The Bakery Sisters (7 page)

“I'm not asking for a pony,” Amy signed, making him smile.

It was their private joke. Nothing was too big as long as it wasn't a pony.

He was trapped by his inability to tell his daughter the truth. That he didn't trust Claire and he wasn't a hundred percent sure he could control himself around her. How was that for a sad excuse?

“I'll talk to Nicole and Claire,” he signed. “No pushing.”

Amy's response was to throw herself into his arms. He pulled her against him and hugged her. Love filled him, as it always did around her.

He might have the worst luck with women, but when it came to kids, he'd been blessed with the best.

 

T
HE PARKING LOT
at the bakery was jammed. Claire had to weave her way through cars just to get around to the back. She found a space by the wall and managed to pull in, although she had no idea how she was going to back out.

She walked purposefully across to the rear door of the building and entered. “Hello?”

When there was no answer, she headed toward what she assumed was the front of the bakery. She pushed open a swinging door and entered chaos.

There were people everywhere. They filled the waiting area, pushing aside tables and looking impatient.

There were so many people, she thought, feeling a little sick to her stomach. Did they all have to come at once?

Sid spotted her. “What took you so long?” he demanded. “We're busy here.”

Before she could answer, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the back. He set her purse on a small desk, then reached into a box and pulled out a hairnet.

“Put this on.”

She took it and fumbled with it for a second, before he grabbed it and shoved it on her head. After thrusting an apron in her hands, he dragged her toward the front.

“Maggie will show you how to work the cash register. It's easy. Punch in what they buy, tell them the total. Take their money. Credit cards are even easier. Good luck.”

With that he disappeared back into the bakery, leaving Claire standing there with no idea what to do.

The woman she'd seen the previous day handed someone change, then hurried over. “Prices are on the list here.” She showed Claire a laminated sheet of paper by a cash register. “Doughnuts, bagels, pastries. Don't worry about the quantity button. If they buy five, hit the key five times.”

She quickly went over the basics of the machine, showed her how to work the credit card part of it, then pointed to the glowing number on the wall. “Call the next one.”

That was it? Thirty seconds of training and they were done? Claire looked around, not sure what to do. She glanced back at the wall.

“Um, number one-sixty-eight?”

“Here.” A well-dressed woman pushed to the front of the counter. “I need two dozen mixed bagels, the same with muffins, regular and fat-free cream cheese.”

Claire went over to where the bagels sat in metal baskets. She pulled out a small brown bag, reached for a tissue and started putting one of each kind of bagel into the bag. After a couple of seconds she realized the bag wasn't going to be big enough. She pulled out a bigger one, then didn't know how to get the bagels from the first bag into the second one.

“Can you hurry?” the woman asked impatiently. “I'm running late.”

“Um, sure.” Not knowing what else to do, Claire dumped the bagels into the second bag and continued filling the bag. When she got to ten, she'd gone through all the bagels, so she started back at the top of the case, trying not to bump into Maggie and the other man working.

She took the bagels to the woman. “I'm sorry. What else did you want?”

The woman looked at her like she was an idiot. “Cream cheese. Regular and fat-free. And two dozen muffins. Quickly.”

Claire turned, not sure where the cream cheese was. Maggie thrust two containers into her hands.

“Thanks,” Claire murmured, then went to get the muffins.

When she'd gathered everything, she went to the cash register. Her customer handed her a credit card. Claire stared at it, then the machine.

“Dear God, could you go slower?” the woman muttered.

Claire's chest began to tighten. She ignored the pressure.

“I'm sorry,” Claire said with a smile. “I've never done this before.”

“I never would have guessed.”

Maggie came over and took the credit card. “I'll ring this up. You go to the next customer.”

Claire nodded and looked at the number reader. “One seventy-four.”

Two teenagers in uniforms stepped forward. “A cherry-cheese Danish and a medium coffee. Leave lots of room for milk, please,” the first girl said.

“Sure.” Claire drew in deep breaths, but that didn't make the pain go away. The tightness only increased until it made her ears ring.

She moved around Maggie and stood in front of the display case. “Which one?” she asked the teenager.

“The one with the cherry and cheese on it,” the girl said and pointed. “Hello. That one.”

Claire reached for a tissue and pulled it from the case. She handed it to the girl, then went to get coffee.

There were four dispensers standing in a row. She took a cup and managed to fill it nearly full. When she carried it back to the teenager, the girl stared at her.

“Medium, not small and real coffee, not decaf. What's wrong with you?”

Claire looked at the cup, then back at the stacks of them. At the same time she saw a little sign above the dispenser she'd used saying Decaf.

