Part 3
Luis’s eyebrows rose farther.
Nora took the cream folder into the office and locked it in the bottom filing drawer. The original transfer documents were in a safe-deposit box registered jointly to her and the attorney who had prepared them. The copies in the burgundy case had been Evelyn’s idea.
“You keep something in your own hands,” Evelyn had said. “People get strange when paper tells them no.”
At the time, Nora had thought the sentence severe. Now she understood that it was an observation.
She returned to the loading area, where a driver from Keystone Dairy stood beside stacks of butter and cream. Caleb had already signed the handheld screen.
The driver nodded toward the cartons. “Account note says payment’s due before next delivery.”
Caleb’s expression tightened. “That was handled.”
“Not on my end.”
“I talked to your office.”
“Okay.” The driver gave the noncommittal shrug of someone who delivered to thirty businesses before lunch and did not intend to join another family’s financial crisis. “Just telling you what it says.”
Nora looked at Caleb.
He turned away and began cutting plastic wrap from a butter carton with a paring knife.
The dairy account had never required payment before delivery. Evelyn had paid suppliers every Friday, even during slow months. She said a bakery could survive ugly wallpaper and an unreliable awning, but not a cream shortage.
“How much?” Nora asked.
The driver checked his screen. “I don’t do billing. You’ll have to call.”
“I’ll call.”
Caleb drove the knife too hard and scored the cardboard beneath the plastic.
The driver left. Luis wheeled the first stack toward the walk-in refrigerator. He glanced once from Nora to Caleb but said nothing.
Diane emerged from the dining room wearing her coat. “We’re going to Martin’s office.”
“He’s in court,” Robert reminded her.
“His assistant can let us wait.”
Caleb placed the knife on the carton. “I need the agreement.”
“No,” Nora said.
His head came up.
“I’ll send a scanned copy to Martin,” she continued. “From the office email, with everyone included.”
“You don’t get to decide how we speak to our attorney.”
“He’s the company’s attorney for routine matters. The company is under my control.”
The sentence felt unnatural in her mouth. She had not wanted to say it in front of Luis, who had stopped moving beside the refrigerator.
Caleb’s face reddened. “You’ve owned paper for five minutes and suddenly you’re in charge?”
“I’ve owned the shares since August.”
“You’ve never run a company.”
“I’ve run this kitchen.”
“That’s not the same.”
“No. It isn’t.”
The answer seemed to confuse him. He had expected a claim to competence he could attack. Nora had no wish to pretend she understood everything. The company’s payroll system still frightened her, and she had once spent an hour searching for a quarterly tax notice Evelyn had filed under the name of the printer manufacturer.
But Caleb’s financial competence had just acquired an overdue dairy bill.
Diane buttoned her coat with quick, angry movements. “We are not discussing this in front of employees.”
Luis rolled the cart into the walk-in and pulled the door shut behind him.
Robert said, “That was your choice when you put the box by the door.”
Diane looked at her husband as if he had switched sides in a war he had not known was underway.
Caleb picked up his car keys. “Nobody changes anything until the lawyers review this.”
Nora looked at him. “Nobody changes anything today. We have orders.”
It was the first useful sentence anyone had spoken since the towel hit the table.
Caleb left with his parents through the rear door. Diane paused beside the cardboard box, perhaps considering whether to take it, then walked past it.
Nora waited until the door closed.
The preparation room seemed larger without them.
Luis emerged from the walk-in. “Do I ask?”
“Not yet.”
“Good.”
He pushed the empty cart toward the loading area, then stopped. “Am I still employed?”
Nora looked at him.
“I heard the part about company control.”
“Yes. You’re still employed.”
“And you?”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. It was small and rough and not particularly cheerful.
“I think so.”
Luis nodded. “Then the sourdough is overproofing.”
They returned to work.
For the next four hours, Nora portioned dough, filled pastry bags, answered two calls from wedding clients, and avoided looking at the vegetable box. Luis moved it into the office without asking. The towel remained folded beside the staff table until one of the dishwashers picked it up and tossed it into the laundry bin.
By ten, the front cases were nearly empty. The bakery’s Saturday crowd came in wearing knit caps and Eagles jackets, carrying children, tote bags, and reusable coffee cups. They complained about parking, praised the cranberry scones, and asked whether the peppermint cookies would return before Thanksgiving. Nobody knew the building had changed hands months ago. Nobody knew the wedding photograph beside the register would never be displayed.
Nora stood behind the counter during the late-morning rush because one cashier had called out sick. She smiled, made change, and wrote “Happy 70th, Pop-Pop” across a sheet cake in blue icing.
Her hands knew what to do when the rest of her did not.
At noon, Martin Slade arrived.
He was sixty-two, narrow-faced, and dressed in a charcoal suit that seemed too formal for the bakery until Nora remembered that he had probably come directly from court. Caleb entered behind him. Diane and Robert followed separately, their coats still on.
Martin asked to speak in private.
May you like
The office could not hold all five of them, so they gathered again around the dining table. Nora brought the folder. She had already emailed a scan to Martin and to Evelyn’s attorney, Celeste Warren, whose office was in Center City.
Martin placed his reading glasses low on his nose. He examined the agreement without speaking for several minutes. Nora could hear customers laughing on the other side of the wall.
