Hand over the bakery keys, Grandma, before you embarrass yourself any further. You’re

Tessa rolled her eyes and slapped a manila folder onto the counter. ‘I had Dad’s lawyer draw up the transfer. Just sign. You’ll get a little stipend, you can knit or whatever.’ The regulars went quiet. Mr. Alvarez paused mid-sip. The young couple by the window pretended to study the chalkboard menu. I wiped my hands on my apron and opened the folder slowly, the way you open an oven you already know is empty. ‘Tessa, honey,’ I said, ‘do you remember last spring when you asked me to co-sign your business loan? The forty-thousand for your little consulting startup?’ Her jaw tightened. ‘That’s not relevant.’ ‘It’s very relevant,’ I said. ‘Because I didn’t co-sign. I bought the note. Outright. From the bank. I own your debt, sweetheart. Every penny of it.’ The folder slipped a half inch in her hand. I reached under the counter and pulled out my own folder, leather-bound, soft from years of use. ‘And while we’re sharing paperwork, the building you’re standing in? I deeded it to the Asheville Culinary Trust six weeks ago. They’ve agreed to keep Hollis and Honey running, with my morning baker reinstated, starting Monday. You’re not inheriting a bakery, Tessa. You’re inheriting a receipt.’ Her face went the color of raw dough. ‘You can’t—’ ‘I already did.’ I slid a second envelope across the glass. ‘That’s a demand letter for the forty thousand. Payable in ninety days. Or you can work it off, same wage I paid your mother when she was sixteen. Eleven dollars an hour. Apron’s on the hook.’ Mr. Alvarez set down his cup and started clapping. Slowly. Then the couple by the window. Then the line at the register. Tessa grabbed her purse and pushed through the door so fast the bell above it rang twice. I picked up my piping bag, smiled at my next customer, and asked if she wanted extra honey on top. She did. They always do.