The chest pain got worse. She couldn't breathe. No matter how much air she sucked in, it wasn't going into her lungs. She was going to pass out and then she was going to die.

“I can't—” she gasped, and set the coffee on the counter. “I can't.”

“What's wrong?” the girl asked. “Are you having a fit? Is she having a fit? Can I have my coffee first?”

There was a buzzing in her ears. Claire staggered back. She leaned against the wall.

Maggie hurried over. “What is wrong with you?”

“Can't…breathe. Panic…attack.”

“You're worse than Nicole said. Just get out of here. Go. You're scaring the customers.”

It was just like what had happened the last time she'd been on stage, only no one rushed to help her. She wasn't urged to lie down or sip water. It was as if she didn't exist.

As she leaned against the wall and struggled for breath, she watched customer after customer be served, then leave. They went on with their lives. They had lives. What did she have?

She sank into a crouch, still gasping. Tears burned in her eyes. This wasn't what she wanted, she thought grimly. She wanted to be more than a crazy person with mutant hands. She wanted to be strong and capable. She wanted to be normal. But how?

She tried telling herself that despite how she felt, she really was breathing. Otherwise she would already be dead. Panic attacks were just a sensation. They were a biological response but they weren't about anything.

What she wanted to do was curl up in a ball until it was over. Instead, she forced herself to stand. After taking in two slow, deep breaths, she walked back to the counter and called out the next number.

A man stepped forward. “A dozen doughnuts,” he said. “They're for the secretaries in my office, so lots of chocolate.”

She nodded and reached for a box. After collecting twelve doughnuts, mostly chocolate, she went to the cash register and looked at the card. There was a single price for a dozen.

“Five-fifty,” she said.

He handed her a ten.

Claire put that into the cash register, made change and handed it over. The man smiled at her.

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

She checked the next number and called it out. Her chest still ached and she couldn't catch her breath, but she kept going. Working carefully, trying to smile and give each customer what he or she wanted.

One customer turned into two. Two turned into five. Eventually the bakery cleared out. When they were finally alone, Maggie looked at her.

“You all right?”

Claire nodded. “Sorry about the panic attack. It happens sometimes.”

All the time, lately, but she didn't want to admit that.

“You didn't give up,” Maggie said. “That's something. And you helped. So thanks for that.”

“You're welcome.”

“You can go. We'll be slow from now until lunch. By then Tiff will be here.”

Claire nodded and walked into the back of the bakery. After removing the apron and hairnet, she collected her purse and walked to her car.

She started the engine and leaned back in the seat. She was exhausted. A quick glance at the clock told her less than two hours had passed since she'd arrived, which didn't seem possible. She felt as if she'd been working days.

Her cell phone rang. Claire pulled it out and glanced at the screen. Lisa again. Nothing good would come from that call. She turned off the phone and shoved it in her purse.

No doubt Nicole would have something snippy to say about her panic attack, but Claire refused to care. She'd managed to work through it and come out the other side. It was, for her, the first victory in a long time and nothing was going to take that away from her.

C
LAIRE HEATED
the last of the takeout Wyatt had brought over. As she waited for the microwave to do its thing, she placed her hands on the counter and closed her eyes. Without even willing them to, her fingers moved against the cool granite. In her mind, she played notes and heard music. The sound filled her until her body seemed to rise up and float.

The microwave dinged, dropping her back into this reality—the one where she didn't play piano anymore, didn't go to classes or teach or fit in that world.

She missed playing. Crazy, considering the fact that she could barely look at the damn instrument without having a panic attack. Maybe it wasn't the piano she missed as much as the sense of getting lost in music, of losing herself in the richness of the sound. Plus, practice and play were her life. It was like quitting smoking—even without the physical addiction, she still had all the behaviors in place.

She glanced at the stairs leading to the basement. While she didn't want to go back down there, she should take care of the piano. Her mental problems weren't the instrument's fault.

After checking on Nicole's dinner, she found a phone book and looked up piano tuners. She called three places before finding a guy who would come out this week and tune the piano. That done, she put the plate on a tray, along with a pot of herbal tea and some bread, then carried everything upstairs.

Nicole's door stood open. Claire entered and smiled at her sister. “I thought you might be getting hungry, so I brought a little more than last night. How are you feeling?”

Nicole lay on top of the covers. Sometime during the day, she'd changed into different sweat pants and a new T-shirt. Thick socks covered her feet. The color had returned to her face.

“I'm fine,” her sister said.

“Good.”

Claire set down the tray. “This is the last of the takeout. I'll get something else for tomorrow.”

“Are you cooking?” Nicole asked.

