The Little Bakery of Hopes and Dreams Read online

  ‘Do you like playing with dolls? And having tea parties? And how old are you?’ Mia inquired, her little fingers steepling together in a way Josie bet she’d learned from her father.

  ‘I’m 26, which means I’m kind of a grown-up, but not so grown up that I don’t love tea parties. They’re my favourite. Especially if real cakes are involved. And I bet I’d be good at playing with dolls too.’ She smiled warmly at Mia, her heart lightening as the smile was repaid in kind.

  ‘Babysitting isn’t part of the job.’ Callan’s arms wrapped tighter around his daughter. A barrier.

  It made sense. If his wife had passed away, he wouldn’t want anyone who might leave to get close to Mia. The small rejection hurt, but Josie understood where it came from. Couldn’t blame him for it. Not when she was one for putting barriers up to stop others getting too close. Friendships were kept formal. Relationships of the romantic kind kept loose and easy. Dates only. Rarely more than three before she bowed out. The moment she began to feel cloistered, controlled or claustrophobic in any way, she was gone.

  A new town. A new village. A new city. New place to live. New job. New life.

  ‘I’m not a baby.’ Mia’s face screwed up with disdain. ‘I’m 4, remember. That’s nearly a grown-up.’

  Josie nodded. ‘Four is pretty grown up, which means babysitting must be the worst word in the world to describe taking care of such a big girl as you, right?’

  Mia nodded so vigorously her head hit the back of her father’s chest, causing him to rub the spot, a pained expression on her face.

  ‘But if you’re busy baking, I can keep an eye on Mia out here. Perhaps even play tea parties when the shop’s quiet. If that sounds good to you, Mia?’

  ‘Sounds great.’ Mia reached out to Josie, palm open, ready for a high-five.

  They slapped skin and Josie’s nerves settled. Whether Callan knew it or not, the job was hers. That high-five was every bit as binding as a handshake.

  ‘Why do I feel like this is a done deal?’ Callan shook his head, bemusement lifting his lips. ‘Not even 5 and Mia’s running rings around her old dad.’

  ‘So that means Josie is staying? Forever?’ Mia tipped her head to the side and looked up at her father, her eyes hopeful.

  Guilt flooded Josie’s stomach. Forever wasn’t an option. Forever meant getting comfortable. And getting comfortable meant getting hurt. She wasn’t going to give Mia false hope, not when she’d already lost someone she’d loved. Two someones, if you counted the distant relationship she shared with her father.

  ‘I’ll stay for as long as your daddy needs me here.’ Josie met Callan’s gaze. His eyes held approval. And thankfulness. He too knew forever wasn’t always an option.

  ‘When can you start?’ Callan shifted Mia off his lap and stood. Interview over.

  Josie scooted the chair back and pushed herself up onto her feet. ‘Soon as you need me.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Callan’s tone was tinged with desperation. ‘I haven’t hung the Christmas decorations yet, and I really need to. I just can’t seem to find the time between the baking, the bakery’s book work and serving.’

  ‘Daddy promised we’d have the bestest Christmas ever.’ Mia’s curls bobbed as she bounced up and down with excitement. ‘We’re going all out. Whatever that means.’

  Josie’s heart sank. So much for not having to deal with tinsel and wreaths and fairy lights, and the uncomfortable mix of emotions that stirred whenever she saw them. Still, it was a job, one she needed, and it wasn’t like Christmas lasted forever. Just four more weeks and it’d be done for another year.

  ‘I can start tomorrow, but I will have to pop out in the afternoon for thirty minutes or so. I’m staying in one of the rooms above the pub, but I’ve found a cottage a few minutes away that’s for rent. I just need to meet with the landlady so she can vet me.’

  ‘That’s fine. So, we’ll see you tomorrow morning. Eight sharp?’ Callan reached out to shake her hand.

  Their hands met. Touched. His hand was warm, his palm hard, his hold strong. The handshake of a man who could be trusted to care for his family. To stick around through thick and thin. Who would do his best by the people he loved.

  The kind of handshake she could get used to. If she were a sticking around kind of girl. Which, of course, she wasn’t. She wouldn’t let herself be. Ever.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Daaaaddy … what shoe goes where?’

