions.

I'd never given our distance much thought when I'd been in D.C., but now as I glanced at the dark circles under her eyes I wondered what she did after work.

“You doing all right?” After so many years of benign indifference I didn't know how to undo the tangle of silence.

“Great.”

“You look rough.”

She shrugged. “Back at you.”

While Rachel dashed upstairs to check on Ellie each hour on the hour, Margaret and I worked together through most of the morning fairly efficiently.

Most days the stream of customers was steady until about one
P.M.
Yesterday had been heavier than usual and today was looking to be just as busy. At times, it took all three of us to fill the orders.

But because we didn't offer a lunch menu, most folks found other places to eat the midday meal. A lunch crowd could be a big source of income but right now I didn't have a clue how we could pull it off.

By one, Rachel had slipped upstairs to check on Ellie and Margaret had vanished into the back to grab coffee and a few cookies. I had snagged a croissant and taken a seat on a stool behind the counter. With each bite I calculated fat grams, carbs, and calories. How long before the weight piled on my hips? A day, a week? Maybe running around the kitchen in the morning had offset the extra consumption? Yeah, and maybe Mom still had my fat jeans from high school. Tomorrow, I really had to get my food act together.

When I heard the front bells clatter, I wiped the crumbs from my lap and stood. My grin froze when I saw the black nurse who'd wheeled in Mabel Woodrow yesterday. I tensed, half expecting the old lady to show and half dreading she wouldn't. One way or another, I had to talk to her about Renee.

I searched around the nurse for Mrs. Woodrow. “Can I help you?”

The older woman moved toward the counter. Her face looked pinched and ashen and her eyes rimmed in red as if she'd been crying. “Miss Mabel asked me to give you something.”

“Is everything all right?”

The old woman sniffed. “Miss Mabel passed early this morning.”

My mind jumped to the sweet buns she'd eaten yesterday. Had they thrown her into diabetic shock that had somehow managed to kill her? Right on the heels of that thought, I selfishly thought about Renee. Mabel Woodrow was my fragile, if not tentative, connection to Renee and I had killed her with sweet buns.