Déjà Date (3 page)

“I’ll definitely be around,” he said, releasing her hand and facing me. “We have a lot of catching up to do, don’t we?”

I turned to Mary Ann. “I’ll see you later. Thanks again for the coffee.”

“Anytime.” She backed up a few feet until she was standing behind Nate, looked him up and down, and gave me the thumbs up sign. Then she held her hand to the side of her head with her thumb toward her ear and her pinky toward her mouth, in the universal sign for “call me.”

“It was nice to see you, Nate. But I really should be going, too.” I forced a smile, then turned to my table and gathered my untouched bran muffin in a paper napkin. I started toward the door.

He stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “We need to have lunch.”

I sucked in a deep breath, unwittingly inhaling the scent of his leather jacket since he was only standing a few inches away. The distinctive aroma conjured an insane image of me swinging my leg over the back of Nate’s motorcycle and wrapping my arms around his waist as we zoomed down the street with my hair flying behind me. Weird.

I’d never ridden a motorcycle and didn’t plan to ride one ever. I especially wouldn’t ride one with Nate, though. “Thanks, but I can’t have lunch with you.”

He peered down at me. “Dinner then.”

“Sorry.” I shook my head, adjusting the purse strap on my shoulder. “It’s nice that you’re visiting your dad, but I’m sure you’ll be off to Paris soon. Or Bali. Or wherever the wind blows you. Then I’ll never hear from you again.”

An unreadable look crossed his face. “I’m here indefinitely. We have a lot to talk about. Can’t you make time to catch up with an old friend?”

My heart squeezed. A friend would’ve written or called, not disappeared from my life without a word—especially after the kiss we’d shared.

“Look, I’ve agreed to manage the bakery for a little while so your dad can get the rest he needs. I’m sure we’ll see each other around.” Or not.

He tilted his head, giving me an inquisitive side-glance. “What if the bakery sells before we get the chance?”

“Well, then . . .” I started to step around him, then my mind processed what he’d just said and I stopped in my tracks. I spun around so fast, the muffin slipped out of my hand and bounced across the floor. “Bernie’s thinking of selling the bakery?”

“He already put it on the market.” He squatted down and retrieved my breakfast casualty from under a bistro table where it had bumped into some man’s unsuspecting loafer. “His Realtor, Wendy Watts, is putting the “for sale” sign up tomorrow. She’s on billboards all over town and is supposed to be the best in Sacramento.”

My heart dropped to the floor, and my brain swirled trying to make sense of what he was telling me. I shook my head, because the possibility of Bernie selling his bakery did not compute. “But your dad’s going through a stack of résumés to hire a manager. Why would he do that if he’s selling?”

“In addition to selling the building, he’s hoping someone will buy the business and keep it going. That’s his dream, anyway.” Nate tossed the dirty muffin into a nearby trash can, then returned with a crease between his brows. “I thought he’d explained all of this to you.”

“No.” Tears burned behind my eyes, and I blinked rapidly to keep them at bay as I fought for composure. I couldn’t imagine Bernie not being here every day. My throat started to close, so I made a show of checking my watch. I had to get of here before I broke down. “I’m late to meet my mom. I have to go. Bye, Nate.”

“Melinda . . .”

I heard his voice behind me, but I hurried to the exit before I lost it. The purple-haired barista shouted my name as I dashed by, and shoved a basket of baked goods over the counter, saying Bernie had put it together for my mom. Of course he had. That’s what he
often
did.

But that wouldn’t happen anymore—not once Bernie’s Bakery was sold to the highest bidder. My throat tightened even further. With the basket in one hand, I pulled open the yellow door with the other, and the familiar
ding-a-ling
of the bell chimed overhead. A wave of nausea rolled through me and I rushed to my car.

I unlocked the door and climbed behind the wheel, but my hand was too shaky to get the key in the ignition. My eyes watered and my chest pounded, so I leaned back in the seat trying to take deep calming breaths. Immediately my gaze darted to the building on the corner. Big white letters with a thick brown outline decorated the center of the window, spelling out “Bernie’s Bakery” in a cheerful font.

That bakery was a neighborhood icon. It had been a place of joy when I was growing up back when Nate and I were best friends, a place of comfort after my dad had died, and it still felt like my home away from home. But soon the bakery would be sold and its fate would be up to the new owner, who could turn it into a yoga studio or a clothing boutique or whatever they wanted.

