The keys to the storefront arrived on a gray Monday morning.
Nina placed them in my palm outside the glass door.
Three silver keys.
Front.
Back.
Office.
I closed my fingers around them.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it.”
“It feels too simple.”
“Opening a business won’t.”
“I assumed.”
She laughed.
“Enjoy today anyway.”
I unlocked the door myself.
The mechanism stuck halfway.
I jiggled the key.
Nina said, “Lift slightly.”
I did.
The lock turned.
The door opened.
I walked inside.
The room was colder than outside.
Empty spaces held sound differently.
My footsteps bounced from the walls.
I placed Mom’s recipe notebook on the future counter location.
Not permanently.
Just for a minute.
Then I took a photograph.
I sent it to Brooke.
She replied almost immediately.
OH MY GOD.
Then:
Do not let Mom choose the paint.
I laughed so loudly it echoed.
Dad arrived an hour later carrying a toolbox.
“You invited yourself?”
“I asked.”
“You texted, ‘I’m bringing tools.’”
“That was a request.”
“It lacked a question mark.”
He smiled.
“Can I help?”
I considered it.
“Yes.”
That was how we spent the morning.
Not talking about Natalie.
Not talking about the cake.
We measured walls.
Checked outlets.
Removed two old shelving brackets.
Dad showed me a crack near the rear door and told me to photograph it before the contractor began work.
Small practical things.
It felt easier than forgiveness.
Maybe repair usually did.
At eleven thirty, Vanessa arrived.
I had not invited her.
She appeared in the doorway carrying coffee.
“I heard there was a bakery.”
I looked at Dad.
He raised both hands.
“Not me.”
“Brooke,” I said.
Vanessa nodded.
“She sent me the address.”
Of course.
She handed me a coffee.
“I have something for you.”
“If it’s a demolition project, I’m already booked.”
She laughed.
“No demolition.”
She took out her tablet.
“I have a client searching for a baker.”
“I thought we were waiting until the trial agreement was signed.”
“This is outside the trial.”
“Okay.”
She swiped to an event brief.
“Private anniversary dinner. One hundred and ten guests. High-end residential venue. They want a centerpiece cake and plated desserts.”
I scanned the numbers.
The budget made me look twice.
“When?”
“Five weeks.”
“I can do it.”
“I assumed.”
She hesitated.
“What?”
“There’s a complication.”
I looked up.
“The client is Helen Carrington.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“It should?”
Dad stopped measuring.
Vanessa glanced at him.
“Maybe.”
Then she looked at me.
“Helen is Natalie’s aunt.”
I froze.
Dad lowered the tape measure.
“Aunt Helen?”
“You know her?”
“She’s Natalie’s mother’s sister.”
Vanessa nodded.
“She’s a client of mine.”
I stared at the tablet.
“Does she know I’m the baker?”
“Not yet.”
“Does she know what happened?”
“I don’t know.”
Dad did.
I could tell by his face.
“Dad.”
He put down the tape.
“Natalie spoke to her yesterday.”
“What did she say?”
“I wasn’t in the room.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He exhaled.
“She told Helen you were causing problems with Brooke’s wedding.”
Vanessa’s expression flattened.
“What kind of problems?”
Dad looked uncomfortable.
“She said you were overcharging Brooke.”
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Vanessa said, “That could be relevant.”
“How?”
“Helen asked specifically for someone independent, reliable, and discreet.”
I closed my eyes.
“Great.”
“She doesn’t know you’re being considered.”
“So you can choose someone else.”
Vanessa looked at me.
“Do you want me to?”
I thought.
Five weeks.
Large budget.
Strong portfolio opportunity.
A client connected to Natalie.
That last part was the problem.
“I don’t want family drama near my business.”
“Good.”
Vanessa’s answer surprised me.
“Good?”
“If you’d said you were eager to prove something, I would have reassigned it.”
I stared at her.
“I don’t need to prove anything to Natalie’s aunt.”
“Then take the meeting.”
Dad said, “Helen’s not like Natalie.”
Vanessa looked at him.
“That sentence never reassures anyone.”
He gave a sheepish smile.
“She’s direct.”
“So am I,” I said.
Vanessa closed the tablet.
“I’ll tell Helen I have a recommended baker and let her review your portfolio before she knows the connection.”
“Why?”
“So she evaluates the work first.”
That seemed fair.
“If she chooses me, you tell her who I am before the meeting.”
“Absolutely.”
I nodded.
“Fine.”
Vanessa smiled.
“Good.”
She walked around the storefront.
“This place works.”
“You say that about empty rooms?”
“I say it about traffic patterns.”
She pointed.
“Display case there.”
“That’s what Brooke said.”
“Tasting table near the window.”
“Also Brooke.”
Vanessa frowned.
“I’m beginning to dislike her.”
Dad laughed.
I spent the afternoon meeting contractors.
Electrical.
Ventilation.
Flooring.
Every conversation involved numbers larger than I wanted.
By five, my excitement had acquired a headache.
Opening a bakery had always existed in my imagination as ovens, display cases, frosting, and customers.
Reality contained plumbing.
Reality contained permits.
Reality contained grease traps.
I preferred sugar flowers.
