Milky Way

“Britt, you have an excellent product here,” he said. “But that freezer aisle in the store represents a cutthroat market. Your cheesecake is scrumptious, but I don’t think you have the capital or the...the distinction to be noticed.”

She continued to pace. “Distinction?”

“You know, something that makes you unique, that screams out at the buyer. A gimmick.”

“Gimmick,” she repeated thoughtfully, falling back into her chair. “Why should something delicious have to have a gimmick?”

He smiled sympathetically. “The world turns on gimmicks. For a little guy like yourself, the gimmick would have to be big to get you noticed. But I think if you could find it, you’d be successful, because your product is superior.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “In your personal or professional opinion?”

“Both. Because I don’t have to conduct a lab analysis to know what you’re made of, Britt. If anyone can do the impossible, it’s you.”

Britt couldn’t help herself. She was encouraged. And it was so long since she’d felt a spark of enthusiasm for anything but her children that she let herself enjoy the sensation. She would remember all the negative aspects Judson had pointed out later. Right now she’d just hold on to the fact that he thought her cheesecake was delicious, and that he had faith in her.

This time she didn’t stop herself from hugging him. “Thanks, Judson. That means a lot to me.” She stepped back to dig into her purse. “What do I owe you for the lab work?”

“A dozen cheesecake Danishes,” he said, closing her purse and walking her to the door. “By the time I get to Marge’s they’re always gone.”

She hugged him again. “I’ll bring them by tomorrow. Thanks again for your help and your honesty.”

“Any time. Good luck, Britt.”

* * *

BRICK BAUER LOOKED into the back of the station wagon at the crumpled bike and halted Britt’s efforts to pull it out. “Don’t bother,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m afraid it’s DOA.”

She hated to believe that, but Brick never lied to her. He’d been looking out for her since they were children, and Jimmy’s death had made him even more caring and protective.

“You’re sure?”

“Trust me. Someone did a very thorough job. Matt park it behind the truck again?”

Britt smiled at her cousin. “You have a detective’s instinct. Insightful and cleverly deductive.”

He grinned. “Of course. It’s the Bauer way.”

“Are you just coming home, or leaving for work?”

“I’m just off duty.” He glanced at his watch. “Karen should be home in half an hour or so. I can’t believe our shifts coincide for once.”

Britt squashed the surge of jealousy she felt that his marriage was fresh and new and hers was so prematurely over. “Who starts dinner in a two-cop family when the wife’s a captain, and the husband...isn’t?”

He made a pretense of polishing his badge. “Why, the better cook, of course. Sauerbraten. Want to stay?”

“Thanks. I’ve got to pick up the kids.”

Brick frowned. “Is Matt walking his route?”

“He’s using my bike,” Britt said, her expression wry. “A ‘nerdy’ comedown for him, I’m afraid. Marshack wanted to buy him a new one, but I wouldn’t let him. Matt’s got to take responsibility—”

“Marshack?” Brick asked.

“Winnebago Dairy’s district sales manager.” Her forced smile slipped a little. “He came to try to collect. When he left, Matt had propped his bike up against his Explorer and he backed right over it.”

“Matt needs the route if he’s going to go to that Boy Scout thing.” He grinned apologetically. “And your bike is nerdy. Want to borrow my credit card?”

She frowned her disapproval. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“I know.” He put an arm around her and held her close for a sober moment. “How’re you doing with him? Is he still moody and remote?”

She nodded, happy to lean against her cousin’s strong shoulder. “Yeah. But then, so am I. He’s fairly cooperative. No worse than any other prepubescent boy dealing with the loss of his father.” She sighed, then pushed away, afraid of becoming too comfortable with Brick’s support. “I appreciate your interest, but you’ve got your own household to worry about now.”

“Karen has a meeting Friday morning and I’m off,” he said, opening her door for her. “I’ll come by and fix the porch roof for you.”

She smiled sheepishly. “I already did. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Well, I was using the short ladder because I’d lent the twelve-footer to Judy Lowery, and I overreached.”

He frowned in alarm. “You fell?”

“No. Marshack caught me.” She had a sudden, vivid memory of his hand wrapped around her inner thigh. A deep blush caught her completely unaware.

