Читать книгу The Little Bakery of Hopes and Dreams - Kellie Hailes - Страница 9

‘Daaaaddy … what shoe goes where?’

Callan looked up from working flour into the fruitcake he was making for the local sewing club’s annual Christmas morning tea to see Mia staring at him, her socked foot tapping impatiently as she held up two glittery ballet flats.

‘Swap them round.’ He went back to stirring, his heart sinking as he took in the stodgy mixture. It wasn’t how it looked in the recipe he’d found online. But then, nothing he made looked like the recipes he found online. Not for the first time since Abigail had passed away just over eleven months ago did he find himself wishing she’d kept her recipes inside a book and not in her head. The thought was quickly followed by a sharp twist of guilt in his gut. Abigail hadn’t planned on dying. Hadn’t asked for the aneurysm that had taken her away from them. He had no right to feel exasperated.

‘Daddy, can you put them on for me? I’m tiiiired.’

Callan took a deep, calming breath. Fought the irritation that rose. How his wife had done the baking and looked after Mia without once complaining or raising her voice, he had no idea. Abigail had made it all look so easy, so effortless. Whereas he spent his days feeling like he was fighting an uphill battle. Making the daily quota of food to ensure his regulars had something to eat with their tea or coffee. Keeping the kitchen and shop clean and tidy. Then there was the actual serving of people, all of it done while listening to Mia’s constant questions, helping her whenever she asked, ensuring she’d remembered to brush her teeth, put on weather-appropriate clothing, and that the food that inevitably got caught in her curls was brushed out.

What had it been called in the article he’d read on one of the parenting sites he’d been frequenting since Abigail had passed?

Mental load.

A concept that was apparently foreign to the majority of men, but well known among the online mummy community.

All the little things that the person who runs the household has to juggle and keep track of. Things as small as remembering to buy toothpaste before it runs out. Ensuring there’s clean underwear available at all times. Buying Christmas presents. Pulling the Christmas tree out of storage. The last two things he’d not yet done, even though he knew he had to.

There was no way he was letting Mia’s first Christmas without her mum be as gloomy and depressing as he felt.

It had to be magical.

Unforgettable.

Infused with all the sparkle and joy that Abigail had brought to the season year after year.

At least now that he’d put aside the pride that had him in ‘do it all myself’ mode since Abigail’s death, and hired Josie, he’d have time to decorate, to get the Christmas tree, to buy the toy ponies or dolls or princess costumes that Mia kept talking about. Two presents? One from Santa, one from him? Who was he kidding? He was going to buy everything on her list and more. He had to if it meant seeing her little face light up. If it helped ease the pain of not having Abigail there.

‘Daddy!’

A whine of impatience combined with a soft thump of foot on wooden floor brought Callan back to his senses.

‘Mia, sorry. Daddy was in another world.’ He abandoned the wooden spoon in the glutinous mixture and squatted down to Mia’s level. ‘What can I do for you, princess?’

‘Shoes. Help me. Put them on me. And you weren’t in another world, silly Daddy, you were right here.’ Mia collapsed onto the ground and held her shoes up to Callan.

He repressed a sigh. How many times did you have to remind a child to use their manners? An infinite amount of times, it seemed. ‘What’s the magic word?’

‘Pleeeease.’ Mia gave him her most winning smile. One that melted his heart when he was sad inside. One that riddled him with guilt on the rare occasion he snapped at her.

‘That’s the word.’ He slipped the pink sparkly shoes onto her feet, then ruffled the top of her head. ‘We always use our manners, right?’

‘Right.’ Mia gave a firm nod then looked up, her serious expression morphing into one of unbridled happiness. ‘Josie!’

Callan twisted round to see Josie staring into the cake mixture. Hot embarrassment coursed through his veins, though hopefully not his cheeks. He didn’t want Josie to see that he knew he was failing. That he was trying to keep things going, but wasn’t quite getting there. He didn’t want anyone to see it.

‘What happened to this?’ Josie picked up the spoon and prodded the mixture.

