Brielle slid the papers across the counter, tapping them with a manicured nail. ‘Sign, Mom. Hazel, you too. The developer wants a clean title by Friday. You’ll both get a little something for your trouble.’ She actually winked at me. ‘Maybe enough for culinary school, sis. Finally make something of yourself.’
I wiped my hands on my apron and walked to the small office behind the display case. When I came back, I was holding a navy-blue folder. I set it gently on top of her contract.
‘Before Mom signs anything,’ I said quietly, ‘you should probably read this.’
Brielle laughed. ‘What is this, a recipe?’
‘It’s the deed,’ I said. ‘Two years ago, when Mom was hospitalized with pneumonia, she transferred the bakery and the lot into a living trust. I’m the sole trustee. She’s the lifetime beneficiary. The property cannot be sold, transferred, or encumbered without unanimous trustee approval. There is one trustee. Me.’
The color drained from her face faster than milk from a cracked jug.
‘That’s — that’s not legal, she wasn’t in her right mind —’
‘She was,’ I said. ‘Three doctors signed competency evaluations. Her attorney recorded the session. I have the video.’ I slid a second document forward. ‘And this is the offer I accepted last month. A community land trust is leasing the lot to keep the bakery open for the next ninety-nine years. Mom keeps her shop. The neighborhood keeps its corner. And you,’ I met her eyes, ‘keep your Chanel suit. That’s all you’re walking out with.’
Mom started to cry, but she was smiling, her hand finding mine across the counter.
Brielle’s voice cracked. ‘You planned this. Behind my back.’
‘No, Brielle,’ I said softly, sliding her papers back toward her. ‘I planned this in front of Mom. You just weren’t here to see it.’
She grabbed her purse and stormed out, heels clicking like a countdown. The bell above the door jingled once, then went still. Mom squeezed my hand.
‘Pull the croissants out, sweetheart,’ she whispered. ‘They’re ready.’
And they were. Golden, perfect, ours.
