Friday came. I walked into the Halcyon conference room with nothing but a manila folder and shaking hands. Preston was already leaning back, tie loose, victorious. You don’t have the bandwidth for this, Carol, he said, though my name is Marla. His lawyers chuckled. Then the door opened. In walked Delia Reyes, my Saturday-morning regular for eleven years, the woman who always ordered a cinnamon twist and tipped in exact change. Except today she wore a navy blazer and a badge that read Deputy City Attorney. Behind her came two investigators from the state Small Business Protection Unit and a reporter from the Tribune I’d once fed for free during a blizzard. Delia set a folder thicker than mine on the table. Preston, she said, you are no longer authorized to make decisions for Halcyon’s local acquisitions. Coercion of a protected small business. Falsified zoning claims. Witness tampering. His face drained. The lawyers slowly closed their briefcases. Get your hands off her deed and get out of this building before I call security, Delia said, calm as Sunday. Preston tried, Delia, it isn’t what it looks like. She only tilted her head. Agreed, she said, it looks worse. Outside, my regulars were waiting on the sidewalk, holding handwritten signs with my logo. Mrs. Alvarez brought sunflowers. The high school kids brought a speaker playing the song I always hummed while kneading. Delia squeezed my shoulder and whispered, Hey, did Lauren mention the rehearsal dinner venue? Because half the neighborhood already booked your back room for next spring. I laughed until I cried. That night I unlocked the bakery, flipped the sign to OPEN, and the little bell above the door rang like it was finally, finally singing for me. Last night was everything.
Friday came. The investors filled the atrium — champagne, soft jazz, a forty-foot screen behind the covered model of the Lakeside Cultural Center, the firm’s […]
