At the Corner of King Street

PRAISE FOR

Sweet Expectations

“When Daisy McCrae's already semi-scrambled life abruptly turns even more upside down, it leads to deeper soul-searching, the exploration of family ties, and a quest for the ultimate meaning of her purpose and direction. . . . With Daisy's narration alternating with her sister Rachel's, the story unfurls at a slow yet steady pace, nicely layering characters, subplots, and backstory.”

—
Booklist

“Sweet and totally satisfying . . . Absorbing characters, a hint of mystery, and touching self-discovery elevate this novel above many others in the genre.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“This novel satisfied my craving. . . . [A] sweet little read.”

—Night Owl Reviews

“[A] charming and very engaging story about the nature of family and the meaning of love, all set in the most delightful bakery one could ever imagine. The story is full of sugar and spice and is highly recommended for anyone looking for a pleasant and well-written novel.”

—
Seattle PI

The Union Street Bakery

“Like a good recipe, the new novel
The Union Street Bakery
has a little bit of everything that makes a satisfying experience. . . . Taylor pairs the past with the present to please history fans as well as those who like tales of family secrets, reinvention, and renewal. . . . Taylor, who lives in Virginia, conveys the essence of the community, of regular shop patrons and history literally around every corner in centuries-old buildings. . . . Taylor serves up a great mix of vivid setting, history, drama, and everyday life in
The Union Street Bakery
. Here's hoping she writes more like it.”

—
The
Herald-Sun

“A wonderful story about sisters, family, and the things that matter most. I loved this beautifully written journey of self-discovery.”

—Wendy Wax

“Interesting and intriguing. . . . [A] fast-paced story of sisters, family, what really matters, betrayal, faith, healing, and life in general. If you enjoy historical facts, heritage, adoption, family, and love you will enjoy
The Union Street Bakery.
 . . . [A] wonderful story!”

—My Book Addiction Reviews

“An excellent job of showing how important a family can be and who your real family is. Ms. Taylor . . . makes you care not only about Daisy but about all the family and friends involved. . . . Get a copy and settle in a comfortable chair with a cup of tea or coffee.”

—Long and Short Reviews

“Marvelous!”

—Chick Lit Plus

“Readers will love Daisy and the McCrae family and be engrossed in both the historical and the present puzzles Daisy and her family must solve. Taylor never takes the simple plot path or gives in to melodrama . . . Highly recommended for anyone who loves family stories with intelligence and heart.”

—Blogcritics

“I found myself so caught up in this family's lives and turning the pages late into the night. You will not be able to put this book down until you turn the very last page. . . . I can't wait to read more by Ms. Taylor.”

—Fresh Fiction

Berkley titles by Mary Ellen Taylor

THE UNION STREET BAKERY

SWEET EXPECTATIONS

AT THE CORNER OF KING STREET

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

AT THE CORNER OF KING STREET

This book is an original publication of the Berkley Publishing Group.

Copyright © 2015 by Mary Burton.

“Readers Guide” copyright © 2015 by Penguin Random House LLC.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-18338-4

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Taylor, Mary Ellen, 1961–

At the corner of King Street / Mary Ellen Taylor. — Berkley trade paperback edition.

pages ; cm. — (Alexandria series)

ISBN 978-0-425-27825-3 (softcover)

1. Single women—Fiction. 2. Life change events—Fiction. 3. Self-realization in women—Fiction. 4. Self-actualization (Psychology) in women—Fiction. 5. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

PS3620.A95943A95 2015

813'.6—dc23

2015002636

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley trade paperback edition / May 2015

Cover art by Alan Ayers.

Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

A cold rain pelted Aberdeen when the magistrate found Faith Shire innocent of witchcraft. The judge, a pious old man, found no legal reason to imprison Faith, but he feared the dark arts. Wishing to be rid of her, he determined transport to the Virginia Colony the best solution for all.