  Callan looked up from working flour into the fruitcake he was making for the local sewing club’s annual Christmas morning tea to see Mia staring at him, her socked foot tapping impatiently as she held up two glittery ballet flats.

  ‘Swap them round.’ He went back to stirring, his heart sinking as he took in the stodgy mixture. It wasn’t how it looked in the recipe he’d found online. But then, nothing he made looked like the recipes he found online. Not for the first time since Abigail had passed away just over eleven months ago did he find himself wishing she’d kept her recipes inside a book and not in her head. The thought was quickly followed by a sharp twist of guilt in his gut. Abigail hadn’t planned on dying. Hadn’t asked for the aneurysm that had taken her away from them. He had no right to feel exasperated.

  ‘Daddy, can you put them on for me? I’m tiiiired.’

  Callan took a deep, calming breath. Fought the irritation that rose. How his wife had done the baking and looked after Mia without once complaining or raising her voice, he had no idea. Abigail had made it all look so easy, so effortless. Whereas he spent his days feeling like he was fighting an uphill battle. Making the daily quota of food to ensure his regulars had something to eat with their tea or coffee. Keeping the kitchen and shop clean and tidy. Then there was the actual serving of people, all of it done while listening to Mia’s constant questions, helping her whenever she asked, ensuring she’d remembered to brush her teeth, put on weather-appropriate clothing, and that the food that inevitably got caught in her curls was brushed out.

  What had it been called in the article he’d read on one of the parenting sites he’d been frequenting since Abigail had passed?

  Mental load.

  A concept that was apparently foreign to the majority of men, but well known among the online mummy community.

  All the little things that the person who runs the household has to juggle and keep track of. Things as small as remembering to buy toothpaste before it runs out. Ensuring there’s clean underwear available at all times. Buying Christmas presents. Pulling the Christmas tree out of storage. The last two things he’d not yet done, even though he knew he had to.

  There was no way he was letting Mia’s first Christmas without her mum be as gloomy and depressing as he felt.

  It had to be magical.

  Unforgettable.

  Infused with all the sparkle and joy that Abigail had brought to the season year after year.

  At least now that he’d put aside the pride that had him in ‘do it all myself’ mode since Abigail’s death, and hired Josie, he’d have time to decorate, to get the Christmas tree, to buy the toy ponies or dolls or princess costumes that Mia kept talking about. Two presents? One from Santa, one from him? Who was he kidding? He was going to buy everything on her list and more. He had to if it meant seeing her little face light up. If it helped ease the pain of not having Abigail there.

  ‘Daddy!’

  A whine of impatience combined with a soft thump of foot on wooden floor brought Callan back to his senses.

  ‘Mia, sorry. Daddy was in another world.’ He abandoned the wooden spoon in the glutinous mixture and squatted down to Mia’s level. ‘What can I do for you, princess?’

  ‘Shoes. Help me. Put them on me. And you weren’t in another world, silly Daddy, you were right here.’ Mia collapsed onto the ground and held her shoes up to Callan.

  He repressed a sigh. How many times did you have to remind a child to use their manners? An infinite amount of times, it seemed. ‘What’s the magic word?’

  ‘Pleeeease
.’ Mia gave him her most winning smile. One that melted his heart when he was sad inside. One that riddled him with guilt on the rare occasion he snapped at her.

  ‘That’s the word.’ He slipped the pink sparkly shoes onto her feet, then ruffled the top of her head. ‘We always use our manners, right?’

  ‘Right.’ Mia gave a firm nod then looked up, her serious expression morphing into one of unbridled happiness. ‘Josie!’

  Callan twisted round to see Josie staring into the cake mixture. Hot embarrassment coursed through his veins, though hopefully not his cheeks. He didn’t want Josie to see that he knew he was failing. That he was trying to keep things going, but wasn’t quite getting there. He didn’t want anyone to see it.

  ‘What happened to this?’ Josie picked up the spoon and prodded the mixture.

  ‘New recipe I’m trying out. Found it online. I think they may have made a mistake with the quantities. Too much flour. Or not enough eggs, or brandy, or something. I think I’m going to have to start again, with a new recipe …’ He trailed off, painfully aware that he sounded every bit as uninformed as he felt.

