Mallory smirked and repeated it, louder this time, adding that I was ‘too old to run a real business’ and that her partner Trent had already drawn up paperwork to ‘modernize’ the shop into a franchise location. She slid a contract across the counter. Transfer of ownership. Ninety percent to her, ten to me, effective immediately. ‘Sign it, Grandma. I’m doing you a favor.’
I didn’t touch the pen. Instead, I nodded toward the gentleman in the corner booth — the one nursing the same black coffee he’d ordered every Saturday for six years. He stood up, brushed crumbs from his sweater, and walked over. ‘Morning, Eleanor.’ Then he turned to Mallory. ‘Ma’am, I’m Daniel Avery. County Health Inspector. Also Eleanor’s attorney’s brother-in-law, but that’s beside the point.’ Mallory’s face drained. ‘There’s no violation here. There never has been. But I am curious about the business license your partner just waved around — because the address listed on it belongs to a building that was condemned in 2019.’
Trent suddenly remembered an urgent call and bolted for the door. Mallory stammered that there had to be a mistake. I finally picked up the pen — and slid it back across the counter with a folded document of my own. ‘Funny thing, sweetheart. Last month I put the bakery into a community trust. Every employee gets a share. You’re not on the list, because you haven’t worked a shift here since you were sixteen.’ Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.
‘You can still have a job,’ I said gently. ‘Dish pit opens at four a.m. Apron’s on the hook.’ The regulars actually applauded. Mallory grabbed her useless contract and fled after Trent, heels clicking like a countdown. I turned back to my oven, pulled out the cinnamon braid, and handed the first slice to Daniel. Forty-two years of sugar and patience. Nobody was taking a crumb of it.