As the lowland woman was pulled over slick cobblestone streets to the docks, she screamed, her high-pitch shrill cutting through the rancorous crowd. Some looked away. Some left. But I stood firm as I watched her climb the plank of the
Constance
, the three-masted ship weighed low in the water with other indentured men, women, and children bound for the colony.

As Faith turned to steal one last look at Scotland, a sudden wind stirred up her red locks into a fiery halo. Watery, vivid blue eyes scanned the onlookers until they settled on me. She held my gaze until the guard yanked her below deck.

May God have mercy on
me.

Alexandria, Virginia

T
he Universe has sucker punched me twice. The first nearly cost me my life. The second changed it forever.

But near-death or life-altering experiences weren't on my mind when I flipped the Open sign to Closed on the front door of Shire Architectural Salvage.

On this warm August evening, my nerves were shot and my head rattling from an argument I'd had hours earlier with my brother-in-law, Zeb. Furious, he'd curled calloused fingers into fists, paced, and shouted so loud his voice reverberated down the rows of reclaimed doors, stacks of lumber, stained glass, claw-foot iron tubs, marble mantels, and bins filled with odds and ends.

“Addie, how could you do this to me?”

To calm my racing thoughts, I shifted my focus from invoices to cast-iron keys, antique doorknobs, and back plates assembled by my
Aunt Grace during her three decades of salvaging. For years, she'd been tossing keys and locks into a big bin, never bothering to sort or catalogue. With the keys, at least, I could transform chaos into order.

“How long have you known she was sick?” Zeb shouted.

“I tried to warn you!”

“You didn't try hard enough!”

“I thought she'd tell you,” I stammered.

“She didn't tell me shit!” Eyes once friendly, burned with scorn.

Trembling fingers brushed over a large tarnished brass key, three inches long. Its lopsided heart-shaped handle created an ornamental air that set it apart from the other utilitarian keys designed for heavy-duty locks. Where had it been found? Grace never worried about documentation. She simply collected, her aim to keep alive as much history as she could cram into the two-thousand-square-foot warehouse on King Street. For every item here there was a second chance for some kind of life.

As I closed my fingers around the old key, a heavy energy reverberated through my hand and up my arm. Dust flecks danced like fireflies in light generated by countless rescued crystal chandeliers, copper ship lamps, and dozens of other salvaged fixtures. Images of sky and wide-open seas flashed in my mind. Outside, thunder cracked.

Breathless, I nearly dropped the key back into the box. For a few long, tense seconds, I stared at the lopsided heart, not quite sure what to do with it. The sound of a car door closing caught my attention and I slid the key in my pocket, determined to ask Grace about it later.

A heavy August rain pelted hard against the salvage yard's glass window when I heard the hard, fast rapping on the front door. Glancing up, I saw my sister, Janet, standing in the rain, holding up a soggy paper bag. Water dripped from her mascara-smudged eyes, which blinked fast, like windshield wipers. Raindrops flattened her thick blond ponytail and soaked her red sundress.

My relationship with my older sister was forever contentious. There'd never been a time of calm or sisterly love. She was the fun, energetic one, whereas I was the safe, steady one. She made messes. I cleaned them up.

I'd hoped we could find a peaceful middle ground after Janet married Zeb at Christmas and then gave birth to a son, Eric, days after Easter. Healthy, with a lusty cry, the boy inherited his father's dark hair, olive complexion, and long limbs. The day Eric was born, I held him in my arms and, after counting all his fingers and toes, I said a prayer of thanks that he was a boy. He was safe.

You see, Janet and I come from a long line of women who are cursed.

No one can pinpoint how far back the curse reaches, but I know for certain that Janet, our mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother were all burdened with the same affliction. Mom's doctor was the first to give it a name. He'd called it bipolar with psychosis. Drugs could balance and treat, he'd said, and for a time, there'd been some hope a modern miracle drug would counteract what centuries of prayers couldn't. The medications did offer brief tastes of normalcy, but neither Mom nor Janet liked the side effects, so neither stayed on their medications long. Calm waters never lasted.

