Читать книгу Sweet Trilogy: Sweet Talk / Sweet Spot / Sweet Trouble - Сьюзен Мэллери - Страница 12

CLAIRE WALKED into the bakery at four-thirty the next morning. Sid saw her and started shaking his head.

“No.”

She ignored that. “I’m here to work.”

“We can’t afford your help.”

“I did fine yesterday.”

“You had a breakdown.”

Claire didn’t want to think about that. “I had a panic attack and I handled it. I helped out when you were in trouble. You owe me.”

“That’s crap.”

She put her hands on her hips. “It’s true and you know it. Plus, I’m Nicole’s sister. This is a family bakery. I’m family. Put me to work.”

He glared at her. “Why do you want to be here?”

She thought of the line from An Officer and A Gentleman. Richard Gere’s impassioned cry that he had nowhere else to go. “It’s important. I’m offering you free labor. Why is that a problem?”

“Because two days ago, you ruined a batch of French bread. You’re a pain in the ass.”

She winced. “The salt thing wasn’t totally my fault.”

Sid glared at her.

She held up her hands. “Not that I won’t accept my responsibility in the situation. Look, I’m just asking to help out. There must be something I can do.”

Despite the loud noise from the mixers and the hum of the ovens, she would swear she could hear his snort of impatience. Still, he didn’t dismiss her again. Instead he yelled, “Phil, the princess is back.”

Phil, a tall, thin man, stuck his head out from behind a stack of racks. “Tell her to stay away from me.”

“I was thinking she could do the sprinkles.”

“What?”

Sid jabbed his finger at her. “Don’t screw up.”

“Words to live by. I won’t. I swear.”

Sid looked unconvinced as he walked away.

Claire turned to Phil and gave him her best smile. He glowered. “Come on.”

She trailed after him, weaving through narrow walkways, avoiding contact with any equipment. They came to a stop in front of a slow-moving conveyor belt.

“The sprinkle attachment is broken,” Phil said as he handed her a hairnet and gloves. “You’re going to put on sprinkles by hand. Not too many, not too few. You got that, Goldilocks?”

She nodded, wishing she knew how many were the right amount.

“That’s what you’re wearing?” he asked.

She glanced down at her black wool slacks and knit sweater, then nodded.

He muttered something, passed her what looked like a giant salt shaker, then hit a button on the conveyor belt so it started moving again.

Chocolate-covered doughnuts inched toward her.

“Sprinkle,” Phil said.

She hated that she wasn’t dressed right and found his disapproving attention unnerving. Worse, when she upended the shaker over the first doughnut, about a pound of sprinkles tumbled out.

“Just great,” he muttered.

“I’ll get it,” she said, trying not to sound defensive.

“It’s sprinkles. There shouldn’t be a learning curve.” With that, he left.

Claire quickly learned the right angle for the shaker and began to cover all the doughnuts evenly. Chocolate iced changed to white iced and she kept sprinkling. When her right arm got tired, she switched to her left, then back.

Thirty minutes later, both her arms burned and trembled, but she didn’t stop until Phil reappeared and switched off the conveyor belt.

“Muffins on trays,” he said by way of explanation and started walking.

She put down the sprinkler shaker and followed him.

They stopped in front of racks and racks of huge, warm, steaming muffins. Her mouth began to water.

Phil pointed from the muffins to big empty trays that would fit in the display case. “Keep the same kind on the same tray. Fill the trays. Got that?”

She nodded and went to work.

After muffin duty, she dumped dozens and dozens of bagels into bins. At six-thirty, she ducked out of the bakery and drove back to the house. She made coffee, then carried it upstairs with two fresh muffins.

Nicole was still asleep. Claire crept into the room, put everything on her nightstand, then tiptoed out. She was back at the bakery by seven-fifteen and put to work shoving loaves of bread into plastic bags.

NICOLE WOKE and rolled over. It took her a second to realize the smell of coffee wasn’t just her imagination, and that next to the carafe was a plate with fresh muffins. Muffins that could only have come from the bakery.

It was barely seven-thirty, which meant Claire had gotten up early, driven to the bakery, picked up the muffins and driven back. Perhaps not a big deal for anyone else, but for the piano princess? Actual work?

Nicole sat up slowly, holding in a groan as the movement pulled at her incision. She ached, which was how she started each day lately. She knew she was healing, but the process was a whole lot longer than she wanted it to be. There were—

Memories from the previous night crashed in on her. The fight with Claire, what she, Nicole, had yelled at her, Drew showing up, Claire attacking him.

