“Mom,” Annie says flatly. Her eyes burn a hole in me. “You are going to Paris, right?”
I laugh. “Sure. Then I’ll go shopping in Milan. And skiing in the Swiss Alps. Then maybe I’ll take a gondola around Venice.”
Annie narrows her eyes. “You have to go to Paris.”
I realize she’s serious. “Honey,” I say gently, “that’s just not practical. I’m the only one here to run the bakery.”
“So close it for a few days. Or I’ll help out after school.”
“Sweetheart, that’s not going to work.” I think about how close I am to losing everything.
“But Mom!”
“Annie, who’s to say that Mamie will even remember the conversation later?”
“That’s why you have to go!” Annie says. “Didn’t you see how important it was to her? She wants you to find out what happened to those people! You can’t just let her down!”
I sigh. I’d thought that Annie understood this better, that she realized how often her great-grandmother speaks nonsense. “Annie—” I begin.
But she cuts me off. “What if this is her last chance? What if this is our last chance to help her?”
I shrug. I don’t know what to say. I can’t possibly explain to her that we’re teetering on the edge.
When I’m silent for a moment, Annie seems to make up her mind without me. “I hate you,” she hisses. Then she turns on her heels and stalks out of the kitchen, her duffel bag bobbing behind her. A few seconds later, I hear the front door slam. I take a deep breath and follow her outside, steeling myself for a silent drive to her father’s.
The next morning, after a mostly sleepless night, I’m at the bakery alone, sliding a tray of giant sugar cookies into the oven, when there’s a rattling knock on the glass-paned front door. I put the oven mitts on the counter, set the timer on the oven, dust off my hands on my apron, and check my watch: 5:35 a.m. Twenty-five minutes before I open.
As I cross from the kitchen to the sales floor, through the swinging, slatted door, I see Matt, his hand shading his eyes as he presses his face against the glass and peers in. He sees me and backs up quickly, then waves casually as if he hasn’t just left his nose print on my window.
“Matt, we’re not open yet,” I say after I’ve turned the three locks and cracked open the front door. “I mean, you’re welcome to come in and wait, but the coffee’s not on yet, and—”
“No, no, I’m not here for coffee,” Matt says. He pauses and adds, “But if you get some going, I’ll take a cup.”
“Oh,” I say, checking my watch again. “Yeah, okay.” It shouldn’t take more than two minutes to grind the beans, scoop them into the coffeemaker, and push the Brew button. I hurry to do that, mentally ticking off all the other things I need to do before we open, as Matt follows me inside and pulls the door closed behind him.
“Hope, I came over to ask what you’re going to do,” Matt says while the coffeemaker gurgles and spits its first sizzling drops into the pot.
For an instant, I wonder how he knows about what Mamie said, but then I realize he’s talking about the bakery and the fact that the bank is apparently ready to begin proceedings to take it away from me. My heart sinks.
“I don’t know, Matt,” I say stiffly without turning around. I pretend I’m busy with the coffee preparation. “I haven’t had a chance to work through things yet.”
In other words, I’m in denial. That’s my general approach when things are going wrong; I simply bury my head in the sand and wait for the storm to pass. Sometimes it does. Most of the time, I only wind up with sand in my eyes.
“Hope—” Matt begins.
I sigh and shake my head. “Look, Matt, if you’ve come here to try to persuade me to sell to these investors of yours, I’ve already told you that I don’t know what to do yet, and I’m not ready to—”
He cuts me off. “You’re running out of time,” he says firmly. “We need to talk about this.”
Finally, I turn. He’s standing at the counter, leaning forward. “Okay,” I say. My chest feels tight.
He pauses and picks an invisible speck from his lapel. He clears his throat. The smell of coffee is wafting through the air now, and because he’s making me nervous, I turn and busy myself with pouring him a cup before the maker has finished. I stir in his cream and sugar, and he takes the cup from me with a nod.