I set the towel down. “Trevor,” I said, “before you vote me out of anything, you might want to read the deed.” His fiancée Brittany stopped recording for half a second. Trevor laughed, the way he used to laugh when he thought he’d outsmarted his grandfather at checkers. “Mom already showed me the trust paperwork, Grandma. Dad’s the executor. The bakery is a family asset.” I nodded slowly. “It was. Until last March.” I reached under the counter and pulled out the manila folder I’d kept there since the morning my daughter-in-law Diane first mentioned ‘streamlining the estate’ over Easter ham. Inside was a notarized transfer of ownership — Maple & Rye, LLC — sold for one dollar to my business partner of thirty-one years, Mrs. Adaeze Okafor, the woman who’d been kneading dough beside me since her first week in this country. “Adaeze owns sixty percent now,” I said. “I kept forty. Your father was never the executor of anything but his own ego.” Adaeze stepped out from the kitchen, wiping her hands, calm as Sunday. The line of customers had become an audience. Trevor’s face went the color of unbaked dough. “You — you can’t just — Mom said —” “Your mother said a lot of things at Easter,” I replied gently. “Including that I should sign a power of attorney because I was ‘getting confused.’ I recorded that conversation, sweetheart. My lawyer has a copy. So does Adult Protective Services.” Brittany lowered the phone. Trevor opened his mouth and closed it again. I slid a small white bag across the counter — a cinnamon scone, his favorite since he was six. “On the house,” I said. “Last one you’ll get here. You’re welcome back as a customer when you’ve apologized — in writing — to me and to your aunt Adaeze. Until then, the door is behind you.” The bell chimed as they left. A man near the window started clapping. Then a teenager. Then the whole line. Adaeze squeezed my shoulder. “Sourdough’s ready, sister.” I tied my apron tighter and got back to work.
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