I slid the contract back across the counter without signing. Brittany’s lipsticked mouth twitched. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Rosie. The doctors said—”
“The doctors said my hip hurts,” I replied softly. “Not my memory.”
One of the suits cleared his throat. “Ma’am, the offer expires at noon. Three hundred thousand for the property and the brand. It’s generous.”
“It’s robbery,” I said. “This corner lot alone appraised at one point four million last spring.”
Brittany’s face went the color of raw dough. “You— you don’t know what you’re talking about—”
The bell over the door chimed. In walked a tall woman in a camel coat, followed by a film crew with shoulder cameras and boom mics. Brittany froze. The woman extended a manicured hand to me.
“Mrs. Rosalind Carter? I’m Margaux Lin, head of culinary acquisitions for the Food Network. We spoke in March. I’m thrilled to finally meet the woman behind the cinnamon roll my producer won’t stop crying about.”
The suits looked at each other. One of them quietly began packing his briefcase.
Margaux turned to the cameras. “Rosie’s Rolls is the first independent bakery selected for our new heritage series. Six-figure licensing deal, national distribution, and Mrs. Carter retains full ownership and creative control.”
Brittany made a small, strangled sound. “Grandma— Rosie— we’re family. You can’t just—”
I finally looked at her, really looked. “Sweetheart. You called me senile in front of strangers. You forged a power of attorney I never signed. My lawyer has a copy. He’s two blocks away, eating a croissant.”
Her phone buzzed. She glanced down, then went bone-white. The bank had frozen the joint account she’d opened in my name.
“Out of my bakery, Brittany,” I said gently, untying my apron and handing it to Margaux for the camera. “A lady never raises her voice. She just changes the locks.”
The bell chimed again as Brittany stumbled into the sunlight. I turned to the cameras, smiled, and slid a fresh tray of rolls onto the counter. “Now. Who’s hungry?”
