Sweet Trilogy. Susan Mallery
seen just weeks before. There had been a brief flurry of orders, followed by nothing.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Claire said earnestly. “Run the business. It’s a lot of work. How do you know how many doughnuts and bagels to make, and what kind? All those people working for you must be tough, too. I only have to deal with Lisa and sometimes that’s a problem.”
“We know what sells,” Nicole said, ignoring the need to snap at her. “We have years of history to look at.”
“But you run a very successful business.”
Nicole shrugged. “I’ve been doing it for years. I started helping out when I was a kid. By the time I was in high school, I was handling most of it. I took over everything a couple of years later.”
Her father had never been interested in the bakery. He’d done it out of obligation. But Nicole actually enjoyed her work.
“I couldn’t have done it,” Claire said. “I don’t have any business sense.”
“You don’t have any practice,” Nicole pointed out. “Things would have been different if you’d stayed.”
Claire bit her lip. “I’m sorry I left.”
Nicole had the sense of being sucked into a conversation she didn’t want to have. “You were six,” she said grudgingly. “It’s not like you had a choice.”
“But you got stuck with everything here. The bakery, being on your own, Jesse.”
“I screwed up that last one for sure,” Nicole muttered, trying not to fall into the painful combination of betrayal, anger and hurt that always filled her when she thought about Jesse and Drew.
“I’m sorry about that.”
“How’d you find out?” Nicole couldn’t imagine Wyatt talking about it.
“Jesse told me. She stopped by a couple of days ago. She’s the one who called me to ask me to come help out.” Claire’s mouth twisted. “I don’t understand how she could have done that.”
“Me, either,” Nicole said, hating that she wanted to ask how Jesse was. Did she actually miss her? After what she’d done? Impossible. “Let’s change the subject.”
“Okay. Wyatt asked me to look after Amy.”
“Have you done any babysitting?”
“No. Is it hard?”
Nicole thought of a dozen snippy comments, each more hurtful than the one before. Instead she smiled. “I guess it could be with another kid, but not with Amy. She’s a sweetie. I’m sure you two will get along great.”
CLAIRE WAITED by the bus stop as Amy waved to her friends, then climbed down.
“How was your day?” Claire signed, then took the girl’s backpack.
“Good,” Amy signed back, then said, “You’ve been practicing.”
“Some. I’m trying.” Claire motioned to her rental car. The plan was for her to pick up Amy, then take her back to Nicole’s house. She paused by the passenger side door.
“I need to go shopping,” she said, speaking slowly and facing Amy so the girl could read her lips. “I need different clothes. Maybe jeans.”
Amy signed something Claire didn’t recognize.
“Casual,” the girl said.
“Right. I need a cookbook, too.” She finger spelled cook and then signed book. “Something really easy. Do you want to come with me or go to Nicole’s?”
Amy pointed at her. “Shopping.”
Claire smiled. “They grow up so fast.”
Twenty minutes later, they were at Alderwood Mall. Claire had already called Nicole to say they would be a while. After parking, she and Amy headed for Macy’s.
“You need jeans,” Amy said as she signed.
Claire fingered her wool slacks. More than jeans. She needed a whole wardrobe that wasn’t expensive and difficult to take care of. Cashmere was nice, but not every minute of every day.
Once they were inside, Amy took charge. Claire tried not to be upset about the fact that an eight-year-old knew more about shopping than her. The truth was, she rarely shopped. Lisa, her manager, brought a selection of clothes to Claire’s apartment or her hotel room if they were on the road, Claire tried them on and kept the ones she liked.
She wore classic styles from expensive designers. Her performing clothes were mostly long black dresses…variations on a theme. She didn’t own jeans or T-shirts or a sweatshirt. Which was all about to change.
Amy led her to a table of jeans in different colors. Claire picked dark blue and black, then followed the girl to racks of shirts and knit tops. Some were plain, but others had embellishments—printing, or appliquéd flowers. Even small rhinestones. She grabbed a jean jacket, a couple of pairs of dressier jeans, sweatshirts, casual sweaters and a couple of white cotton blouses.
Amy picked up T-shirts, a halter top in bright pink and a couple of lacy tunic tops Claire wasn’t sure about. Then they made their way to the dressing room.
Thirty minutes later, she had a casual wardrobe filled with easy-care cotton and fun colors. She bought jeans with flowers sewn on the back pockets and skimpy T-shirts that fit snugly enough to both make her nervous and make her feel good about herself.
She bought blouses and a couple of sweatshirts, along with a few sweaters. Nothing in black, nothing she couldn’t wash. The five bags they dragged back to the car had cost less than the last designer blouse and skirt she’d bought only two months ago.
Amy helped her stow the bags in the trunk. Claire pushed it shut.
“That was fun,” she said, then signed, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Amy said. “Bookstore now.”
They stopped for ice cream first, at the Cold Stone Creamery, then sat in the sun at a metal table to eat their snack.
“How was school?” Claire asked.
“Good,” Amy signed, then switched to voice. “We practice speaking,” she said slowly. “Practice every day.”
“Can you hear anything?” Claire asked.
“Tone. Not words.”
“What if I yell really loud?”
Amy giggled, then signed, “I’m deaf.”
Claire couldn’t imagine not hearing. Memories of music she’d played filled her head, making her ache to be at the keyboard again. Her fingers curled into her palms. How could she both love and hate playing at the same time? No matter how she filled her day, the nagging sense of needing to practice haunted her. Yet the thought of sitting down at a piano made her chest tighten with the first whispers of a panic attack.
“Were you always deaf?” Claire asked.
Amy nodded, then moved her hands, signing what Claire assumed was born.
“I’m lucky,” the girl continued, both signing and speaking. “I can hear a little. Some don’t.”
“Do you feel sound?” Claire asked, hitting her chest with the palm of her hand. “In your body?”
“Music. I feel music.”
She wondered if Amy would be able to feel her play. If putting her hands on the piano would produce enough vibration. Would she be able to tell the difference between notes? Would she recognize the difference in pieces? Would a concerto feel differently than a Broadway show tune?
She was about to suggest they experiment when she remembered that she didn’t play anymore. She’d just been panicking a minute before.