Brick noted it and raised an eyebrow. “Do tell, Brittany.”

She got into the car, pulled her door closed briskly and lowered the window. “Nothing to tell. He just happened to arrive at a very timely moment. Cut off my supplies, but saved me from breaking my neck.” She smiled and turned the key in the ignition. “That’s life. You have to take the bad with the good.” She blew him a kiss. “Love to Karen. See ya.”

As Britt drove back through town, she cranked up her Clint Black tape to put thoughts of Jake Marshack out of her head. She couldn’t imagine why images of him lingered there anyway. He was just another big-dairy bully making her life more difficult than it already was.

So he was nice looking. Actually, he was a lot more than nice looking. Since she was having to deal with serious realities lately, she could admit to herself that he was gorgeous.

Guilt and confusion filled her simultaneously. Why did that matter, anyway? And how did thoughts of him form when her entire man-woman awareness was always focused on Jimmy—or, rather, his absence?

“You’re losing your grip,” she warned herself. “Work with me here, Britt. Get your brain going on things that are going to mean money, not trouble.”

“All right,” she told herself. “Today was just fated to be a disaster. You can’t fight that. But tomorrow things are going to be different. Tomorrow you are not going to try to fix the roof, you will not have to deal with Jake Marshack, there will be no more bicycles to be run over. Tomorrow you will deliver Danishes to the diner and to Judson, you will take cheesecakes to the lodge, you will visit Grandma Martha. And you will come up with a gimmick.”

There. She felt herself relax. It always helped to hear her problems or her plans spoken aloud. It gave them substance, somehow, and made her better able to deal with them.

Jimmy had always laughed at her when he came upon her talking herself through a dilemma. “You should have gone into politics,” he told her more than once, “then you could have gotten paid for filibustering.”

She enjoyed the memory for a moment, smiling absently at the road, feeling warm and happy. Then the truth crashed in on her, as it always did. It was just a memory. It would always be just a memory. And she and Jimmy would never ever make another one.

Darkness threatened to suck her in like the core of a tornado. But she pulled to a stop at the side of Main Street, grinding her foot into the brake, holding her ground.

She drew one even breath, then another one. “You can do this,” she told herself bracingly. “Four kids are counting on you to get yourself together. A hundred acres that have belonged to a Bauer since the middle of the last century are waiting for you to come up with a gimmick so they don’t become part of some hybrid, megamonster farm.”

Feeling the return of control, she drew another deeper breath and let the car roll forward. She was smiling when she pulled up in front of the ballet school to pick up Renee. “And the food industry is just waiting for your gimmick.”

CHAPTER THREE

JAKE FELT the resentment the moment he walked into the diner. The place had been abuzz with conversation when he opened the door, but it fell silent in the few seconds it took him to walk to the counter. Men in coveralls and baseball caps, men in suits and women dressed for work in town watched him every step of the way. As he settled on a stool at the L-shaped bar, talk started up again, but he got the distinct impression he was the subject of it.

He tried to take it in stride. News got around fast in small towns, and he’d paid four calls yesterday, trying to collect. He was the good guy when he could provide products needed, but the bad guy when he had to collect for them in hard times. He was getting used to being treated like the biblical tax collector or the contemporary IRS auditor.

He indicated the pile of newspapers on the counter between himself and the police officer seated beside him. “Finished with this?” he asked with a courteous smile.

The officer gave him a long, measuring look, then nodded. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you.” Jake found the sports page and decided to lose himself in the Cubs’ spring-training stats.

The woman behind the counter ignored him, while second-guessing the needs of everyone else. A second waitress raced from the kitchen to the banks of booths against the wall. He gathered from the teasing going on back and forth that the woman ignoring him was named Marge and that she owned the diner.

He finally commanded her attention with a loud but courteous “Ham-and-cheese omelet, please. Hash browns. Sourdough toast. And coffee with cream.”

She glared at him and he added with a pointed look, “When you get around to it. Thank you.”

She came to stand in front of him, the coffeepot held aloft. He got the distinct impression she intended to pour its contents on him if he made one wrong move.

“Fresh out of ham and cheese,” she said aggressively.

