The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(104)

“Lucy? Your turn,” Mom says, jolting me out of my daze. I look up at their expectant faces, glance back at Jorge, who raises an eyebrow.

“Right.” I take the pen, look at the contract. Bunny’s three majority owners have all signed their full names and the titles they gave themselves years ago. Iris Black Sandor, Chief Executive Officer. Rose Black Thompson, President. Daisy Black Lang, Manager-at-Large. All that’s left is me.

Lucy Lang Mirabelli. Bread baker.

The image of a patisserie flashes across my mind like heat lightning…the tarts I’d like to bake, the cakes and pastries and pies. All the desserts I’ve taught in class or made for Ethan over the years—zabaglione, raisin bread pudding, crème brûlée. And in their place, bread. Loaves and loaves and years and years of bread.

“I’m sorry,” I say, putting the pen down. “I…I don’t want to do this.” Matt’s usually genial expression turns to a frown. “It’s just that I’m supposed to be a pastry chef.” I look at the Black Widows. “I want to do more,” I say, my voice shaking. “I want to own a café with the best pastries and cookies and cakes around. I don’t want to be run out of business by Starbucks, and I don’t want to bake bread for the rest of my life. I’ll give you all my recipes, but I…I quit.”

AFTER HALF AN HOUR OF FROWNING, rereading the contract and finally deciding that he has to run this by corporate, Matt DeSalvo leaves, disappointed and even a bit reproachful.

“Well, there goes the future!” Iris barks as the door closes behind him.

“I’ll give you the recipes,” I repeat for the fifth time.

“Oh, hush, you! You can’t quit! That’s ridiculous!” she returns.

Rose is sobbing into a hankie, and my mother just stares at me like I’m a hair in her salad. “I’m taking a walk,” I announce.

“Fine! Shoo! Out with you!” Iris says, waving her hands. “What a mess. I don’t believe this!”

I grab my coat and head out the back, then feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn.

“Hey, Jorge,” I say. “Sorry.” The idea of not working with Jorge brings a lump to my throat.

He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks at me. Really looks. Wrinkles fan out from the corners of his eyes, and the light gleams off his bald head. His eyes are dark, almost black. I feel my own eyes sting. Then Jorge nods once, slowly and gravely, and gives my shoulders a hard squeeze.

I put my arms around him and hug him hard. “Thank you,” I whisper, then go out into the brisk air.

Twenty minutes later I find myself at the playground. I sit on a swing, the kind with the rubber seat that squashes you in tight. I’ve really screwed the pooch, as the saying goes. I don’t have a job. I won’t have any structure to my days. I have no game plan. I won’t be surrounded by the Black Widows, and however they may have driven me nuts over the years, I love them with all my heart.

I’ve done the right thing nonetheless. I can’t bake bread anymore. I just can’t.

When my hands are practically frozen to the metal chains of the swing, I pry them open, stand up and head back, all the way around the cemetery, to face the music.

The music is not what I think. “Get in here, you,” Iris says, dragging me over to the table. “Such a drama queen, flouncing out the door like that!”

“I didn’t flounce,” I reply.

“Your hands are so cold!” Rose exclaims, patting me. “Last week, seventy degrees. This week, winter.”

“Lucy, we completely respect your decision not to bake bread anymore,” Mom says formally.

“Even if you’re the best bread maker around,” Iris mutters.

“But here’s the thing. You can’t leave Bunny’s,” Mom continues.

“Of course you can’t,” Rose seconds.

“Well, actually, I—” I attempt.

“Hush, you! We’re talking!” Iris says.

“Lucy, we’d like to compromise,” Mom says.

I open my mouth, shut it, then open it again. “I didn’t think we did that in this family,” I say.

“Oh, you. So fresh.” My mother rolls her eyes. “We’ll make a deal. Stay and train the bread person—we just asked Jorge if he wanted to do it, and he said no.”

“Jorge speaks now?” I ask, looking around. He waves to me and grins, in the background as ever.

“No, smart-ass,” my mother continues. “He made himself clear anyway. So hire a bread baker, and we’ll expand. You know we own Zippy’s—” the failing sports memorabilia store adjacent to Bunny’s “—and we can just kick him out in December when the lease is up. He’ll be grateful. Then you can have your café over there.”

My body breaks into goose bumps. “Are you serious?” I breathe.

“With your fancy-shmancy pastries,” Iris grumbles.

“You could sell hot chocolate,” Rose suggests hopefully. “We could steal Starbucks’s recipe.”

“No, we can’t,” I say. “Really? Are you serious? You’ll do this for me?”

“You’re a part owner of this place,” Mom says, looking pointedly at her sisters. “It’s time for a change.”