  ‘Hmm, I see.’ Josie set the spoon down and reached for the navy-blue apron emblazoned with the shop’s logo that was hanging on a hook attached to the wall.

  She might have said she understood, but Callan hadn’t missed the tightening of her lips, the narrowing of eyes, that told him she saw the problem wasn’t with the recipe, but with the person who was making it.

  ‘So, it’s a fruitcake you’re making?’ She efficiently wrapped the ties around her waist then fastened them at the front. ‘I know I’m not meant to be cooking, but I have a recipe that never fails. And it uses just three ingredients. I could make it or give the recipe to you if you’d prefer to do it yourself.’

  ‘Daddy, you promised we’d go get some new Christmas decorations.’ Mia tugged at his sweater. He looked down to see excitement shining in her eyes. ‘Remember? You said now that we had a Josie we could do it. And go see Santa too. I haven’t told him what I want.’

  ‘And what do you want from Santa?’ Josie picked up the bowl of sludge and scraped it out into the rubbish bin.

  ‘Yesterday I wanted a pony, but today I want a Cinderella dress. And glass slippers.’ Mia tapped her chin. ‘And a crown. All princesses have crowns, and Daddy says I’m a princess, so I have to have a crown.’

  ‘Well your daddy’s quite correct, and I bet Santa will be most happy that you’re asking for a costume. Far easier for him to transport. Can you imagine trying to fit a pony in a sleigh?’

  Callan nodded a thank-you to Josie over Mia’s head. He’d forgotten all about asking what she wanted from Santa. Rookie mistake.

  ‘So, do you want me to whip up that cake?’ Josie flicked the kettle on, reached up to the shelf above the stainless-steel bench and fished out four teabags from the box. ‘It’d give you the time to go shopping.’

  ‘Would you mind?’ Callan lifted Mia into his arms. ‘I’m so sorry. I know it’s not part of the job, well, I said it wouldn’t be. But clearly there’s, er, something wrong with this recipe and I’ve run out of time … and if the sewing club don’t get their fruitcake …’

  ‘Consider it done. You two go visit Santa, buy those decorations. I’ll be fine. Just be back by three, if that’s okay. I have that meeting with my potential landlady …’ Josie shooed them away, a smile lighting up her warm hazel eyes.

  More green than brown, Callan noticed. And the shooing … not dissimilar to how Abigail would hurry him out of the kitchen when she was busy. Never in anger or in frustration, but always in a way that was good-natured, and promised she’d make time for him later.

  Not that Callan expected Josie to make time for him. Not that he wanted her to. She was under his employ. Their relationship was purely professional. That, and he wasn’t interested in spending time with anyone other than Mia.

  An impatient tug on his earlobe brought him back to reality.

  ‘Mia, cut that out.’ He jerked his head back and tried to ignore the hurt that flashed through Mia’s eyes at being told off. So much for keeping calm … He’d apologise to her later. In private. ‘Right then. We’d best be off. See you … when we see you. Before three.’ He waved half-heartedly at Josie but avoided eye contact. The realisation that he’d noticed the colour of her eyes, that he’d noticed something about a woman who wasn’t Abigail, saw unease swarming in his stomach. It mixed with the guilt from snapping at Mia and settled dark and heavy. Uncomfortable.

  He pressed his nose into Mia’s hair and breathed in the pear scent of her shampoo. The familiar fragrance centring him, reminding him of what was important. Of who was.

  ***

  Josie inhaled the heady, heavenly, sweet and spicy aroma of the fruitcake wafting through the kitchen’s air. A smile played about her lips as she recalled the conversation with Callan earlier. The way he’d blamed the recipe for the stodge that was the cake mixture had been too cute. Josie had taken one look at the mixture and seen that the dried fruit hadn’t been steeped in the liquid long enough and that too much flour had been added. The mush was now safely in the bin.

  It was the opposite of her mixture, where dried fruit was steeped in hot tea, before being combined with self-raising flour and baked for two hours. The result was a gloriously pungent fruitcake, which held an almost malty flavour, and was good by itself, sliced and slathered with butter or served warm with custard.

  From the front room came a melodic ‘yoo-hoo’.