‘New recipe I’m trying out. Found it online. I think they may have made a mistake with the quantities. Too much flour. Or not enough eggs, or brandy, or something. I think I’m going to have to start again, with a new recipe …’ He trailed off, painfully aware that he sounded every bit as uninformed as he felt.

‘Hmm, I see.’ Josie set the spoon down and reached for the navy-blue apron emblazoned with the shop’s logo that was hanging on a hook attached to the wall.

She might have said she understood, but Callan hadn’t missed the tightening of her lips, the narrowing of eyes, that told him she saw the problem wasn’t with the recipe, but with the person who was making it.

‘So, it’s a fruitcake you’re making?’ She efficiently wrapped the ties around her waist then fastened them at the front. ‘I know I’m not meant to be cooking, but I have a recipe that never fails. And it uses just three ingredients. I could make it or give the recipe to you if you’d prefer to do it yourself.’

‘Daddy, you promised we’d go get some new Christmas decorations.’ Mia tugged at his sweater. He looked down to see excitement shining in her eyes. ‘Remember? You said now that we had a Josie we could do it. And go see Santa too. I haven’t told him what I want.’

‘And what do you want from Santa?’ Josie picked up the bowl of sludge and scraped it out into the rubbish bin.

‘Yesterday I wanted a pony, but today I want a Cinderella dress. And glass slippers.’ Mia tapped her chin. ‘And a crown. All princesses have crowns, and Daddy says I’m a princess, so I have to have a crown.’

‘Well your daddy’s quite correct, and I bet Santa will be most happy that you’re asking for a costume. Far easier for him to transport. Can you imagine trying to fit a pony in a sleigh?’

Callan nodded a thank-you to Josie over Mia’s head. He’d forgotten all about asking what she wanted from Santa. Rookie mistake.

‘So, do you want me to whip up that cake?’ Josie flicked the kettle on, reached up to the shelf above the stainless-steel bench and fished out four teabags from the box. ‘It’d give you the time to go shopping.’

‘Would you mind?’ Callan lifted Mia into his arms. ‘I’m so sorry. I know it’s not part of the job, well, I said it wouldn’t be. But clearly there’s, er, something wrong with this recipe and I’ve run out of time … and if the sewing club don’t get their fruitcake …’

‘Consider it done. You two go visit Santa, buy those decorations. I’ll be fine. Just be back by three, if that’s okay. I have that meeting with my potential landlady …’ Josie shooed them away, a smile lighting up her warm hazel eyes.

More green than brown, Callan noticed. And the shooing … not dissimilar to how Abigail would hurry him out of the kitchen when she was busy. Never in anger or in frustration, but always in a way that was good-natured, and promised she’d make time for him later.

Not that Callan expected Josie to make time for him. Not that he wanted her to. She was under his employ. Their relationship was purely professional. That, and he wasn’t interested in spending time with anyone other than Mia.

An impatient tug on his earlobe brought him back to reality.

‘Mia, cut that out.’ He jerked his head back and tried to ignore the hurt that flashed through Mia’s eyes at being told off. So much for keeping calm … He’d apologise to her later. In private. ‘Right then. We’d best be off. See you … when we see you. Before three.’ He waved half-heartedly at Josie but avoided eye contact. The realisation that he’d noticed the colour of her eyes, that he’d noticed something about a woman who wasn’t Abigail, saw unease swarming in his stomach. It mixed with the guilt from snapping at Mia and settled dark and heavy. Uncomfortable.

He pressed his nose into Mia’s hair and breathed in the pear scent of her shampoo. The familiar fragrance centring him, reminding him of what was important. Of who was.

***

Josie inhaled the heady, heavenly, sweet and spicy aroma of the fruitcake wafting through the kitchen’s air. A smile played about her lips as she recalled the conversation with Callan earlier. The way he’d blamed the recipe for the stodge that was the cake mixture had been too cute. Josie had taken one look at the mixture and seen that the dried fruit hadn’t been steeped in the liquid long enough and that too much flour had been added. The mush was now safely in the bin.