Whatever hopes I nurtured that day in the nursery quickly crumbled. Janet, under the twin weights of wife and mother, dipped back into depression within weeks. At first, Zeb and his parents attributed Janet's mood to postpartum blues. However, those theories shattered when she quickly soared, like Icarus toward the sun, into mania.

Janet knocked harder on the door, shifting her stance from side to side. “Addie, open up!”

My sensible tennis shoes squeaked on the cement warehouse floor as I crossed the main floor and opened the door. “Zeb's looking for you.”

Janet brushed inside quickly, tracking mud on my freshly swept floor, and held up a prized bag from the Union Street Bakery. “Happy Birthday, Addie.”

I folded my arms, bracing. “Janet, did you hear me?”

“Zeb is fine. Don't worry.”

“He looked mad.”

She waved away the comment with long, elegant fingers. “You thought I'd forget your birthday, didn't you?” Grinning, she was pleased she'd remembered and bought a cake. Details were hard for Janet, just as they were for our mother. Remembering was a prize not to be downplayed. “It's chocolate. Your favorite.”

My birthday was two weeks ago. “I love chocolate.”

Janet meant well, but her illness stole time. She often lost months when the depression hit or the mania whipped up into full swing, her racing mind moving so fast that life zinged past her in a colorful blur.

Grinning, she fumbled for pockets at her side only to realize she wasn't wearing her coat. “I wanted to light a candle for you, and I was careful to put matches in my pocket.” Nervous laughter bubbled. “Now I just have to find the pocket.”

Accepting the bag, I fished out napkins, a couple of plates, a plastic knife, candles, and matches. Janet would not have remembered this detail. That was someone at the bakery's doing. “It's all in the bag.”

“Oh, great! You can make a wish like you did when you were little.”

I lifted the cake out of the damp, crumpled cake box and set it aside before I scooped up the soggy carton and dropped it in the trash. “Why don't you let me light the candles?”

“I can do it.” With a trembling hand, Janet settled several candles in the center of the cake. “I'm not such a lost cause after all.”

I wiped the flecks of sticking cardboard from the counter as she dug a match from the small box and struck it. The tip didn't flare or light, and so she attempted a second and then a third match. Finally, Janet handed me the matches. “I think they're too wet.”

I removed one from the box. “How you been doing?”

“Been doing okay. Got new medicine, and I'm feeling real good. Life's feeling steady.” She tugged the folds of her wet skirt.

I struck the match again. Too wet to ignite, it snapped in my hand. I chose another and tried again. It failed. “Zeb said he hasn't seen you in four days.”

She flinched. “I've been busy. Lots to do.”

“What about the baby?”

“Zeb has him.”

The last match sputtered and finally caught fire. I held the glowing tip to the candle's wick. Slowly, the circle of candles came alive and cast a soft glow over the waves of chocolate. I blew out the match.

“What have you been up to?” I asked.

She clapped her hands together. “Addie Morgan, today is about your birthday. I want to talk about happy things.”

“How about the demons? Have they been bothering you?”

The demons, the witches, even the lady of the lake, they'd all come to see Janet over the years. The apparitions, which the doctors said were caused by a terrible lack of sleep, were rarely kind to my sister. They taunted her. Told her she wasn't good enough and, sometimes, they suggested I was a threat.

Janet swiped her finger along the rim of the cake, gathered up icing, and licked. “So what are you gonna wish for, Addie? What do you want more than anything?”

My wish was simple. I wanted a normal life. One where my sister and I were friends. A world where the demons didn't come around to taunt her. A world without curses. “I wish we could be normal.”

Janet smiled as a shadow darkened her gaze. “I wish it, too, Addie. And you know what? I think this time I might be able to hold on. I might not fly toward the clouds or fall into the swamp.”

“Well, then it's the official birthday wish.” I blew out the candles,
and we both clapped. I laid out the paper plates and with a plastic knife sliced each of us a piece.

