else to do what’s important.”
The words made sense, but in this context they were way confusing. “You’re a famous concert pianist. You probably make millions a year. Why do you care about the bakery?”
Claire stared at her as if she wasn’t all that bright. “You’re my sister. Of course I care.”
After everything that had happened. After all that had been said. For the first time in a long time… maybe ever… Nicole felt very, very small.
“Look, I—” She pressed her lips together. Apologizing wasn’t her best skill. “About last night. What I said.” She sighed. “I’m sorry.”
Claire nodded. “I know. I’m sure I’d say the same thing in your position.”
Somehow Nicole doubted that.
“It’s okay,” Claire added.
Nicole didn’t believe that, either. But she’d apologized and now she would try to be nicer.
“The bakery is really interesting,” Claire said. “Everything happens so fast. All those products. Sid made me stay away from the chocolate cake, but I saw a few of them coming out of the oven.”
“The famous Keyes Chocolate cake,” Nicole grumbled. “It’s a moneymaker.”
The recipe had been a family secret for generations, and a local Seattle favorite. In the 1980s, a local politician looking to make a good impression had delivered one to President Reagan. It had been served at a White House dinner where the president had declared it better than jelly beans.
Three years ago, Nicole had received a call from one of Oprah’s producers, saying the cake would be featured on the show. Nicole had hired a company to handle the influx of calls, braced her employees for eighteen-hour shifts and flown to Chicago with high expectations.
Oprah had been lovely and had gushed about the cake for all of eight seconds, before shifting the conversation to Claire and a performance the talk show queen had 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