Her sister had been possessed, leaping on his back and swinging that high heel like a knife. She’d managed to wrestle Drew to the ground, which was damned impressive. Claire had protected her, even after everything that had been said.

Nicole reached for the carafe and poured herself a cup of coffee, then sipped the hot liquid.

Claire was like one of those puppies that just kept coming after you, no matter how many times you told it to go away. Except Claire wasn’t a puppy and Nicole hadn’t told her to go away—she’d told her she wished she were dead.

“A pretty horrible thing to say,” she murmured to herself. Worse, she’d meant it at the time. Not yesterday, but twelve years ago, when their mother had died, she’d really wanted Claire to take her place.

It shouldn’t have been like that, she thought sadly. It should have been different. She and Claire had been so close when they were little. Like most twins, they knew what the other one was thinking. They’d been there for each other. Then one day Claire left and Nicole had felt as though someone had cut off her arm.

She’d spent weeks crying, wandering from room to room thinking that maybe if she kept looking hard enough, she would find her sister. But Claire had been really gone—probably lapping up her new princess life, she thought bitterly.

Familiar anger filled her—resentment for all Claire had experienced, annoyance that she, Nicole, cared. Genuine rage for being stuck behind to take care of everything.

Then she sipped the coffee again, coffee Claire had made and brought. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the beginning of world peace, but Claire was making an effort. She could have left the first time Nicole told her to. But she hadn’t. She’d hung in and kept trying.

With anyone else, she would have assumed that had to mean something. But with Claire… Nicole couldn’t figure out if all this was a game or not. But maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop assuming the worst.

Shortly after noon, Claire climbed the stairs. She knocked on Nicole’s open door, then stepped in.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“A little better.”

“Good.”

“Thanks for bringing me the coffee and the muffins. They were good.”

Claire beamed. “You’re welcome. I was happy to do it.”

About a thousand sarcastic comments exploded in Nicole’s brain. They were coming so fast, she would have trouble picking one. She remembered what had happened yesterday, what she’d said and what Claire had done and vowed to try not to be such a bitch.

“You got up early.”

Claire eased into the chair by the bed. “I was at the bakery at four-thirty. Sid nearly had a heart attack. I promised I wouldn’t screw up. I told him I just wanted to help. He didn’t believe me at first, but then he put me to work. I did the sprinkles and sorted bagels and that kind of stuff.”

Idiot work, Nicole thought. Where the new kid always started. “Kid” being the key word.

“Why would you do that?” she asked. “Get up that early, go down there and do the crappy jobs?”

Claire frowned. “Because this is a family business and you can’t go there yourself. I know I can’t fill in for you specifically, but I can free up someone else to do what’s important.”

The words made sense, but in this context they were way confusing. “You’re a famous concert pianist. You probably make millions a year. Why do you care about the bakery?”

Claire stared at her as if she wasn’t all that bright. “You’re my sister. Of course I care.”

After everything that had happened. After all that had been said. For the first time in a long time… maybe ever… Nicole felt very, very small.

“Look, I—” She pressed her lips together. Apologizing wasn’t her best skill. “About last night. What I said.” She sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Claire nodded. “I know. I’m sure I’d say the same thing in your position.”

Somehow Nicole doubted that.

“It’s okay,” Claire added.

Nicole didn’t believe that, either. But she’d apologized and now she would try to be nicer.

“The bakery is really interesting,” Claire said. “Everything happens so fast. All those products. Sid made me stay away from the chocolate cake, but I saw a few of them coming out of the oven.”

“The famous Keyes Chocolate cake,” Nicole grumbled. “It’s a moneymaker.”

The recipe had been a family secret for generations, and a local Seattle favorite. In the 1980s, a local politician looking to make a good impression had delivered one to President Reagan. It had been served at a White House dinner where the president had declared it better than jelly beans.

Three years ago, Nicole had received a call from one of Oprah’s producers, saying the cake would be featured on the show. Nicole had hired a company to handle the influx of calls, braced her employees for eighteen-hour shifts and flown to Chicago with high expectations.

Oprah had been lovely and had gushed about the cake for all of eight seconds, before shifting the conversation to Claire and a performance the talk show queen had seen just weeks before. There had been a brief flurry of orders, followed by nothing.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Claire said earnestly. “Run the business. It’s a lot of work. How do you know how many doughnuts and bagels to make, and what kind? All those people working for you must be tough, too. I only have to deal with Lisa and sometimes that’s a problem.”

“We know what sells,” Nicole said, ignoring the need to snap at her. “We have years of history to look at.”

