Free Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) by Mary Ellen Taylor Page B

No one had mentioned my birth mother in years. I guess they figured I’d forgotten. But I hadn’t forgotten. I just didn’t know who to talk to about it.
    Just my luck. The one person who might be a resource was a crazy old bird. I could go right now or even tomorrow and visit Mrs. Woodrow’s house and ask her about Renee. I could. And I would, soon. But for right now, my plate was filled with this bakery and the shambles of my life. Tossing in a birth-mother search was more than I needed now. As much as I wanted to know about Renee, I didn’t have the energy to deal with the fading memories of an old woman today. But I would.
    Soon . . .
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    By the time I climbed the staircase to my room, the cupcake clock chimed ten times. Bone tired, my body ached and my head throbbed. Sorting the books had been just as complicated as I’d feared. I should have taken it a bit at a time, but I’d been unable to move away from the desk until I really understood what was happening with the bakery’s finances.
    The bottom line appeared to be that we weren’t generating enough business based on the number of employees and the number of goods we manufactured. Today’s flood of customers had been the anomaly. Most days, business was at least 30 percent less. Since firing a sister wasn’t an option, the bakery needed to find ways to cut inventory and market. From what I could tell, we were totally dependent on walk-in traffic, and the only catering we did was around the Christmas holidays. We needed more catering. More weddings. Maybe even a deal with a high-end grocery store willing to carry our bread.
    In my room, I kicked off my clogs, tugged off my clothes, and dropped them in a pile by my bed before slipping on a flannel nightgown. As much as I’d have liked a shower, I just didn’t have the energy. I brushed my teeth, splashed water on my face, and climbed into my sleeping bag on the lumpy sofa. One moment I was aware of closing my eyes and the next, I tumbled immediately into a deep sleep.
    I dreamed of two little girls laughing.
    â€œWhat game do you want to play today? It’s your birthday so you can choose!” The little girl’s smile was so wide, deep dimples burrowed into her cheeks.
    I sat cross-legged on my bed staring at my friend Susie. The little girl wore her hair in tight, neat braids secured with blue ribbons that teased the tops of thin shoulders covered with a starched white dress. Susie had a light mocha complexion that soaked up the sun in the summer. Like me, she was about twelve.
    â€œI don’t want to play a game.”
    Susie frowned. “Why not? You always want to play. I know you love I Spy.” Susie tapped her finger to her lips. “Let’s see, I Spy something blue.”
    â€œNo.” My mood had been sour since I’d risen and no amount of coaxing would draw me out. My mom had grown frustrated and grumbled about me being selfish. “I don’t want to play.”
    Susie cocked her head. “Why are you such a Sour Sally on your birthday?”
    I folded arms over my chest, trying to understand the anger that stalked me today. “I don’t know.”
    Susie leaned forward and in a singsong voice said, “There’s always a reason. Tell me.”
    When I didn’t answer, Susie rose up from the bed and started to dance around the room. “Tell me. Tell me. I won’t go away until you tell me, Daisy McCrae!”
    Frustrated, I watched Susie twirl and twirl as she sang. Susie had been the only one today who had wanted to understand my moodiness. She’d been the only one who didn’t wonder why I was so ungrateful.
    Finally unable to stand the pesky tune, I blurted, “I don’t know when my real birthday is.”
    Susie stopped dancing and came back to the bed, tucking her legs under her lace skirt. “Of course you know. Today is your