Chapter Fourteen

If you had to guess whether I called Terry or not, what would you have guessed? I mean I had promised to Gordon and myself that I’d “take care of business.”

I did take care of business. Bakery business. And I didn’t call Terry. I wanted to. In fact, a half-dozen times I picked up the phone and started to dial. But before I could get past her area code, I’d chicken out.

Every time I entered a room now my family would study my expression as if searching for hints that I’d taken the plunge. When it was clear I’d not made a move, they’d quickly talk about something that had nothing to do with anything. And yet each time I looked at any one of them, I heard all the unspoken words from my family: Weak. Coward. Baby.

By the following Saturday, the bakery and the business all but rolled over me like a steamroller. Bank statements, which had sort of recovered, had taken a hit when I’d paid quarterly taxes. Minutes after I’d mailed the check, the bakery’s water heater blew, and I had to find a plumber to install a new one. Did you know they charged triple time on Sundays?

Monday morning brought in an irate patron who’d ordered a flag-draped cake filled with Bavarian cream from Rachel. My sister had warned the woman that the cake needed refrigeration. Rachel had even called the day of the event to check on the cake’s reception at the Army Officers Club. When she’d discovered the woman hadn’t cut the flag-shaped cake’s center and instead stowed it in the trunk of her car, Rachel had shouted Code Red and we’d all scrambled to find the woman and warn her the cake, if left unrefrigerated, would make people sick. The woman had turned her cell off, and we’d been forced to call her office, friends, and family. Three hours later we’d tracked down a friend of hers who’d told her about the problem before she’d served the center filled with cream. She’d been pissed. When she marched into the bakery and demanded a refund, I’d reminded her of Rachel’s warnings. She’d said it was not her fault that the cake had been too pretty to cut.

Then there’d been Tuesday’s bride who’d ordered one hundred apple-shaped cakes to serve at her wedding. She and her fiancé had met in an apple orchard and the entire affair had an apple theme. Four days before the wedding, bridezilla had realized the wedding was too expensive and was forced to make cuts. She’d come by the shop, cancelled her order, and demanded her five-hundred-dollar deposit back.

I wiped powdered sugar from my hand before I extended it to bridezilla. “There a problem here?”

Rachel, her face flushed with anger, gave me a recap.

I looked at bridezilla, a petite girl with large breasts and rounded hips. “I can’t afford the cake so I shouldn’t have to buy it. This woman here told me I could cancel at any time.”

“Union Street Bakery contracts allow for cancellation up to one week before an event.” That was a clause I planned to change, but for now we honored the seven-day window.

“She told me any time,” Bridezilla snapped.

“I did not,” Rachel countered. “I told her about the seven-day policy.”

“Let me get the contract.”

Rachel looked at me, a little afraid. I knew what she was thinking: You’ll never find it. But any contract that had been on my desk had been filed in alphabetical order.

“What name did you place the order under?”

Bridezilla didn’t bat an eye. “Walker. Samantha Walker.”

“Be right back, Ms. Walker.” I went to my office, dug out the contract, and came back out front. Rachel and Ms. Walker’s gazes remained locked in battle. I flipped to the back page of the contract. “Is this your signature, Ms. Walker?”

She glanced down. “Yes.”

“And your initials?”

“Yes.”

I nodded. “Well, your initials and Rachel’s are right next to the cancellation clause. You agreed in writing to cancel seven days before delivery. It’s three days before, therefore no refund.”

“That’s bull.” Gold bracelets jangled on her wrists as she waved French manicured hands around. “I’m going to sue.”

Business confrontations made Rachel want to weep. I loved them. “You go right ahead. We’ll see you in court. Though I can promise an attorney is going to cost you a couple of grand just to review the case. And then I’m going to countersue for court costs, time, and aggravation.”

“This is bull!” She actually stamped her feet. “I want my five hundred back.”

“We’ve already used the money to buy supplies for the cakes. No refund.”

Ms. Walker cried. She stamped her feet again, but in the end, she had nothing to bargain with. She left, angry and deposit-less.

When the bakery door slammed closed, Rachel shook her head. “She’s going to bad-mouth us.”

“Let her. We may have the deposit but we’re out the one-thousand-dollar balance and we’re left with one hundred square cakes.”

The disasters like bridezilla and the water heater kept dropping out of the sky and none could be ignored. I had to choose between the smoke on the horizon and the raging infernos at my feet.

•   •   •

Thankfully, by Thursday life had settled to a dull roar and Margaret and I were able to slip away and visit Florence. We arrived on Florence’s doorstep just after six P.M.

“I got a friend coming to help with the heavy lifting,” Margaret said. “I figure since we don’t have much more time, if Hugo can get the big stuff out of the attic then we might be able to get to the good stuff faster.”

I rang Florence’s front bell. “Margaret, I’ve never seen you so focused.”

She all but glowed. “Never ever get between Margaret and her history.”

“Speaking in the third person. You haven’t done that since middle school. This must be important.”

She grinned. “Margaret thinks this is very serious.”