She accepted her plate, jabbed her fork into the cake, moved it around, but didn't eat. “This is nice.”

And on the surface, it was kinda normal. A birthday. Two sisters.

I bit into the cake. Stale and dry—she'd bought it weeks ago and forgotten about it. Smiling, I chewed and swallowed. Carefully, I stabbed another piece, moved it around but didn't eat it. We sat in silence for a few minutes, both of us pretending to eat the soggy, stale cake.

“What kind of meds do the docs have you on, Janet?”

She dragged her fork over her icing. “I can't remember the names. But I have all the bottles in my pocket.”

“In the pocket of your jacket?”

“Yes.” Her fingers again slid down the sides of her dress and then curled into fists. “I forgot. I'm not wearing my coat. I must have left it in the car.” A shrug of the shoulders reminded me of a twelve-year-old girl, carefree and unworried.

“When are you supposed to take the meds, Janet?” Somewhere along the way I became the oldest child.

“It's not for a while. I'm fine. You don't need to worry.”

I swirled my fork in a lump of chocolate icing. “I'm not worried. Just wondering when you're due to take the meds.”

She sighed. “Not until six o'clock tonight. So there. You don't need to worry.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. “Janet, it's after eight.”

She stared blankly at invisible puzzle pieces lying in a jumble. “It can't be after eight, Addie. I left the bakery at four with your cake and came straight here.”

“You sure you came straight here?” Sheila McCrae would not have sold her a stale cake.

“I didn't stop at a bar, if that's what you think.”

“I didn't think that.” The edges of Janet's plateau cracked and crumbled like the dry cake. “Why don't you let me call Zeb? He's worried about you.”

“No. Don't call Zeb.” She dragged the tips of her plastic fork against the paper plate until she dug a rut.

“Why not? He's a good guy, Janet. He loves you.”

A deep frown furrowed her brow. “You and Zeb think alike. All you two see are my screwups. I'm always wrong where you two are concerned.”

This fake normalcy thinned like ice cream on a hot day. Soon it would drip, run, and melt away. “Maybe we should go get your medicines. I'll drive you home.”

“No. I don't want to go home.”

“Why not?”

She jabbed agitated fingers through her hair. “Because.”

I dropped the fork and knife, no longer able to keep up the pretense that I was enjoying the stale, soggy chocolate mess. “Why, Janet?”

She tightened her jaw and moved to slide her hands again into pockets that weren't there.

I met her gaze and could see the confusion mingling with the frustration. “What's happened? Are you and Zeb having trouble?”

“No trouble. Not exactly.” She fisted her fingers. “I moved out. It was all getting too crazy in the apartment. The baby was crying. Zeb was upset and frustrated. I couldn't take it.”

Even Zeb's once-steady demeanor couldn't navigate these waters. “Where are you staying?”

“In a motel.”

“Which one?”

Janet sniffed. “I hate it when you judge me. First, you light the candles,
and then you ask me about meds, and now you want to know where I'm staying. So many questions. You were always like that. Asking questions.”

And with that, the ground under the almost peaceful moment vanished, and we plunged. I collected our dishes and dumped them in the trash. “Let me drive you. Is your car parked out front?”

Janet flipped a lock of her wet blond hair out of her eyes. “I can drive myself.”

“Let me drive, Janet. The rain is coming down hard, and I know you don't like the rain.”

She turned to the glass storefront window and stared at the pelting rain splashing on King Street and washing into the gutter. “I don't like rain.”

From under the counter, I grabbed my purse. “I can drive.”

She moved to the door, opened it an inch, but let it close immediately when the water splashed her face. “The demons like the water.”

I grabbed my rain jacket, too tired to point out that the demons weren't real, and laid it over her shoulders. “Let me have your keys.”

“They're in the car.”

“Where's the car?”

“Down the block.”

“Let's get to the car.”

Cringing, she stared at the rain pelting the windows. “I don't want to go.”