He put down the paper. He pointed to the officer’s plate, where half of a ham-and-cheese omelet lay fluffy and plump beside a wedge of wheat toast.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Brown eyes looked back at him evenly. “That’s his ham-and-cheese omelet. He protects the people around here. He doesn’t take food out of children’s mouths and make life miserable for young widows who are barely—”

“Marge,” the officer said quietly, his expression mildly amused. “That’s harassment. Get him his omelet or I’ll have to take you in.”

Marge put down the pot and offered both wrists across the counter. “Here. Do it now. Put me in solitary, but don’t expect me to do anything for this monster who—”

“What is going on?” a familiar voice demanded near Jake’s shoulder.

He turned to find the widow Hansen standing in the small space between his shoulder and the police officer’s. She wore jeans and another baggy sweater, this one a soft blue that was the color of her eyes. She had a wide, flat plastic container balanced on one hand and a big purse hung over her shoulder.

“Hey, babe.” The officer snaked an arm around her and pulled her to him, kissing her temple. He rubbed her shoulder. “Buy you breakfast?”

She smiled at him affectionately, and Jake felt the irritation that had been building in him since he walked into the place develop into anger. “Thanks, Brick. Had it two hours ago.” She placed the container on the counter, then frowned from him to Jake to Marge, whose hands were still held out sacrificially. “You’re arresting Marge?”

Brick grinned. “She refused to serve this gentleman his ham-and-cheese omelet. That’s unconstitutional.”

Britt blinked at Marge. “Why?”

“Because he—”

Jake folded his paper and put it aside. “Forget the omelet. I was just leaving.” He tried to stand, but a soft but surprisingly firm hand on his shoulder held him in place.

Britt’s blue, blue eyes flashed at him. “You stay right there.” She turned to Marge. “Why won’t you order his omelet?”

Everyone in the restaurant was absolutely still, waiting for her answer.

“Because I know he’s from Winnebago Dairy, and that he cut you off yesterday because you couldn’t pay. Nobody does that to my friends and gets away with it.” Marge’s eyes filled briefly, then she sniffed and swiped at something on the counter that wasn’t there. “Not after what you’ve been through. So Officer Bauer here—” she glanced in his direction “—threatened to take me in.”

Britt drew a breath and sat Jake down a second time when he tried again to get up. “Margie, he was just doing his job,” she said reasonably, almost surprised to hear the words come out of her own mouth. It was one thing to feel personal resentment at the bind his actions had left her in. But to see him unfairly treated by her friends in a public place for having done nothing more than what was required of him made her furious.

“I ordered the stuff,” she said, “and I couldn’t pay. His company has waited eight months already, while still supplying me. Do you think I’d keep making Danishes for you,” she asked, tapping the plastic container, “if you didn’t pay me?”

Marge folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

Britt wedged herself in between Jake and Brick so that she could lean over the counter toward Marge and give her the full effect of her stare. Brick grinned at Jake behind her back.

“You get this man his ham-and-cheese omelet,” she said firmly, placing a hand on top of the container, “or I won’t give you these extra Danishes you ordered for the Kiwanis breakfast. Whoever told you I’d been cut off apparently neglected to mention that when Mr. Marshack arrived at my place I was hanging by my fingernails from the roof. He saved me from falling, at considerable risk to himself.”

That was somewhat overstated, Jake thought, but Marge’s spine seemed to relax a fraction. She looked suspiciously from him to Britt.

“That’s true,” Brick confirmed, taking a bite of toast. “She told me yesterday afternoon. Even blushed when she said it. I don’t think she’s half as mad at him as you are.”

Britt turned on Brick and whomped him in the stomach with the back of her hand. He choked on the toast and had to reach for his coffee.

She turned back to Marge. “Get the omelet now.”

With one last, distrustful look at Jake, Marge made notes on her order pad, tore off the check and, scooping up the plastic container, went toward the kitchen.

“Spoilsport,” Brick said, finally recovered. “That would’ve been my first collar in a the week.”

Britt rolled her eyes at him. “You’re a nut, Bauer.”

“Runs in the family,” he returned. “Faulty chromosomes or something.”

Britt gave Jake an uncertain smile. “You okay?”