Still, every estimate made the place more real.
At six, Vanessa called.
“Helen wants you.”
“That was fast.”
“She reviewed your portfolio.”
“What did she say?”
“That the floral work on the blue anniversary cake was unusual.”
I looked at Dad.
He was painting sample swatches near the rear wall.
“She saw that cake?”
“I put the finished design in my event gallery.”
Of course she did.
“Does she know?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“She still wants the meeting.”
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
“When?”
“Tomorrow at two.”
“Here?”
“At Helen’s house.”
I nearly declined.
Then I stopped.
This was a client meeting.
Nothing more.
“Send the address.”
When I returned home that evening, Natalie was in the dining room sorting wedding invitations.
I walked past.
“Claire.”
I stopped.
She did not look up.
“I heard about Aunt Helen.”
Of course she had.
“What about her?”
“You’re meeting her.”
“Yes.”
Natalie finally looked at me.
“Why?”
“She needs a baker.”
“There are hundreds of bakers.”
“She chose me.”
Her mouth tightened.
“You should decline.”
I almost asked whether she was joking.
Then I realized she was serious.
“Why?”
“Because she’s family.”
I waited.
Apparently Natalie heard the irony only after speaking.
Her expression hardened.
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“This is my family.”
I leaned against the doorway.
“Your aunt is an adult who hired an event planner. The planner recommended me. Helen reviewed my work.”
“You’re using this situation.”
“To do what?”
“Make me look bad.”
I stared at her.
“How does baking a cake make you look bad?”
“She knows we’ve been having problems.”
“You told her.”
Natalie said nothing.
“You told her I was overcharging Brooke.”
“I told her the truth.”
“No. You told her your version.”
She stood.
“Are you planning to tell her about Vanessa’s cake?”
“No.”
That surprised her.
“I’m not discussing you with clients.”
For a second, she looked almost disappointed.
Then suspicious.
“So you won’t mention me?”
“Unless Helen does.”
“You promise?”
“No.”
Her face tightened.
“I promise to behave professionally.”
“That means nothing.”
“It means exactly what it says.”
I started upstairs.
“Claire.”
I turned.
“If Helen asks what happened, what are you going to say?”
“The truth.”
Natalie’s face went pale.
“There are two sides.”
“Then she can ask you for yours.”
I walked away.
At two the following afternoon, Vanessa and I entered Helen Carrington’s home.
It was the kind of house that looked designed for magazine photographs but still smelled like someone lived there.
Fresh flowers.
Coffee.
Wood polish.
Helen met us in the sitting room.
She was in her late sixties, elegant without looking fragile, with silver hair cut at her jaw.
She shook my hand.
“So you’re Claire.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard your name quite a lot this week.”
My stomach tightened.
Vanessa sat beside me.
Helen noticed.
“I’m not interested in family gossip.”
Relief.
Then she added, “I am interested in whether someone I hire can separate personal conflict from professional obligation.”
“I can.”
She studied me.
“Good.”
We discussed the event.
Her fortieth anniversary.
Her husband loved dark chocolate.
She preferred citrus.
Their first date had been at a restaurant famous for orange soufflé.
That became the design starting point.
Not the conflict.
Not Natalie.
Flavor.
Memory.
Work.
For nearly an hour, Helen asked precise questions.
Transportation.
Service timing.
Allergens.
Heat control.
Staff.
By the end, I forgot she was related to Natalie.
Then she closed the menu folder.
“One more thing.”
Here it came.
“My niece tells me you charged Brooke an unreasonable amount for her wedding cake.”
Vanessa remained silent.
I did not rush.
“What number did she give you?”
“Four thousand.”
“That isn’t the price.”
Helen raised an eyebrow.
I told her the actual amount.
Then the discounted amount I had originally offered.
She blinked.
“That is not what Natalie said.”
“I assumed.”
“And the other cake?”
I looked at Vanessa.
She gave nothing away.
“Helen, I don’t discuss client incidents outside what affects the job.”
“That incident involved my niece.”
“Yes.”
“So you won’t tell me?”
“I’ll tell you this.”
I folded my hands.
“The cake was damaged. The order was fulfilled. Vanessa was satisfied.”
Helen studied me.
“That is carefully phrased.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I want you to hire me or not hire me based on whether I can do this job.”
Silence.
Helen leaned back.
Then she smiled.
“That is the first useful answer anyone has given me all week.”
Vanessa’s mouth twitched.
Helen signed the proposal.
When we walked outside, I exhaled.
Vanessa looked amused.
“You did well.”
“I was sweating.”
“I know.”
“You couldn’t tell?”
“I could.”
“That’s comforting.”
She laughed.
We reached our cars.
Then my phone rang.
Brooke.
I answered.
“Hey.”
She was crying.
“Claire?”
I stopped.
“What happened?”
“Mom called the venue.”
My stomach dropped.
“What did she do?”
Brooke struggled to speak.
“She canceled the wedding.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: When Natalie Canceled Brooke’s Venue Without Permission, We Discovered the Wedding Contract Held a Secret None of Us Expected
The Morning My Stepmother Asked for One More Favor, I Finally Told Her What My Work Was Worth
Part 7 of 44
