Free Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) by Mary Ellen Taylor

Daisy.”
    â€œThanks, Brad.”
    I hung up and laid my head on my desk. The sale would likely net me about five thousand dollars. Two months from now I might have gotten three times that amount, but like I’d told Brad, it was now or never. Those stocks were the last of any kind of nest egg for me, and the cash from their sale would buy the bakery thirty or so days. Of course, I was officially flat broke and shackled to the business.
    I breathed deeply. “What have I done?”
    â€œDaisy, Daisy!” My mother’s singsong, baby way of saying my name had me lifting my head from the computer screen toward the office door.
    Sitting up, I pulled my ponytail free, combed it with my fingers and retied it. “In here, Mom.”
    Mom was an older, much plumper version of Rachel and Margaret. Her short blond hair remained light—but that was thanks to peroxide not nature. Deep lines wrinkled her forehead and the corners of her eyes. And for as long as I could remember, she’d worn bright red lipstick and an oversized blue T-shirt, which she thought created a trimmer silhouette.
    I tossed my thick black-rimmed glasses on the desk, minimized the screen, rose, and stretched the stiffness from my back. I glanced at the clock and realized it was nearly six.
    â€œI came to check on you, honey.”
    â€œAnd she’s got Dad with her,” came my father’s deep baritone voice. Dad stood several inches taller than Mom. He claimed to be five foot ten but that would have been on his best day years ago. Stooped shoulders now robbed him of an inch or so. Mother Nature had taken most of his thick hair, and a razor took care of what remained. A white T-shirt hugged his round, hard belly and allowed gray chest hair to curl over the V-shaped neckline. He looked a bit like an old Irish-American version of Mr. Clean.
    Mom set a turkey sandwich on whole wheat bread with chips and a pickle on my desk. “You’ve got to be starving.”
    I crunched on a chip. “Yes. Starving. Thanks.”
    Dad set an unopened can of diet soda next to the plate. His gaze lingered on the desk, searching, and I knew he wished he’d brought his reading glasses. The lines in his forehead deepened. “So what’s the damage? How has Rachel done with the books?”
    I’d razzed my sisters in a heartbeat when it was the three of us. In fact, growing up I took great pleasure in pointing out their mistakes to them. But for reasons unknown to me, if they screwed up so badly that Mom and Dad had to get involved, I covered it up. “Not bad at all. I’ve been able to jump right in.”
    Never mind the fact that my finances had officially tanked.
    Dad glanced sharply at me as if trying to determine the truthfulness of my words. “You sure? Rachel is a great baker but she can barely add two and two.”
    â€œNo worries, Dad. Really. I’ve got it under control.” The lie tripped so easily off my tongue.
    Mom grinned and hooked her arm in my father’s. Some would see it as a loving gesture but I knew Mom. She was bracing to drag him out of here, if need be. “See, Frank, I told you the bakery was fine. Rachel did just fine. And now Daisy will make things even better.”
    â€œNo worries, Dad. Really. Rachel did a great job holding it together.”
    Dad straightened, not yet swayed. “Mind if I have a look at the books?”
    Mom tightened her hold.
    â€œI do mind, Dad. I’m just getting this sorted to my way of doing things, but I’m not at the point I can talk about it without getting a little turned around. Give me until month’s end and we’ll have a major powwow.”
    â€œA couple of weeks?” He arched a brow, but the worry faded a fraction, as if just having a deadline was a relief.
    â€œBy month’s end, Dad.”
    â€œThat’s not so long, Frank,” Mom said.
    â€œIt’s fifteen days, Sheila.” He was a man who