He was having palpitations over the nearness of her eyes, but he suspected she wouldn’t want to know that. “Fine,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Jake Marshack—” she swept a hand toward the officer “—my cousin, Donald Bauer, known among family and friends as Brick because his head bears a remarkable resem—” Her fingers traced a square in the air as Brick reached around with one hand to cover her mouth. He thrust the other toward Jake.

“Actually, it’s a name from my football days. Pleased to meet you. And thanks for saving her neck. I offered to do that roofing job for her, but she finds it impossible to wait for anything.”

Britt pulled Brick’s hand from her mouth. “He’s been promising for weeks. I’d hoped to enjoy the porch before snow sets in again.”

Listening to their affectionate banter, Jake felt a wave of loneliness he usually kept at bay with long hours in the office and at his desk at home. But here in Tyler the pace was slower, and after calling on her yesterday, he hadn’t been able to turn off his mind.

He wasn’t even sure why he was still here. Though he’d made another call after visiting her yesterday, he’d easily have gotten back to Chicago in time for a late dinner. But it had started raining, and he’d told himself rush hour would be slick and ugly and he might as well stay the night.

He’d watched cable television in the small motel room he’d found on the outskirts of town and had wondered how in hell the widow Hansen could be expected to make it with no feed, four kids, and everybody from bank to grocer breathing down her neck.

Then he remembered Brick saying a moment ago that Britt had told him about being saved from the roof, and that she’d blushed while telling him. Every time he thought about grabbing her thigh in his hand and scooping her bottom toward him as she’d dangled there, he felt a catch in his chest, a hitch in his pulse. Something subtle had happened to him yesterday. And it was possible something had happened to her.

“I’ve got to go,” Britt announced, her purse bumping him as she slipped out from between them. She turned to give him a quick smile, one that on the surface held only courtesy. But her eyes were so close to his that he saw deep inside a vague little longing that flashed when their eyes met, then was gone. “Safe trip home,” she said. Then she leaned over to kiss Brick on the cheek. “Have a good day, cuz.”

“Where you off to?” he asked.

“Worthington House to see Grandma and Inger.”

When she was out the door, Jake couldn’t resist asking Brick, “What happened to her husband?”

“He was plowing near a ditch,” Brick said grimly. “Got too close. Tractor turned over on him.”

Jake closed his eyes. That ugly accident happened all too often in farm country, but it was hard for him to think it had happened to someone Britt had loved.

“She’d gone to Milwaukee with a friend for a weekend of shopping,” Brick went on. “The first time she’d ever left Jimmy and the kids alone. She carries a lot of guilt over it.”

“God,” Jake said quietly, feelingly.

“Yeah. You can see why Marge got testy. Britt’s fighting an uphill battle, and we’re all pushing and pulling for her.”

As though on cue, Marge appeared with a steaming plate. The omelet was fat and beautiful, the hash browns golden and the toast buttered in every little corner. She poured coffee into a cup, put a pot of cream beside him and a jar of jam. “Anything else?” she asked, her tone a shade more congenial, but only just.

Jake looked down at his breakfast, then up at her again. “Something to eat it with,” he said, “and I’ll be a happy man.”

“Oh.” She looked surprised that she’d forgotten utensils. She retrieved knife, fork and spoon and a generous-size napkin, then leaned on her elbows across from him as he peppered the omelet.

“So you can’t see your way clear to get her a month’s extension?” she prodded. “She’s got big plans, you know. She makes the best low-calorie cheesecake east of the Rockies, and she’s going to pick up more clients and make more different products with her yogurt.”

Jake frowned, knowing how overworked she had to be already. “By herself?”

Marge sighed. “That’s how she does everything since Jimmy died.”

Jake couldn’t see how that was going to make any difference—provided she could even do it. Cheesecake, however elegant, would have to be produced by the thousands to affect the kind of debt on her books....

Though she’d been gone ten minutes, he could still see deep into those blue eyes and that little flash of longing in them. Business was business, but it was hard to step on someone who was trying so hard.

Marge was still waiting for an answer.

“I’ll try,” he promised with a thin smile.

