The Secret Between Us. Barbara Delinsky
that there were three people at work behind the front counter, rotating deftly between coffee machines and pastry bins as customers ordered from tall chalkboards that listed additional specialties like SoMa Shots, Smoothies, and Shakes. Two bakers would be in the kitchen until mid-afternoon, producing fresh-from-the-oven batches of everything from muffins to croissants to sticky buns. And then there was Pete, who came to help Jill with lunch.
Deborah got the message.
Still her sister said, “I have a great staff that I’ve hand-picked and carefully trained. Who do you think was minding the shop when I was going back and forth to the doctor? I do have a life, Deborah. It’s not all work.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“And I love what I do. I was back there kneading dough a little while ago. SoMa Stickies are my recipe. And SoMa Slaw? If you think I don’t get joy making Mom’s recipe every day, think again. Honestly, you sound like Dad some-times. He thinks it’s all drudgery and that I’m alone here. He doesn’t know Skye and Tomas, who get here at three in the morning to bake, or Alice, who takes over at seven. He doesn’t know I have Mia, Keeshan, and Pat. He doesn’t know about Donna and Pete.”
“He knows, Jill,” Deborah said. “People tell him.”
“And he can’t say the bakery’s a success? I did good at piano lessons when I was eight, so he decided I should be a concert pianist. I won a prize at the science fair when I was twelve, so he decided I should be a Nobel winner. Being me wasn’t good enough—he always expected something more.” She flattened a hand on her chest. “I want this baby. It’s going to make me happy. Shouldn’t that make Dad happy?”
They weren’t talking about childbearing, but about the larger issue of parental expectations. Jill might be thirty-four, but she was still Michael Barr’s child. “Tell him you’re pregnant,” Deborah urged, perhaps selfishly, but she hated having to keep this secret too.
“I will.”
“Now. Tell him now.”
By way of response, Jill asked, “Did you know Cal McKenna taught several AP sections?”
Deborah stared at her sister long enough to see that Jill wasn’t giving in. With a sigh, she took a drink of coffee. “Yes. I did know that.” So did Jill, since Grace had him for AP American History.
“Some of his students were in here yesterday afternoon. There was talk.”
Picking a pecan from the top of her bun, Deborah brought it to her mouth, then put it back down. “And that was before he died. I let Grace stay home today. Was I right to do that?”
“Dad would say no.”
“I’m not asking Dad. I’m asking you.”
Jill didn’t hesitate. “Yes, you were right. The accident itself was bad enough, but now it has to be even harder for Grace, who knew the man. Any word on why he died?”
“Not yet.” Deborah opened her mouth, about to blurt out the truth. She was desperate to share the burden of it, and if there was anyone in her life she could trust, it was Jill. But before she could speak, Hal Trutter appeared.
There was nothing subtle about Hal. Wearing a natty navy suit and red tie, he had LAWYER written all over him. Realizing that, Deborah guessed every one of the people out front knew why he was here.
He took a coffee from the tray on the desk and looked at Jill. “Witness or chaperone?”
Jill didn’t like Hal. She had told Deborah that more than once, without even knowing he had come on to her sister. It might have simply been her distrust of arrogant men. But in answer to his question, Jill folded her arms across her chest and smiled. “Both.”
Feeling marginally protected, Deborah pulled the accident report from her bag. Hal unfolded it and began to read.
Deborah was comfortable with the first page, a straightforward listing of the spot where the accident occurred, her name, address, license number, car model, and registration number. She grew more nervous when he turned to the second page, where there was a line labeled “Driver.”
Fighting guilt, she kept her eyes steady on Hal. He ate some of the sticky bun and read on.
Jill asked, “You’re not gooeying up that form, are you?”
Just then, Deborah’s cell phone chimed. Pulling it from her pocket, she read the message, swore softly, and rose. “Be right back,” she said and headed through the kitchen. “Yes, Greg.”
“I just got a message from Dylan. What’s happening down there?”
Deborah wasn’t surprised Dylan had called his father. She wished he had waited, but Cal McKenna would still be dead. Greg would have to know sooner or later.
Finding a spot in the shadow of a dumpster outside the back door, she told him about the accident. The questions that followed were predictable. Greg might have moved to Vermont to rediscover his inner artist, but to Deborah, he was still the CEO who had inadvertently micromanaged his business to success.
To his credit, the first questions were about Grace and whether either of them had been hurt in any way. Then came, What time did you leave the house, what time did you get Grace, what time was the accident? Exactly where on the rim road did it happen, how far was the victim thrown, how long did it take for the ambulance to arrive? What hospital was he at, who’s his primary doctor, was a specialist brought in?
“No specialist,” Deborah said. “He was doing fine. No one expected that he’d die.”
There was a brief pause, then, “Why did I have to hear this from my ten-year-old son? You were involved in a fatal accident, and you didn’t think it important enough to keep me in the loop?”
“We’re divorced, Greg,” she reminded him sadly. He sounded genuinely wounded, so much like the caring man she had married that she felt a wave of nostalgia. “You said you had burned out on your life here. I was trying to spare you. Besides, there was nothing fatal about it until early this morning, and I’ve been slightly preoccupied since then.”
He relented a bit. “Is Grace upset?”
“Very. She was in a car that hit a man.”
“She should have called me. We could have talked.”
“Oh, Greg,” Deborah said with a tired sigh. “You and Grace haven’t talked—really talked—since you left.”
“Maybe it’s time we did.”
She didn’t know whether he meant talking on the phone or in person, but she couldn’t imagine proposing either to Grace right now. The girl saw her father every few months, and then only at Deborah’s insistence.
“Now’s not good,” she said. “Grace is dealing with enough, without that.”
“How long is she going to stay angry with me?”
“I don’t know. I try to talk her through it, but she still feels abandoned.”
“Because you do, Deborah. Are you imposing your own feelings on her?”
“Oh, I don’t need to do that,” Deborah said with quick anger. “She feels abandoned enough all on her own. You’re her father, and you haven’t been here for the last two years of her life. Literally. You haven’t been down once, not once. You want the kids to go up there to visit, and that might be fine for Dylan, but Grace has a life here. She has homework, she has track, she has friends.” Deborah glanced at her watch. “I can’t do this right now, Greg. I was in the middle of something when you called, and I have to get to work.”
“That’s what did it, y’know.”
“Did what?”
“Destroyed our marriage. You always had to work.”
“Excuse