He stepped away to allow me access. “Things got busy, so I kept up with the pace.”
“Thanks.”
Lucas went on his rounds without further ado.
I worked on autopilot until the end of my shift. My busy mind focused on two things: how to prove Robert was hiding our money, and how I could get enough of that money to visit France.
In between those two things, a montage played out in my head. Alicia and I held old-fashioned, accordion-folded maps in our outstretched arms, trying to locate Rue Pasteur. Our floppy sun hats and long maxi dresses fluttered in a warm breeze. We entered cafés and shops on espadrille wedges and asked locals if they knew my father.
Every day, we wore ourselves out on the mission. Then we carried bottles of French wine to beautiful locations with panoramic views. We ate French bread and Brie and asked ourselves why we didn’t take a trip like this much sooner. And we vowed not to leave France until we completed our quest.
I tried to stay in the vision long enough to see my biological father, but instinct kept pulling me back. I imagined knocking on doors and hearing the locks slide away, but before the person on the other side came into view, I lost the image.
The only photos I had of Sébastien Allard were taken a half century ago. I couldn’t properly imagine what he might look like today. Thin and craggy? Robust and healthy? Portly and bald?
How did life treat him after the summer he met my mother?
I tossed my apron into the canvas laundry bag on my way out that afternoon and caught sight of a woman ogling the empty bakery display case. Pam wasn’t at the welcome stand.
“Hello,” I called, redirecting my path. “Can I help you?”
The woman straightened and glanced at my name tag before looking at my face. She wore a gray pantsuit with patent leather pumps and a matching bag tucked under one crooked arm. “You work here?”
“Yep.”
“Tell me about the pastries,” she said. “I hear amazing things about them all day, every day. I was practically forced to check them out.”
I tipped my chin upward to maintain eye contact. She was easily a half foot taller than me in her heels. She exuded confidence that made the height difference seem double. “The pastries vary a little throughout the week,” I said. “But usually we have éclairs, macarons, pains au chocolat, and madeleines. Occasionally there are mille-feuille or kouign-amann as well.”
She crossed long legs at the ankles and pursed her glossy pink lips as I spoke. Her flawless skin and makeup made me feel dowdy and old, even on a day I’d come to work looking my best.
My time in the kitchen had long ago erased those efforts.
“When are the deliveries made?” she asked.
“Daily. If you stop in for coffee tomorrow morning, you’ll have your pick.” I pulled the car keys from my pocket and smiled. Something about her demeanor bothered me, and standing there beside her, sweaty and exhausted, was taking a toll on my self-esteem. “Nice to meet you.”
“Virginia Bonnie Black,” she said. “I didn’t catch your name.”
I made a low, strangled sound. I hadn’t asked for her name, but now that I had it, I wished she’d take it back. And leave.
Virginia Bonnie Black was the human behind Virginia’s Secrets, a wildly popular social media account. She’d built her following by exploring various local legends and state lore, then reporting her findings. She also dug into modern issues, small town news, and big events in our state. Her most popular posts often involved scandals. Followers ate it up with a spoon and licked the screen.
I was a follower. I’d counted myself as a fan until this moment.
The last thing the Invisible Baker needed was any interest from her.
She sighed, gaze locked on mine, and my brain misfired as I tried to recall her question.
“Sophie.” I nearly collapsed with relief. All she wanted was my name. I immediately wished I’d given an alias.
She nodded, having already taken note of my name tag. “What do you do here?”
I took a tiny step backward. My fight-or-flight instinct prepared me to run.
Jeannie’s warning that Joyce, from my old HOA, had beef with local moms who didn’t make their own treats for school events blew back into my mind like a tornado.
“I’m the pastry chef,” I said, knowing she’d catch me in the lie if I said otherwise.