It was the opposite of her mixture, where dried fruit was steeped in hot tea, before being combined with self-raising flour and baked for two hours. The result was a gloriously pungent fruitcake, which held an almost malty flavour, and was good by itself, sliced and slathered with butter or served warm with custard.

From the front room came a melodic ‘yoo-hoo’.

Josie made a mental note to ask Callan about installing a small bell on the counter along with a sign instructing customers to ring it if the front was unattended.

Smoothing her hair back, she adopted an open smile. The morning hadn’t been the busiest she’d experienced in all her years of customer service, but it had been steady.

No doubt people were coming in to see the latest face to arrive in the village. She’d seen that often enough to expect it.

The scent of the stylishly dressed woman reached Josie before she did. White Diamonds. The same perfume her mother had worn. Her heart slammed against her chest, as it always did when for an irrational split-second she believed her mother had sought her out, returned to find the daughter she’d abandoned when Josie was 12 – the age when, with her mind and hormones and body in flux, she’d needed her mother most.

‘So, you’re the girl I’ve heard so much about. Welcome, my dear, welcome.’ Josie’s hand was encased in the woman’s tissue-soft palm and pumped twice before being let go. ‘My name’s Margo. I’m Callan and Mia’s neighbour. Owner of the sewing and embroidery shop, among other things.’ Margo stopped and sniffed the air. ‘That cake’s smelling delicious. Every bit as good as Abigail’s. My little sewing club is in for a treat. I take it this is your doing?’

Josie shrugged her shoulders. ‘It was, not that Callan needed me to do it.’ She crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘I just had a bit of spare time so thought I may as well help him out.’

‘Piffle.’ Margo let out a hearty laugh. ‘If you can cook as well as his dearly departed wife then you know as well as I do that Callan needs as much help in the kitchen department as he can get. Please tell me he’s letting you loose back there?’

‘Front of house, mostly.’ Josie smiled apologetically. ‘He seems to want to do it all himself.’

‘That’s his problem, you know.’ Margo leaned in towards Josie, her demeanour turning conspiratorial. ‘Since Abigail passed, he’s not allowed any of us to help one iota. I’ve offered a thousand times, if not two thousand, to take that little angel of his off his hands for a few hours so he can have a break, even if only to go to the pub for a quiet beer, or to bake another batch of his horrifically hard cupcakes without little Mia underfoot. But he won’t have it. He’s determined to make out like he’s okay, but how could he be? He lost the love of his life.’

Josie pressed her lips together and gave a polite nod. Talking about Callan’s private life seemed wrong. A crossing of the boundaries between employer and employee, especially with him not being here to defend himself, doubly especially when the woman talking to her was a complete stranger.

‘I see I’ve put you in an awkward spot.’ Margo touched Josie’s forearm. ‘I apologise. I care deeply for Callan and Mia, and I did for Abigail, too. My family left years ago and they’re not ones for visiting, so I began to see those three as my adopted family.’

Shame tugged at Josie’s heart. Margo’s family had done to her what Josie had done to her father. Not visited. Kept away.

Though why Margo’s children stayed away, Josie had no idea. From where she stood, Margo was the opposite of her emotionally distant father. She seemed kind, caring. A person who put others first, who wanted to help. Who wanted to live life, without waiting by windows, staring longingly at the front door, hoping for the past to return, while ignoring the person who was right in front of you, begging you to see them. To love them.

‘Oh, look at me feeling all sorry for myself.’ Margo waved her hand and let out an exasperated sigh. ‘It’s not like they hate me. It’s my own fault really. I raised two wonderful, successful children. My eldest, Sebastian, lives in Australia and works in IT. He flies over when he can, but he works all hours, and I’m terrified of flying so couldn’t even contemplate the flight over that kind of distance. They’d have to give me an elephant-sized amount of sedation.’ Margo rolled her eyes towards the ceiling and gave a small, mock-despairing shake of her head.

‘And your youngest?’ Josie prompted. ‘Where are they?’

