Chapter 2
Lexa Woods.
According to her online research, Lexa Woods was either the owner of that local bakery on Boylston and Claude or an inmate serving time in the city jail for arson. Clarke prays that her Kit Kat bar did not grow up with a penchant for playing with fire.
A yellow taxicab, the first one to come down the street in nearly fifteen minutes, breezes past her, nearly hiking up her skirt in the process. It is the first gust of wind of the day.
Her eyes follow the cab until it stops a few yards ahead to let a passenger out at the curb, tires screeching and the smell of rubber permeating the humid air.
“Wait!”
Clarke waves it down and wonders if she’s making the right decision as she gives chase to the vehicle. The idea seems quite romantic on a TV screen with nothing more than a little effort to reach for a handful of popcorn on her part, but the actual task of hunting down a past love in the middle of August without proper sunscreen douses her with anxiety.
The man getting out kindly holds the door for her.
“Thank---,” she breathes, ”you.”
She slips in and is immediately overwhelmed by the smell of old leather and a fading scent of Pine Forest.
She stares down at the un-vacuumed carpet. Ranch flavored Doritos too, it seems.
“Red Brick Bakery on Boylston Street, please.”
The cab driver swipe at his snotty nose like it’s a habit more than a circumstance and resets the meter.
“Alright, we’re---“
“Red Brick Bakery, please. I’m in a rush.”
Clarke stares at the brown haired woman who’s just slid in through the other side of the cab, carrying with her a faint scent of hazelnut and roses.
She blinks twice at Clarke once it dawns on her that she was sharing the backseat with another person.
“Uh, who are you?”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“The person who got into this cab first.”
The woman turns to the cab driver for confirmation.
“Yeah,” he absently scratches the side of his head and a cloud of dandruff layers the seat. “She got into the cab first. But it looks like the two of you are going to the same place. So ya might as well share a cab.”
The woman does a once over of Clarke who’s still trying to figure out what kind of perfume she’s wearing.
“Okay.” She pulls on the handle of the door to close it shut, jolting Clarke out of her daze.
“Okay.”
“Good.”
“Yes.”
The man stares at the two women from the rearview mirror, slightly confused at their exchange. “Lovely. Now seatbelts on, ladies.”
“Even if we’re riding in the back?”
“You’re going to need them.”
And it turns out that he was right.
The yellow cab that they ride in squeezes through every possible opening, save for the space on the sidewalk reserved for pedestrians, because the menace behind the wheels has the temperament of an anxious puppy at the vet.
“Sir, is there a reason why you’re in a bigger rush to get to the destination than we are?”
Clarke grips the assist handle on the roof to keep her body from swaying back and forth and knocking into the woman next to her.
“Lady, this is how the pros do it. I’m saving you some money, anyway.”
“I’d rather keep my life than save a few bucks.”
Her shoulder bumps into the woman sitting beside her, and a firm but gentle hand grip at her forearm for support.
“If it’s any consolation, you smell really nice before you die.”
Clarke whips her head around, slightly stunned at the stranger’s confession.
“I’m sure that’s you.”
She smirks.
“Mr. Taxi man,” the woman looks at the nametag “Harry.” She reads it again.
“Mr. Harry…Potter.”
Clarke tries her best to stifle a giggle and the boy wonder reborn as a middle-aged taxi cab driver glares at her from his rear view mirror.
“I’ve got a hundred dollar bill here that has your name on it. How about we let that meter run for a little bit longer. We don’t need to make it there under five minutes.”
He cocks an eyebrow and shifts his gaze between the confident woman and this weekend’s poker money.
“I thought you said that you were in a rush, lady.”
“Well, I was until---“
A phone rings.
“Hey.”
While the woman talks into her cellphone, Clarke takes the opportunity to check her makeup again. It’s been the third time she’s opened the compact mirror today despite not owning one last week.
“Okay, Mr. Potter, you can let me off at the curb ahead instead.”
The cab comes to a screeching stop, throwing the both of them forward.
“Told you that those seatbelts would come in handy.”
The woman unfastens her seatbelt and leans forward.
“This should cover the cost of my ride and hers.”
Mr. Potter finally turns his head around to look at them for the first time. And to Clarke’s surprise, he doesn’t look a day over thirty-five.
“Ah.” The woman pulls the bill away from his hairy grasp. “On one condition.”
The man huffs and shifts his gaze to Clarke.
“Fine, I’ll make sure the blonde gets her muffins and scones.”
“Safely.” She drops the bill in his hand.
“You don’t have to do that.” Clarke tries to object but the woman was already out of the car at that point. Though, that interesting scent of hers still lingers behind.
The cab slowly pulls away from the curb, surprisingly mindful of its passenger in the back this time, and the driver mutters something beneath his breath.
“Women.”
---
She’s never been inside before but Red Brick Bakery has that homely feel about it from the outside that makes it seem a bit out of place at a cross street decked by law offices and impatient pedestrians.
“Your stop, lady.”
Clarke gropes for her handbag at her side only to discover that it was now lodged beneath the passenger’s seat next to some kind of used plastic wrapper.
“Right.” She reaches down, hoping that she doesn’t catch anything in retrieving her belongings. To her relief, it is only a candy wrapper. But she does notice a cellphone.
“This--”
“What?”
But on better judgment, she tucks it into her own bag. “Nothing.”
---
“Two loafs of honey wheat bread, please.”
The bakery has the hustle and bustle of a busy diner but still maintains that homely feel she had gathered from it from the outside.
It’s nice.
A woman with shoulder length brown hair comes marching out of the back with flour on her cheeks.
“Need any help up front?”
The embroidered name on her chef coat reads Lexa.
“Oh, hi, how can I help you?” She smiles at Clarke.
And Clarke stares at the pretty face but can’t help but feel something drop in her stomach.
“Uh, yes. One blueberry scone, please.”
“Sure thing.”
She isn’t exactly sure what she was expecting. Just something more. Perhaps, the memory is actually a lot sweeter in her mind.
The woman hands Clarke the pastry, and a weird part of her wants to ask her how she should eat it. But the words don’t form correctly on her tongue.
“Thank you.”
---
Clarke flips the scone on its side.
“What cha doing?”
“Me?”
“Yes, the doctor playing with her food.”
She leaves the scone alone.
“Ever been disappointed by how someone turned out?”
Jamie drops her fork down onto the plate. “What do you mean?”
“Say you go to a bakery to buy a blueberry scone. It’s nice, but it’s not something that you haven’t seen before. And you were expecting something else. Something worth the trip.”
“I feel like this is a bit too metaphoric for my understanding. So who is this sad pastry you’ve been tossing around the table?”
“No one’s a pastry.”
Ring.
“Are you going to pick that up?”
“That’s not me.”
The sound comes again.
“Well, it’s coming from your purse.”
She digs a blind hand in and removes the vibrating device from her bag. Her eyes alight with realization.
“Oh, right.”
The nurse continues to stare at her like everything Clarke’s been saying and doing have flown right over her head.
“Hello?”
“Hi, this is the owner of the phone calling.”
“Yeah, hey! This is the other person in the cab. You left it behind.”
“Oh, thank you for keeping it for me. Would you mind meeting up with me tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sure. Where?”
“Our initial destination.”