The mere thought of Bernie’s Bakery shutting down had absolutely devastated to me. I couldn’t imagine how heartbroken I’d be when it actually happened.

****

Completely crushed by the news that Bernie was selling his bakery, I had to force myself to concentrate on the road ahead as I pulled my convertible away from the curb by Bernie’s Bakery. I cruised through “The Fabulous Forties” neighborhood in East Sacramento, heading to my mom’s house to ask for a small chunk of the inheritance funds I had never wanted to touch just so I could pay next month’s rent.

Even in my sad state, I had to admit that it made sense that Bernie would sell his bakery. His health was at stake, which was why even his audacious son had (annoyingly) returned after all those years of being away. I also supposed Bernie was close to an early retirement age. But I couldn’t imagine a life where Bernie’s Bakery didn’t exist. There
must
be a way to ensure its survival.

As I continued through the neighborhood I’d grown up in, my gaze darted around and I admired the grand custom homes built in the early twentieth century. Tudor-style homes. Dutch farmhouses. Mediterranean villas. A homey feeling encompassed me, along with the familiar longing to own one of these beautiful houses myself someday.

Not likely, at the rate I was going. Sigh.

I pulled into the driveway of the two-story brick colonial revival-style home I’d grown up in, and parked beside the sweeping green lawn. Then my gaze fell to the basket of baked goods sitting on my front passenger seat that Bernie had so lovingly put together for my mom.

Bernie’s bakery hadn’t just been a job for him. He’d loved spending his time there every day, and his choice of business had made him happy. Unlike me, who was searching for another customer service job I didn’t really enjoy. I found myself wishing I’d chosen a career that I loved as much Bernie had loved his.

Wait a minute. . . .

A nervous burst of laughter escaped as an idea started percolating in my brain. My mind flew back to all of the good times I’d had when I’d worked at Bernie’s Bakery during college. I remembered the peace that would come over me, while baking during the early morning hours before the rest of the world was awake. I’d loved greeting and chatting with the regular customers, who had inevitably felt like an extended part of my family. I still ran into some of them from time to time.

Working at the bakery had been
so
much fun.

What if I bought the bakery?

Suddenly, the solution made perfect sense. I knew what I had to do. Gripping the handle of Bernie’s basket of goodies with my hand, I jumped out of the car and hurried up the walkway toward my mom’s front door. I didn’t need to just dip into the inheritance funds my dad had left me so I could get through the next month. I needed to accept the whole shebang so I could buy Bernie’s Bakery!

Adrenaline blasted through me, and I knew with every ounce of my being that this was the correct decision. I’d never felt right accepting money that had resulted from my dad’s death, but now I realized what an incredible gift he’d left for me. This generous gift would completely change the direction of my life. I’d finally be spending my days doing something meaningful that I loved—just like Bernie had done.

And even though it was such a large sum, I knew my mom wouldn’t have a problem handing over all of the funds to me. She’d offered it up many times over the years, practically trying to force me to take it. Wearing an excited smile that I hadn’t felt in weeks, months, or maybe even years, I pressed the doorbell.

I couldn’t wait to tell my mom about my plan to buy Bernie’s Bakery. She’d be happy, I figured, since Bernie’s had featured predominantly in her life, too. During my childhood, my mom had always been impeccably dressed, attending elegant social functions every weekend. Whenever she was in charge of an event, she always had it catered with Bernie’s delicious delicacies. She’d enjoyed hosting parties herself as well, and ordered all of the food from the bakery because his delectable goodies were the best around.

Not like she’d had anything catered by Bernie lately, though. Once my dad had passed away in that ridiculously tragic hot air balloon accident, my mom had stopped leaving the house and instead spent her days painting ceramic hot air balloons as if she were trying to bring him back to life or something.

In addition to abandoning her social life, her designer put-together look had slowly declined to the point that, seven weeks ago, I’d arrived to find her wearing a wrinkled sweat suit covered with splotches of paint. She’d had long, gray roots too as if she had been skipping her monthly beauty salon treatments, even though she used to be religious about those appointments.

