Sam’s insides trembled, and his thoughts drifted again, making it nearly impossible for him to follow Paige’s story. A daughter? He and Maya had a daughter? Maya had offered to bring him Samantha’s birth certificate as proof of her date of birth, but he didn’t need it—he knew she was telling the truth. Sam forced himself to participate in conversation with Paige until they got home.
Paige immediately attended to paperwork and phone calls for the gallery, so Sam tried to do some research on that nursing home in Maryland, but he found himself staring at the graphic of a soccer ball bouncing around on his sleeping computer screen. He shook the distractions from his head, recalling the skills he had used to focus on his studies after Maya had left him.
Hours later, he lay in bed and, without work distractions, thoughts of Maya and Samantha surfaced once more. How could it be that he had a daughter? How could Maya have kept this from him all these years? Anger mixed with his confusion. She must have been pregnant when she’d left. Further conversation with Maya had ended in only more questions. She’d deftly avoided answering them by focusing on the details of Samantha’s troubles.
He flipped the pillow over and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Even the sound of Paige’s rhythmic breathing couldn’t drive away thoughts of Maya.
Sam quietly got out of bed so as not to disturb his fiancée. He pulled on an old and worn Columbia Law sweatshirt against the night’s chill, and ambled to the kitchen to stare into the open fridge for the cure to his restlessness. Not finding it there, he went to the bar and poured two fingers of bourbon.
Sam sat in the chair by the floor-to-ceiling window, twenty-three stories up, and stared out at the vibrant, moonlit city below. The first sip of bourbon warmed him but failed to soothe. Maya had texted him Samantha’s picture, and he pulled it up on his phone. She undoubtedly had his eyes and coloring, but Maya was there, too. Subtly, in the cheekbones, maybe the chin. More likely in that intangible way that mothers and daughters look alike, even when their features don’t match.
He closed his eyes and took a second, larger sip as he sank into the plushness of the chair. The alcohol reached into his fingertips as well as deep into memories long suppressed. He hadn’t made Maya any promises, he’d only said that he would see what he could do. One thing was for sure—Samantha was definitely their daughter.
By the third swallow from that glass he knew sleep would not come, so he surrendered to memories.
A warm hand on his shoulder pulled him from his reverie. “Hey, you. Can’t sleep?” Paige’s red hair was tousled in the most becoming way. It was almost as if she made it look that way on purpose.
Sam grinned at her as he turned the screen of his phone away from her and took her hand. “Yeah.”
“Bourbon? In the middle of the night?” She yawned and came around to sit on his lap. “Must be serious.” Her green eyes were filled with sleep. She curled up and rested her head on his shoulder. “What’s going on?”
Sam looked down at the top of her head and clicked off his phone screen. “It’s just work. Nothing really.” He stroked her strawberry-scented hair. “Come. Let’s go to bed.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
MAYA
New York, 2012
MAYAHADTHEgiant mixer started by 3:00 a.m. Might as well get some work done, since she wasn’t sleeping anyway. Lyrics from her earbuds taunted her, telling her that now she was just somebody that he used to know. She turned on the roaster and added the coffee beans. This October had been cooler than most, boosting coffee sales, and come November, things would soon get crazy-hectic at the bakery. The coffee shop. Maya shook her head at herself. She had changed the focus of her mother’s business from pure bakery to bakery plus coffee shop over ten years ago, but she still thought of Sweet Nothings asthe bakery. To be fair, baking still happened, but only a couple cookie varieties and specialty cakes. Maya now served specialty coffee as well as specialty tea. Specifically, traditional Indian chai, in all its variations. As it was, she had more cookie orders this year than any year previous. And the specialty cake orders were increasing. She needed more space.
Telling Sam he was Samantha’s father had never been part of the plan. She had hoped he would help her out for old times’ sake. Asking him was risky, she knew, but unless she won the lottery, or sold part of the business, there was no way she could come up with the money for a lawyer. Not to mention the damage the charges would do to Samantha’s life.
The giant mixer churned hard. She added chocolate chips and the motor waned a bit under the added struggle.
“Come on,” she urged the mixer. “Don’t fail me now.” As if responding to her, the mixer stuttered, then whirred into rhythmic motion. “Good girl.” She patted the side of the mixer as if it were a favorite pet.
“Are you talking to the machinery again,beta?” Her mother always teased her about this, but Maya had caught her mother doing the same more than once over the course of the years.
“Mum, you know how it is—whatever it takes.” She grimaced. “There’s a fresh shipment of cinnamon for the chai masala in the cupboard.”
She checked on the roaster, grabbing a bean to taste. The instructions always specified a certain amount of roasting time that was optimum for flavor, but nothing was as good as her palate. She hadn’t been the star pupil in culinary school for nothing.
Maybe it was because she’d just seen Sam, or maybe it was because she was waiting for his answer, but the sweet smell of chocolate chips and vanilla, mixing with the butter, flour and sugar of the cookie dough, all carried on the aroma of roasting coffee beans, took her back to that summer in Maryland. It took her back to Sam.
Maya finished the cookies, allowed the beans to cool, and moved on to her next project. Samantha finally awoke and came down from their apartment, which was located above the shop. She took care of the customers, while Maya ground the coffee beans and the remaining spices for the ginger masala chai, and her mother took over the baking. The day passed with still no word from Sam.
Maya started the closing process. She checked her phone—again. She had called Sam twice already, but he hadn’t called back yet. She finished the sweeping, locked the door and set the alarm. Still no response from Sam. She tightened her lips at the phone. He had specifically asked her not to leave a voice mail. He promised he would get back to her.
She leaned against the counter and looked around her shop. Her mother had started this bakery shortly after moving to the States as a single mom. She’d been determined to never be dependent on a man again, so she’d learned how to run a business and provided for herself and her daughter. Maya and her mother had worked hard for every nail, every tile, and every piece of wood in this bakery-turned-roastery. There was a time when Maya had had bigger dreams. But all that had changed. And now all her dreams for herself and Samantha were dependent on the success of Sweet Nothings. Well, most of them. In any case, she really couldn’t sell any portion of it.
She dialed Sam’s cell again. Forget their agreement. She needed an answer. This time she left a message.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SAM
Maryland, 1996