“Uh, no. I was thinking maybe Chinese.”

Nicole didn't say anything, which left Claire feeling as if she'd failed again. She didn't know how to cook. When was she supposed to find the time?

She told herself that she didn't have to apologize to anyone for her life, but couldn't shake the feeling that she was once again being judged and found wanting.

Nicole slid the tray onto her lap, then looked up. “Thank you for helping out in the bakery this morning. They were swamped.”

Claire stepped forward eagerly. “I couldn't believe how many people were there. It was a huge crowd. Everything went so fast. It was difficult to figure out how to use the cash register, but by the end of the morning rush, I sort of knew what I was doing.”

She'd come through and that was what mattered, she told herself. Every challenge met made her stronger.

“I heard you had some kind of fit,” Nicole said sounding more curious than concerned. “Are you on medication?”

Claire felt herself blushing. She forced herself to continue to stand there. “I had a panic attack, but I worked through it.”

“Don't expect an award for showing up,” Nicole muttered.

Claire's embarrassment shifted to annoyance. “Did I ask for an award? Did I ask for anything at all? My recollection of recent events is a phone call from Jesse asking me to come home because you needed help. I dropped everything and flew out the next morning, showed up here to do exactly that—take care of you. I've brought you meals and snacks, helped you to the bathroom, carried in whatever you've asked for, helped out at the bakery and in return you're nothing but mean and sarcastic. What is wrong with you?”

Nicole dropped her fork onto the tray. “Wrong with me? You're the one who totally screwed up. You think I should be grateful that you brought your oh-so-special self to the peasant world for a few days? You think that makes up for anything?”

“All your labels, not mine.” Claire's voice rose. “As for finally showing up, I've been trying to connect with you for years. I send letters and e-mails. I leave messages. You never get back to me. Ever. I've asked you to join me on tour. I've asked to come home. The answer is always the same. No. Or more accurately—go to hell.”

“Why would I want to spend time with you? You're nothing but an egotistic, selfish, mother-murdering princess.”

And I hate you.

Nicole didn't say those last words, but she didn't have to.

Claire stared at her sister for a long time, not sure what accusation to take on first. “You don't know me,” she said in a low voice. “You haven't known me for over twenty years.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“Not mine.” Claire drew in a breath. “I didn't kill her. We were driving together. It was late and rainy and another car came out of nowhere. It hit us on her side. We were trapped and she was dying and there was nothing I could do.”

Claire closed her eyes against the nightmare of memories. The coldness of the night, the way the rain dripped into the shattered car, the sound of her mother's moans as she died.

“I lost her, too,” Claire whispered, looking at her sister. “She was all I had and I lost her, too.”

“Do you think I care?” Nicole yelled. “I don't. She went away. She went away because of you and she was all
I
had. She left and I had to take care of everything here. I was twelve when she left. I was twelve when I figured out she would rather be with you than with me or Jesse or Dad. She was just gone and I had to do everything. Take care of Jesse and the house and help out at the bakery. Then she was dead. Do you know what it was like after that? Do you?”

Claire remembered the funeral. How she'd stood with Lisa rather than her family because they were strangers to her. How she'd wanted to cry, but there were no tears left.

She remembered wanting to be with Nicole, her twin. How she'd longed to have her father say it was time for her to come home. Stay home. Instead Lisa had explained about Claire's schedule and concert dates and that she was very mature for her age and capable of handling her life without a guardian or chaperone around. Her father had agreed.

Ten-year-old Jesse had been a stranger to her and Nicole had been distant and angry. The way she still was.

“Go back to your fancy life,” her sister told her now. “Go back to your stupid piano and your hotels. Go back to where you don't have to earn everything you get. I don't want you here. I've never wanted you here. Do you know why?”

Claire stood her ground, sensing her sister had to say it and it was Claire's job to take it all in.

Nicole's blue eyes burned with white-hot rage. “Because every night after her death, I prayed God would turn back time and make it you instead of her. I still wish that.”

 

C
LAIRE SAT ON THE BED
in the guest room and let the tears come. They rolled down her cheeks, one after the other, washing away nothing, simply seeping from the great open wound inside of her.

She'd known about Nicole's anger and resentment, but she'd never thought her sister wished she was dead.

The situation was hopeless, she thought grimly. She'd come home for nothing. No one wanted her and she had nowhere else to go.

She covered her face with her hands and cried for a few more minutes, then sniffed and realized she couldn't feel sorry for herself forever. But maybe the rest of the night would be acceptable.

She stood and walked over to her suitcase. A small photo album lay at the bottom. She carried it back to the bed and sat down.