That was why I’d suggested she go see a therapist. She’d blown me off with an annoyed look, so I hadn’t brought it up again in all of our conversations. I knew it was her life to live how she wanted, but deep down I didn’t feel like she was happy anymore.

Hearing footsteps approaching the door, I bounced on my heels, anxious to tell her about my plan to buy Bernie’s Bakery. Maybe that would help show her that change could be good. Then she could
change
out of those dreadful sweats, which I deeply believed belonged in the garbage can.

The front door opened, and my eyes widened in shock. “Mom . . .?”

“Hello, Melinda.” She smiled, and I resisted the urge to pinch myself. Instead of sweats, she wore a peacock-blue button-up blouse, white pants, and the pearl necklace that had belonged to my grandmother. Her hair was the lovely ash blonde her hair-stylist favored, only she wore it down instead of pulled back. “I’m glad you were available to come over this morning. I have a lot I need to discuss with you.”

“You look so different,” I blurted out, then realized that was the understatement of the year. This was not the same woman whose sweat suit had seemed permanently plastered to her body, nor was this the same woman from my childhood who had preferred neutral colors and wearing her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck. My mom had completely transformed.

“Well, I should hope I look different. I’ve been going to therapy twice a week for almost two months.”

My eyes welled with tears. “You’ve been seeing a therapist?”

“What else could I do when my daughter seemed worried about me?” She pulled me into a hug so strong and comforting that I wanted to bury my head into her shoulder like I’d done when I was little. “I’ve had a hard time letting your dad go, sweetheart.”

When she released me, I shifted my stance on the foyer’s marble floor. “And now?”

She smiled wistfully. “I’ll always love him, but I have to start living my life again. In that regard, I have a few important matters to talk about with you. Let’s sit in the family room. I’ve made us some coffee.”

“Before I forget . . .” I handed her the basket of baked goods. “Bernie asked me to bring these to you. I just came from the bakery.”

“How thoughtful.” Her eyes lit up as she lifted the brown and white–checkered cloth and peeked inside. Knowing Bernie, they were all of my mom’s favorites. Zucchini bread. Almond croissants. Carrot cake. She laced her arm through mine, then led me toward the family room. “How is Bernie?”

We passed by the grandfather clock next to the staircase, which began to chime the ninth hour, then we stepped into the family room. Numerous ceramic hot air balloons cheerfully occupied shelves around the room, each balloon and basket hand-painted in a unique color pattern by my mom. On a table in the corner of the room sat a ceramic urn with tiny hot air balloons painted around its middle. Inside the urn were my dad’s ashes.

Having his remains here had creeped me out at first, but I’d grown used to saying hi to Dad when I came in the room. I touched the hot air balloon urn lightly with the tips of my fingers, my throat tightening a bit before I remembered my mom had asked about Bernie.

I faced her, and swallowed. “Bernie’s not well, actually.”

Her brows knitted together as she stopped beside the buffet table. “What do you mean he’s not well?”

“It’s pretty serious.” I didn’t want to sugar coat it, but I felt bad that her expression had changed from relaxed to worried. “His doctor advised him to stop working and rest for two weeks due to heart palpitations. It’s so serious that even Nate is back in town.”
Looking hotter than ever
, I thought, but obviously didn’t say aloud.

She set the basket of baked goods on the buffet table, next to her rose-patterned china coffee pot and matching coffee cups and saucers. “I need to call Bernie,” she said.

“I’m sure he’d like that.” I pushed the image of Nate out of my mind and sat down on the sofa. I twisted my hands together, nervous about what I was bringing up next. “There’s something else I want to tell you. It’s kind of a huge decision I’ve made, actually.”

My mom continued to stare at the wicker basket on the mahogany buffet table as if she hadn’t heard me.

“Mom?”

She lifted her head slowly. “Hmm?”

I frowned, wondering if she was more distraught over Bernie’s condition than I’d anticipated. “If you’re worried about Bernie, you don’t need to be. I’m managing his bakery for the next two weeks so he’ll be able to rest.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” She smoothed out the checkered towel lying across the top of the basket until it was without a wrinkle. “He loves his bakery, though. It will be hard for him to be away. You’ll need to call him every day to assure him everything’s going smoothly. And make sure that nice boy Nate sends a basket of freshly baked bread daily, too. That will cheer Bernie up.”