I pace the length of the living room like a caged animal. My mind races, scrambling for a play. Any play.
Could I hire enough expensive lawyers to make this go away? Maybe but Taviani has deep pockets and city hall connections.
How about buying the building? Impossible. Taviani Holdings wouldn’t sell, and even if they did, the price would be astronomical, way beyond anything I could swing.
I need a plan. Hell, I need a miracle. I’ve got to make a move, I just don’t know what.
I stride towards the hall, towards Tabby’s room. Mom is sitting on the edge of Tabby’s bed, reading softly to her. Tabby is curled beside her, Mr. Sparklepants tucked under her chin, but her eyes are open, staring blankly at the ceiling.
The sight stops me cold in the doorway. Mom looks up, her expression unreadable. Tabby doesn’t even turn her head.
“I’m going out,” I say. “I need to… fix something.”
Mom nods quickly, a flicker of something – hope? – in her eyes. She doesn’t ask any questions, but she flashes me a small encouraging smile.
Tabby still doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. She just keeps staring at the ceiling, lost in her own thoughts.
The knife twists again. I caused this emptiness in my daughter’s eyes. I turn away, the weight of it almost crushing.
As I head out the door, I have no idea where I’m going. But I know I need to fix this. And I need to do it fast.
Chapter 31
Holly
As I’m packing up the icing and sprinkles, a sharp rap on the glass door makes me jump. Mrs. Gable stands on the snowy sidewalk outside, bundled in a bright red coat and matching hat, her breath puffing white in the cold air.
She’s holding a covered casserole dish. Her face, usually creased in a cheerful smile, is somber. Behind her, Mr. Henderson shifts the large poinsettia he’s carrying. He gives me a small, sad wave.
My throat tightens. This is the fifth time I’ve unlocked the door this morning. Customers. Neighbors. Friends. Coming to give me one last hug in the form of homemade food or a festive plant.
I force my legs to move, walking to the door. The bell chimes as I unlock it and push it open, letting in a blast of frigid air that smells like snow and car exhaust.
“Holly, sweetheart,” Mrs. Gable says, her voice thick with sympathy. She thrusts the dish towards me. “My famous lasagna. You need to keep your strength up.” The rich aroma of tomatoes and cheese wafts out, smelling like homemade comfort.
“Oh, Mrs. G, you didn’t have to—” I start, my voice raspy.
“Nonsense!” she interrupts, bustling past me into the stripped-bare space. Her eyes sweep the boxes, the bare counter, and fill with tears she quickly blinks away. “This is just… criminal, that’s what it is. That horrible man should be ashamed.”
She sets the lasagna dish down on the counter with a thump. “You eat every bite, dear. And if you need anything – anything at all – you call me.”
Mr. Henderson follows, setting the vibrant red poinsettia beside the lasagna. “Whole neighborhood’s rooting for you, Holly,” he says gruffly, patting my shoulder awkwardly. “Don’t know what we’ll do without Sugar Rush come January. Best damn gingerbread in the city.”
I manage a weak smile, the muscles in my face protesting. “Thank you. Both of you. Really. It means… everything.” My voice cracks on the last word.
They stay for a few more minutes, offering platitudes and shared outrage against Tony Taviani, their eyes darting around the bakery with undisguised sorrow.
When they finally leave, promising to check in later, the silence rushes back in, heavier than before. The scent of lasagna mixes uneasily with the lingering smells of cinnamon and vanilla.
I turn away, picking up a stray piece of bubble wrap that escaped a box. I pop it absently, the sharpsnapechoing in the emptiness. The sound feels good. Satisfying. I pop another. And another. Methodically, mindlessly, I hunt down every loose scrap of bubble wrap on the counter, popping each cell with grim focus.Snap. Snap. Snap.It’s a tiny, pointless rebellion against the crushing weight of it all. Against Taviani. Against the eviction notice. Against the memory of Denton’s cold, detached expression.
Snap.Coward.Snap.
I’m elbow-deep in a half-packed box of mismatched mugs – the ones with chipped reindeer or slightly off-kilter snowflakes, the ones we never used for customers but kept for ourselves – when the bell chimes again.
Charlie stands just inside the door, silhouetted against the gray afternoon light. She’s carrying two large garment bags slung over one shoulder, their protective plastic shimmering, and gripping the neck of a bottle of champagne in her other hand.
Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, her dark eyes blazing with an intensity that cuts through the fog of my numbness.