A cheer rose from Marge’s Diner’s clientele. Jake looked around from the counter to find himself being applauded.

Brick slapped him on the back. “All right,” he said.

Jake turned back to his breakfast, mystified. He’d visited Tyler a dozen times in the past few years, but he’d never stayed overnight, so he’d never stopped in for breakfast. He’d never spoken to anyone but the people from whom he’d been trying to collect, so he’d never gotten below the surface of the pretty little lake town.

Now that he had, it was a little scary. For a boy who’d lived with his mother in a tenement in Chicago, crowded in with an aunt who’d made it clear every day that they were there on the sufferance of charity, this warm caring of one person for another was something alien and new. As an adult, he’d certainly never seen it in the corporate world.

Marge topped up his coffee and gave him a brilliant smile. Brick picked up his tab. When Jake tried to protest, he offered his hand again, then was gone.

Jake dug into his succulent omelet, feeling as though his world had slipped a little out of orbit.

* * *

WALKING ACROSS the parking lot toward the rest home that sprawled on a corner of Elm Street, Britt tried to stop her mind’s erratic jumping, from Jake Marshack to cheesecakes, to Jake Marshack to money, to Jake Marshack.

She’d seen a lonely man in the diner. Though she missed Jimmy abominably, she had friends and relatives who were always generous with emotional support or a more substantive helping hand. She hated to think of anyone trying to get through life without them.

Of course, why she was worried about a man with a secure, high-paying job when her personal economy was about to bottom out, she couldn’t imagine. There was just something in his face that touched her.

Topping the stairs and blindly turning down the corridor, Britt collided with George Phelps, who was perusing a chart.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Phelps,” she apologized breathlessly. “Did I hurt you?”

He grinned at the question. Tall and fit, with graying brown hair, he twirled the end of his elegant mustache in a parody of villainy. “Hardly. It was the nicest thing that’s happened to me this morning. How are you, Britt?”

“Good. How are things with you?”

“I’m fine,” he replied, his expression failing to match his words. He waved a typewritten sheet in the air. “Except for the resignation of Finklebaum, my nursing supervisor. She’ll be missed around here. But how’re the kids? I don’t recall seeing any of your brood since back-to-school checkups.”

Britt rapped on the paneled wall. “Knock on wood. I think they move too fast to catch anything.” She began to back away. “I’m on my way to visit the ladies. Take care, Doctor.”

Britt turned down the corridor toward Inger Hansen’s room, bracing herself for the ordeal. She visited Jimmy’s great-aunt before her grandmother because the woman’s irascible personality made it more of a challenge than a pleasure. With that chore behind her, Britt could then relax and enjoy her Grandma Martha.

The theme music from “The Price is Right” blared from the television as Britt entered the room. The woman sharing the space with Inger, apparently cursed with good hearing, wore large orange ear protectors as she concentrated on her cross-stitching.

“Hi, Inger,” Britt said, coming up beside her to put a bag of goodies on her bedside table.

“Shh!” Inger snapped, her sharp eyes focused on the television as she held Britt out of the way with one arm. “This guy’s about to blow it. He is so stupid! You wonder how some people get by!”

The television audience cheered for a correct answer and Inger slapped her blanket in disgust. “One live brain cell. Big deal!” She turned to Britt and shouted over the loud television. “How are you? You look like a refugee. Don’t you ever eat?”

Britt smiled and gave her a hug, tuning out her considerable annoyance quotient in deference to her age and her status as family.

“I’m fine, Aunt Inger. How are you?”

“Old. Arthritic. God knows what else. I hope that bag isn’t filled with more cheesecake.”

“No.” Britt allowed herself a smile, grateful her small success didn’t depend on Inger. It was interesting, she thought, how differently time and loss of loved ones aged individuals. Some, like her grandmother, drew others toward them. Inger pushed everyone away, as though telling the world that if she couldn’t have the people she wanted, she didn’t want anyone.

Britt delved into the bag and held out a Linder ball, a chocolate confection wrapped in colorful foil. They were Inger’s weakness.

Inger’s eyes softened for an instant, then she snatched the candy from Britt. “Thank you,” she said, almost resentful at having a reason for gratitude. “How are your little monsters?”