We were both smiling when Florence opened the front door. The older woman wore her blue uniform, light-colored hose, and white orthopedic shoes. She smelled of Dial soap and oranges. “Well, you smiling girls are a sight for sore eyes. Glad you could come.”

“We wouldn’t miss it,” Margaret said.

Florence chuckled. “Don’t know what’s got you all riled up, honey. It’s just a pile of junk in the attic.”

“Are you kidding?” Margaret said. “This is like the best treasure hunt I’ve ever been on. This is even better than the Greek ruins.”

It was hard not to smile seeing Margaret so excited. “If you haven’t guessed, she loves history.”

“Well, come on in. We got boxes and boxes of it in the attic.”

We moved past Florence into the foyer. The house smelled of cooked green beans and fried steak. “I hope we haven’t come too late in the day.”

“Oh, no. Timing is perfect. Fact, if you get hungry I can fry up a few steaks. Miss Mabel wasn’t eating so much toward the end and she couldn’t stand the smell of food so I didn’t cook so much. These last few days that’s all I’ve done. Even baked a couple of cakes this morning.”

I’d eaten three bagels today and five cookies. Now fried steak and more cake. At the rate I was going, I was going to have to surrender my jeans and change into sweatpants. “That sounds good. You mind if we check the attic first?”

“No, not at all. Steaks won’t take but a minute to cook.”

“I invited a friend,” Margaret said. “His name is Hugo. He’s a big hairy dude and he looks rough but he’s a great guy and can lift anything. He’s a grad student looking for help on his thesis. I said I’d trade my vast knowledge and a bag of bagels for a little labor. He was all over it.”

“So he’ll be hungry?” Florence said. There was no missing the hopeful hint. She was enjoying the excitement of company. No doubt the last years with Mabel had been quiet and a bit isolated.

“Hugo will be thrilled with any food you put in front of him,” Margaret said.

The old woman grinned. “Then maybe I’ll whip up a batch of biscuits.”

I shrugged off my jean jacket. “Sounds awesome. How about we see you about six.”

Florence clapped her hands together. “Perfect.”

The front doorbell rang and we all turned to see a tall man with broad, stooped shoulders hovering on the porch outside. Through the glass I could see a twentysomething-year-old guy who had shoulder-length hair and wore a leather jacket and jeans. A gold earring winked from his left year.

“Hugo,” Margaret said. She moved to the door and opened it. “Hey, dude.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice a deep baritone.

After quick introductions and a promise to meet for dinner (which thrilled Hugo) the three of us left Florence to her biscuits and climbed into the attic. We moved up the wooden stairs and past the now familiar unfinished walls, where insulation was haphazardly stuffed between the wallboards. The steps moaned and creaked their complaints as we climbed to the landing. Just enough light leaked in through the slats in the eaves enabling me to spot the string dangling from the lone sixty-watt bulb on the ceiling.

Margaret clicked on the overhead bulb. The attic was so full of boxes, clothes, and furniture, there was barely room to walk.

“Whoa,” Hugo said. He pulled a flashlight from his back pocket and swept the light across the room. “Lots of stuff.”

“I knew this would be so awesome,” Margaret said. She switched on her light and crossed her beam with his.

“Totally,” he said.

I felt a little out of sync because I’d not come with a flashlight. “Do all history buffs carry a flashlight?”

Hugo nodded. “Always.”

Margaret looked at me. “You didn’t bring one?”

“Never crossed my mind.”

She reached in her oversized pocket and pulled out another. “What am I going to do with you Daisy?”

“I don’t know, Margaret,” I teased. “I’m just hopeless, I suppose.”

“Turn your light on. Let’s get digging.”

Over the next hour and a half, we sorted item after item. A 1950s phonograph, LP records, dresses from the ’30s and ’40s, a cradle, a rocker, and items I could not identify. Margaret worked with laser precision, inspecting and then delegating either Hugo or me to remove an item from the attic. After a while, my back ached from lifting and stooping, and a fine layer of grit coated my skin. My stomach grumbled and I was ready to call it a day and dive into Florence’s fried steaks and biscuits.

“Hey, dudes,” Hugo said. “I found a hatbox. It’s got pictures.”

“Approximate dates?” Margaret said.

“Civil War, give or take five years.”

Margaret’s gaze met mine. “That’s our time period. Let’s have a look?”

The three of us sat cross-legged and shone our lights onto the brown box spotted with water stains and patches of mold.

Margaret pulled off the lid and studied the contents before she removed anything. I’d learned throughout this process that she always surveyed the item in question carefully before she touched it and possibly damaged it. The image on top was of a mother and her three children. The woman appeared to be in her mid-twenties. Two of the children were boys and maybe about eight or nine and they were dressed in fine twill jackets and knickers with white socks and polished buckled shoes. The girl, not more than a year, wore a long white gown, which draped over her mother’s full velvet skirt. The mother’s expression was serene; the boys looked the picture of austereness and the baby stared wide-eyed into the camera.

Margaret lifted the picture out and carefully turned it over. All that it read on the back was “1902.” She handed the picture to Hugo who pulled a magnifying glass from his front pocket and studied the picture.