‘Oh, you probably won’t believe this to look at me, but Megan’s a model. Constantly on the move. New York, Milan, Paris. Wherever her agency sends her. She gets her looks from her father. He was tall, handsome, a good man too. I don’t know what I did to deserve him.’ Margo’s smile disappeared as sadness flashed through her blue eyes for a millisecond before being covered up with a brighter smile, that didn’t quite hit her eyes.

‘I take it your husband’s no longer with us?’ It was Josie’s turn to comfort, and she did so tentatively, allowing her fingers to lie feather-light on the back of Margo’s hand.

Margo’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears. ‘No. He passed just over a decade ago. I miss him every day. I miss them all. No wonder I keep trying to insert myself in Callan’s life. He must think me a nosey old busybody.’

‘He wouldn’t. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man to think badly of anyone.’ Josie straightened up and put her hands on her hips. ‘And don’t you for a second say your daughter didn’t get her looks from you. Women much younger would kill for those cheekbones and eyes of yours. I hope she calls you every single day to thank you for those wonderful attributes you passed on to her.’

Margo let out a light, fragile laugh. ‘Maybe not every day, but we aim for a good catch-up phone call or a video chat once a week. She’s a good girl is my Megan. As is Sebastian. They may be hundreds of miles away but they’re always close.’ She tapped her heart.

The shame that had begun to abate returned full force, not just twisting Josie’s heart but turning her gut to rock. Her father wasn’t that far away. Not compared to Margo’s children. Maybe she needed to make more of an effort. To call more. Try harder to connect. But how could you connect with a man who never called first, who kept conversations short, and ended phone calls after two minutes? Who always sounded vaguely surprised to hear from her, like he’d forgotten she even existed?

‘So how long are you planning to stay in Sunnycombe?’

Margo, rummaging about in the black leather handbag she had tucked under her arm, missed the flicker of guilt that Josie was sure would’ve been visible on her face.

‘Oh, you know, as long as Callan needs me. I’m not looking to go anywhere anytime soon and the village seems so sweet. The people I’ve met so far are really nice.’

‘And how many people have you met?’ Margo looked up and arched an elegant eyebrow.

‘I’ve served a fair few today, but who have I properly met? Just you. Callan. Mia. The owner of the pub where I’m staying.’ Josie held up four fingers. ‘You’re all giving the village an excellent reputation.’

‘Well, I’m sure it’ll stay that way. The people here are good people. We care for each other. Look out for each other. Even when those we’re looking out for don’t want us to.’

Josie didn’t have to ask to know Margo was referring to Callan and his resolute independence.

‘Now, enough of this chin wagging. When will the delicious-smelling cake be ready for pick-up?’

Josie smoothed down her apron, relieved the conversation had returned to work. ‘I’ll pull it out of the oven in a few minutes, then it’ll need to cool down. This afternoon would be fine – although I won’t be serving if you plan to pop in around three, I’ve an appointment …’

Margo flapped her hand dismissively. ‘Don’t worry about the appointment. The cottage is yours. Treat her with the same care you show your cooking.’

Josie felt her mouth open, then shut. Then open again. ‘You’re …?’

‘The landlady. And this chat of ours has given me all the confidence I need that you won’t up and leave me without warning. You’ve got a good way about you, Josie. And I suspect that good way isn’t surface-deep.’

Josie nodded. Not trusting herself to speak, lest her voice cracked and she showed Margo who she really was.

A satisfied smile appeared on Margo’s lips as she turned and made her way to the door. ‘I’ll drop the keys in when I pick up the cake. Oh, and Josie?’ Margo twisted round and fixed her with serious eyes. ‘You won’t know this yet. And Callan certainly will refuse to entertain the idea. But he does need you, more than he knows. You’ll be good for him.’ Margo’s gaze roamed around the walls of the bakery. ‘You’ll be good for this place.’

The door swung shut with a soft thunk.

Callan needed her? Josie hoped not. She could cook. She could teach Callan the art of baking, if he let her. But she didn’t want anyone to need her. Nothing good could come of that. She’d seen the proof in that pudding for herself.