“But you run a very successful business.”

Nicole shrugged. “I’ve been doing it for years. I started helping out when I was a kid. By the time I was in high school, I was handling most of it. I took over everything a couple of years later.”

Her father had never been interested in the bakery. He’d done it out of obligation. But Nicole actually enjoyed her work.

“I couldn’t have done it,” Claire said. “I don’t have any business sense.”

“You don’t have any practice,” Nicole pointed out. “Things would have been different if you’d stayed.”

Claire bit her lip. “I’m sorry I left.”

Nicole had the sense of being sucked into a conversation she didn’t want to have. “You were six,” she said grudgingly. “It’s not like you had a choice.”

“But you got stuck with everything here. The bakery, being on your own, Jesse.”

“I screwed up that last one for sure,” Nicole muttered, trying not to fall into the painful combination of betrayal, anger and hurt that always filled her when she thought about Jesse and Drew.

“I’m sorry about that.”

“How’d you find out?” Nicole couldn’t imagine Wyatt talking about it.

“Jesse told me. She stopped by a couple of days ago. She’s the one who called me to ask me to come help out.” Claire’s mouth twisted. “I don’t understand how she could have done that.”

“Me, either,” Nicole said, hating that she wanted to ask how Jesse was. Did she actually miss her? After what she’d done? Impossible. “Let’s change the subject.”

“Okay. Wyatt asked me to look after Amy.”

“Have you done any babysitting?”

“No. Is it hard?”

Nicole thought of a dozen snippy comments, each more hurtful than the one before. Instead she smiled. “I guess it could be with another kid, but not with Amy. She’s a sweetie. I’m sure you two will get along great.”

CLAIRE WAITED by the bus stop as Amy waved to her friends, then climbed down.

“How was your day?” Claire signed, then took the girl’s backpack.

“Good,” Amy signed back, then said, “You’ve been practicing.”

“Some. I’m trying.” Claire motioned to her rental car. The plan was for her to pick up Amy, then take her back to Nicole’s house. She paused by the passenger side door.

“I need to go shopping,” she said, speaking slowly and facing Amy so the girl could read her lips. “I need different clothes. Maybe jeans.”

Amy signed something Claire didn’t recognize.

“Casual,” the girl said.

“Right. I need a cookbook, too.” She finger spelled cook and then signed book. “Something really easy. Do you want to come with me or go to Nicole’s?”

Amy pointed at her. “Shopping.”

Claire smiled. “They grow up so fast.”

Twenty minutes later, they were at Alderwood Mall. Claire had already called Nicole to say they would be a while. After parking, she and Amy headed for Macy’s.

“You need jeans,” Amy said as she signed.

Claire fingered her wool slacks. More than jeans. She needed a whole wardrobe that wasn’t expensive and difficult to take care of. Cashmere was nice, but not every minute of every day.

Once they were inside, Amy took charge. Claire tried not to be upset about the fact that an eight-year-old knew more about shopping than her. The truth was, she rarely shopped. Lisa, her manager, brought a selection of clothes to Claire’s apartment or her hotel room if they were on the road, Claire tried them on and kept the ones she liked.

She wore classic styles from expensive designers. Her performing clothes were mostly long black dresses…variations on a theme. She didn’t own jeans or T-shirts or a sweatshirt. Which was all about to change.

Amy led her to a table of jeans in different colors. Claire picked dark blue and black, then followed the girl to racks of shirts and knit tops. Some were plain, but others had embellishments—printing, or appliquéd flowers. Even small rhinestones. She grabbed a jean jacket, a couple of pairs of dressier jeans, sweatshirts, casual sweaters and a couple of white cotton blouses.

Amy picked up T-shirts, a halter top in bright pink and a couple of lacy tunic tops Claire wasn’t sure about. Then they made their way to the dressing room.

Thirty minutes later, she had a casual wardrobe filled with easy-care cotton and fun colors. She bought jeans with flowers sewn on the back pockets and skimpy T-shirts that fit snugly enough to both make her nervous and make her feel good about herself.

She bought blouses and a couple of sweatshirts, along with a few sweaters. Nothing in black, nothing she couldn’t wash. The five bags they dragged back to the car had cost less than the last designer blouse and skirt she’d bought only two months ago.

Amy helped her stow the bags in the trunk. Claire pushed it shut.

“That was fun,” she said, then signed, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Amy said. “Bookstore now.”

They stopped for ice cream first, at the Cold Stone Creamery, then sat in the sun at a metal table to eat their snack.

“How was school?” Claire asked.