  Josie made a mental note to ask Callan about installing a small bell on the counter along with a sign instructing customers to ring it if the front was unattended.

  Smoothing her hair back, she adopted an open smile. The morning hadn’t been the busiest she’d experienced in all her years of customer service, but it had been steady.

  No doubt people were coming in to see the latest face to arrive in the village. She’d seen that often enough to expect it.

  The scent of the stylishly dressed woman reached Josie before she did. White Diamonds. The same perfume her mother had worn. Her heart slammed against her chest, as it always did when for an irrational split-second she believed her mother had sought her out, returned to find the daughter she’d abandoned when Josie was 12 – the age when, with her mind and hormones and body in flux, she’d needed her mother most.

  ‘So, you’re the girl I’ve heard so much about. Welcome, my dear, welcome.’ Josie’s hand was encased in the woman’s tissue-soft palm and pumped twice before being let go. ‘My name’s Margo. I’m Callan and Mia’s neighbour. Owner of the sewing and embroidery shop, among other things.’ Margo stopped and sniffed the air. ‘That cake’s smelling delicious. Every bit as good as Abigail’s. My little sewing club is in for a treat. I take it this is your doing?’

  Josie shrugged her shoulders. ‘It was, not that Callan needed me to do it.’ She crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘I just had a bit of spare time so thought I may as well help him out.’

  ‘Piffle.’ Margo let out a hearty laugh. ‘If you can cook as well as his dearly departed wife then you know as well as I do that Callan needs as much help in the kitchen department as he can get. Please tell me he’s letting you loose back there?’

  ‘Front of house, mostly.’ Josie smiled apologetically. ‘He seems to want to do it all himself.’

  ‘That’s his problem, you know.’ Margo leaned in towards Josie, her demeanour turning conspiratorial. ‘Since Abigail passed, he’s not allowed any of us to help one iota. I’ve offered a thousand times, if not two thousand, to take that little angel of his off his hands for a few hours so he can have a break, even if only to go to the pub for a quiet beer, or to bake another batch of his horrifically hard cupcakes without little Mia underfoot. But he won’t have it. He’s determined to make out like he’s okay, but how could he be? He lost the love of his life.’

  Josie pressed her lips together and gave a polite nod. Talking about Callan’s private life seemed wrong. A crossing
of the boundaries between employer and employee, especially with him not being here to defend himself, doubly especially when the woman talking to her was a complete stranger.

  ‘I see I’ve put you in an awkward spot.’ Margo touched Josie’s forearm. ‘I apologise. I care deeply for Callan and Mia, and I did for Abigail, too. My family left years ago and they’re not ones for visiting, so I began to see those three as my adopted family.’

  Shame tugged at Josie’s heart. Margo’s family had done to her what Josie had done to her father. Not visited. Kept away.

  Though why Margo’s children stayed away, Josie had no idea. From where she stood, Margo was the opposite of her emotionally distant father. She seemed kind, caring. A person who put others first, who wanted to help. Who wanted to live life, without waiting by windows, staring longingly at the front door, hoping for the past to return, while ignoring the person who was right in front of you, begging you to see them. To love them.

  ‘Oh, look at me feeling all sorry for myself.’ Margo waved her hand and let out an exasperated sigh. ‘It’s not like they hate me. It’s my own fault really. I raised two wonderful, successful children. My eldest, Sebastian, lives in Australia and works in IT. He flies over when he can, but he works all hours, and I’m terrified of flying so couldn’t even contemplate the flight over that kind of distance. They’d have to give me an elephant-sized amount of sedation.’ Margo rolled her eyes towards the ceiling and gave a small, mock-despairing shake of her head.

  ‘And your youngest?’ Josie prompted. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Oh, you probably won’t believe this to look at me, but Megan’s a model. Constantly on the move. New York, Milan, Paris. Wherever her agency sends her. She gets her looks from her father. He was tall, handsome, a good man too. I don’t know what I did to deserve him.’ Margo’s smile disappeared as sadness flashed through her blue eyes for a millisecond before being covered up with a brighter smile, that didn’t quite hit her eyes.

  ‘I take it your husband’s no longer with us?’ It was Josie’s turn to comfort, and she did so tentatively, allowing her fingers to lie feather-light on the back of Margo’s hand.