There were only a dozen or so pictures inside, all of them taken before she'd left Seattle when she was six. She and Nicole laughing. She and Nicole on a pony. Their identical Halloween costumes, when they'd both been Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. One photo showed them in bed together, sleeping, curled up like kittens.

Claire touched the cold, flat surface, remembering and wishing, knowing neither would change what time and distance had destroyed.

After washing her face, she grabbed a box of tissues and set it by the bed, then changed into an oversize T-shirt she'd bought in London—one with a huge head shot of Prince William on the front—and crawled into bed. She knew she wouldn't sleep, but curling up would make the whimpering easier.

She flipped channels on the small television on the dresser. As the pictures flashed in front of her, she wondered if she and Nicole could ever make peace with the past and each other, or were they forever destined to be strangers. She wasn't going to give up but she was also only half the equation.

And what about Jesse? Claire thought about their conversation from that morning. How could Jesse have violated Nicole's trust like that? Had she really slept with Drew? Could it have been a misunderstanding? If not, reconciling those two was going to be a nearly impossible task. Not that she was making great progress herself. Honestly, her personal life sure put her professional troubles in perspective.

Claire's eyes closed. She felt herself drifting off and welcomed the escape of sleep. What seemed like a few seconds later—although it could have been a couple of hours—she heard a
creak
on the stairs. She stirred and heard it again.

Just footsteps, she told herself, prepared to roll over. Then she sat up. Nicole couldn't use the stairs and Jesse was too slight to make that much noise. The possibility of Wyatt flashed through her brain, but the steps sounded too stealthy…as if the person climbing was trying not to make noise.

Claire got out of bed and crept over to her door. She cracked it and glanced out. Sure enough, a strange man stood on the landing, staring at Nicole's door.

He was only a few inches taller than her and not all that big. Instinctively, she glanced around for a weapon. The only thing she saw was a pair of high-heeled shoes. She grabbed one and quietly eased into the hall.

The man crossed to Nicole's door and opened it. Claire didn't stop to think, she charged, jumping onto his back and hitting him with the heel of the shoe. The guy shrieked, then stumbled into Nicole's room, all the while yelling at her to get off.

“Call 911,” Claire screamed as she and the guy went down.

She braced herself for the impact. Fortunately he crashed into the hardwood floor, and she only landed on him. While he was still gasping for breath, she dropped the shoe, grabbed his right wrist with both hands and pulled it against his back, up high, near his shoulder blades. He yelled in pain. At the same time, she planted her foot on the back of his neck and pressed down as hard as she could.

The man swore loudly. “I'm fucking bleeding. Goddammit, Nicole, what the hell is going on here?”

“Call 911,” Claire repeated. “I can't hold him much longer.”

Nicole sat up and stared at them. “Claire, I have to say, you've really impressed me. When did you learn to do that?”

Claire felt her strength fading. “I took martial arts classes off-season for a couple of years. Plus, I've seen my bodyguards at work.”

“You have bodyguards?”

Talk about the wrong thing to say, she thought with a sigh. “Not all the time. Not in New York, but sometimes in Europe. Fans can be aggressive.”

“Nicole!”

The shout came from the guy. Claire looked at him, then at her sister. “He knows you?”

“Apparently. You can let him go. That's Drew. My husband.”

Her…“What?” Claire released the guy's wrist and stepped off his neck. “Drew?” The cheating bastard who slept with his wife's sister?

The man in question rose slowly and glared at her. “Who the hell are you?”

He seemed good-looking enough, she thought absently, if one ignored the deep, oozing gouge in his cheek and the second one just under his ear. The wounds gave the phrase “killer high heels” a whole new meaning.

She ignored him and picked up her shoe. “I'll be down the hall if you need me.”

Nicole looked at her. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Claire left Nicole's door open, then retreated to the guest room. As she shut her door, she heard Drew's impatient repeated question, “Who the hell is she?” but couldn't hear Nicole's response.

Feeling proud of herself and empowered, Claire sank onto the bed and grinned. She'd done good. Maybe she should start working out and get stronger. Maybe take up martial arts again. She could be a dangerous killing machine. She looked down at her long, tapered fingers—a part of the freak hands she was supposed to protect at all costs. Maybe not.

She turned her attention to the television when what she really wanted to do was listen at the door. But that would be rude. She did her best to get interested in a show on HGTV only to jump when Drew started yelling.

“You're taking this all wrong.”

“How am I taking it wrong?” Nicole demanded, just as loud as Drew. “Are you saying you just slipped on the carpet and ended up having sex? She's my sister, you bastard. My baby sister. If you had to whore around, at least keep it out of the family.”