“Good,” Amy signed, then switched to voice. “We practice speaking,” she said slowly. “Practice every day.”

“Can you hear anything?” Claire asked.

“Tone. Not words.”

“What if I yell really loud?”

Amy giggled, then signed, “I’m deaf.”

Claire couldn’t imagine not hearing. Memories of music she’d played filled her head, making her ache to be at the keyboard again. Her fingers curled into her palms. How could she both love and hate playing at the same time? No matter how she filled her day, the nagging sense of needing to practice haunted her. Yet the thought of sitting down at a piano made her chest tighten with the first whispers of a panic attack.

“Were you always deaf?” Claire asked.

Amy nodded, then moved her hands, signing what Claire assumed was born.

“I’m lucky,” the girl continued, both signing and speaking. “I can hear a little. Some don’t.”

“Do you feel sound?” Claire asked, hitting her chest with the palm of her hand. “In your body?”

“Music. I feel music.”

She wondered if Amy would be able to feel her play. If putting her hands on the piano would produce enough vibration. Would she be able to tell the difference between notes? Would she recognize the difference in pieces? Would a concerto feel differently than a Broadway show tune?

She was about to suggest they experiment when she remembered that she didn’t play anymore. She’d just been panicking a minute before. Why was it so easy to forget she wasn’t that person anymore?

They finished their ice cream and went to the bookstore. Amy helped her pick out a couple of basic cookbooks.

“Now I can cook dinner,” Claire said.

Amy nodded and flipped through the book. She pointed to a meat loaf recipe.

Claire read the list of ingredients. It didn’t look hard.

“For tonight?” she asked.

Amy nodded.

The recipe suggested mashed potatoes and carrots. Under vegetables she actually found a recipe for mashed potatoes and a chart that told her how long to steam carrots. It was a miracle.

“Grocery store?” she asked Amy.

The girl smiled at her. “I know where.”

They made their way to a grocery store, with Amy giving great directions. Claire chuckled as she wondered who was babysitting whom.

They gathered potatoes, carrots, an onion, found the hamburger, although Claire was momentarily stumped by the different kinds. She bought the one that cost the most and hoped it was right.

“Your daughter is so pretty,” an older woman said as she walked past them. “She has your eyes.”

The comment surprised Claire, but she smiled. “Thank you. She looks a lot like her dad.”

“I’m sure he’s a handsome man.”

Claire thought about the last time she’d seen Wyatt. He’d been on the landing, in Nicole’s house. As usual, he’d been frustrated by her. She wasn’t sure why she pushed all his buttons; she certainly wasn’t trying.

“He’s pretty cute,” she admitted.

The woman smiled and moved on.

Amy touched Claire’s arm. “What did she say?”

“She thought you were my daughter. She said we had the same eyes.”

Amy studied her for a second, then raised her hand, fingers together, thumb across her palm. “Blue,” she said, wiggling her hand back and forth.

Claire repeated the sign. They did both have blue eyes, and they were blond, she thought. Amy was lucky—her beautiful color was natural while Claire’s required a touch-up and highlights every four weeks.

“My mom is gone,” Amy said. “She moved away.”

“I’m sorry,” Claire signed.

Amy shrugged, then looked at the list, as if it didn’t matter.

They continued their shopping. Claire found herself wondering about Amy’s mom. Who could have left this child behind? Who could have left family?

That’s what Claire wanted while she was here—to reconnect with Nicole and Jesse. To belong somewhere. She also wanted—hoped—she could find someone of her own to love. A man who would care about her, love her, want to marry her. What she couldn’t decide was whether or not she had a manageable goal or a stupid dream that was never going to come true.

THEY MADE IT BACK to the house by four-thirty. Amy helped Claire unload the car, then she dashed up the stairs to visit with Nicole. Claire set all the food they’d bought on the counter, turned on the oven and opened the recipe book. As the meat loaf took nearly an hour to cook, she would start with that.

She combined and measured and stirred until she had everything mixed together, then dumped it into a loaf pan and smoothed the top. She slid the meat loaf into the preheated oven and set the timer.

The potatoes were next, she thought as she pulled out the bottle of red wine she’d bought. Then the carrots. She’d even bought a little bag of brown gravy mix.

She was making dinner by herself. Something she’d never done in her life. This, after working at the bakery nearly eight hours, babysitting Amy, hitting the mall and going grocery shopping. It had been a regular day. Totally normal.

She found a corkscrew and opened the bottle. After pouring herself a glass, she held it up, as if toasting herself.

“To fitting in,” she whispered. “And being just like everyone else.”