“What other equipment are you two carrying?” I quipped.

Margaret ignored me but Hugo answered in all seriousness, “I’m just carrying a screwdriver, gloves, and a backup light. I left my toolbox in my truck out front.”

“I hate to ask what’s in the toolbox.”

“Really, Daisy,” Margaret said. “Would you go into an audit without a calculator and computer? Would Rachel ice a cake without a cake wheel and an offset spatula?”

“No.”

“These are our tools of our trade.” She peered into the box and removed more pictures, which seemed to go in reverse chronological order. There were pictures of the woman with just the boys who were much younger. Then there was a photo of the woman standing next to a man. She wore a white dress and cradled a dozen white lilies in her arms. She smiled directly at the camera and looked radiant, a truly happy bride ready to embark on her life.

Tension suddenly rippled through my body and I looked up toward the shadows. The presence that had visited me at the bakery was here and he was staring at me. My breath caught in my throat. His bold, dark gaze had me leaning back and struggling to take a deep breath.

“What’s wrong?” Margaret said.

What was I supposed to say, that the ghost who was haunting me was in the corner? “I think I’m just hungry.”

“Really? You don’t look hungry. You look like someone just walked on your grave.” She flipped the picture over. “Ruth and John Samson, 1902, on their wedding day. They must be Mabel’s parents.”

I took the picture from my sister and studied the stern line of John’s face. Mabel looked a good deal like her father. She had his firm jaw.

Setting the picture aside, I pulled another picture from the box. This time it was a very old photo of a man. In his mid-thirties, he stared directly into the camera, his gaze hard and defiant as any prizefighter’s. I traced the line of his jaw and the bridge of his crooked nose, which appeared to have been broken a couple of times. His clenched hands rested in his lap, and his back was ramrod straight.

My breath caught in my throat and I glanced toward the shadows. Whatever had been there was gone . . . and he was also the guy in this photo. “Who is this guy?” I flipped over the picture but there was no inscription.

“I dunno,” Margaret said.

The more I stared at it the more certain I was that he was the ghost who wasn’t happy with me. But why the heck should he care about me? What the hell had I done to a dude who had been dead for more than a hundred years?

“This guy gives me the creeps.”

“Why? He’s been dead over 150 years.”

“If I told you he might be haunting our house, would you think I’d gone off the deep end?”

“Seriously?”

“Totally.”

Her eyes brightened. “Then I’d say way cool and I’d start digging into mystery man’s past ASAP.”

Hugo nodded. “So cool.”

Within the half hour, we three were exhausted and hungry (me more than the other two) and we found our way into Florence’s kitchen. After washing our hands and faces, the four of us sat down to a feast of fried steaks, mashed potatoes, biscuits, and green beans that looked like they’d been cooking since yesterday. There wasn’t a fresh vegetable or lean protein in sight and I’d faint if I analyzed the fat grams.

But it was a hot meal, something I’d not had in weeks and I was so hungry I promised yet again that tomorrow would be different as I bit into my first creamy bite of potatoes.

The dinner conversation started with Hugo, who after some prompting said he was working on a dissertation on George Washington. Margaret argued that he should have picked a topic that hadn’t been covered so extensively but Hugo remained steadfast and determined to shed light on our country’s first president.

Florence turned the conversation to Margaret. “Baby, you ever find a use for those conversations you had with Mabel?”

“For the longest time I had no idea what to do with them. And then you gave Daisy Susie’s journal and we embarked on this historical adventure. I’m not sure how all the dots connect, but I think I’ve got the makings of a great dissertation.” She poked her fork in what remained of her fried steak. “I really thought this dissertation was the end of me and I’d never get it right. Now I just know that I’m on track.”

Florence piled another heaping spoon of mashed potatoes on her plate as she said, “Well, you kids can dig in this house as much as you can until the nephews arrive. There just might be more stuff up in the attic.”

“That would be great,” Margaret said.

Florence spooned mashed potatoes on my plate. “And how do you like working in that bakery, Miss Daisy?”

“It’s not bad. I’m getting the hang of it. Like Margaret, I’ve got an idea sparking. A website. An online store. More catering. There’s so much I can do, it’s just a matter of time and money.”

Margaret stared at me with a mixture of shock and admiration. “I didn’t know you were getting into the business thing so much.”

“If you’re not moving forward, you’re falling back,” I said.

She nodded and pushed bits of steak around her plate. “So Florence, we found these pictures of Mabel’s parents, John and Ruth.”

Florence sipped her sweet tea. “She didn’t know her folks so well. They died when she was young and she was raised mostly by her grandmother.”

“Do you know anything about them?”

“No. I asked her a couple of times but it seemed to pain her. Seems they were madly in love and when Ruth died, John couldn’t hold on. He died about a year later.”

Margaret set her fork down. “Could we come back on Sunday?”

“Sure,” Florence said.

Hugo had to beg off, something about a trip to Virginia Beach. But when Margaret’s gaze locked on mine, I grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”