Sophie gave the bloated canvas bag over her shoulder a pat. “These invoices and bills need to be paid and I have to figure out a way to keep track of the fact that I paid them. Then, according to an accounting video I saw on YouTube, I should use them to project my outgoings for next year. Then I need to look into green business incentives, since I installed this gray water recycling system…” She sighed. “So, yeah, I’ll probably spend the next week drinking and crying.”
Anne smiled. “Do you need help?”
“With the drinking?”
“No, the accounting,” she replied with a laugh.
Sophie’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
Anne nodded. Sure, she had a mountain of work ahead of her with Theo’s production budget and schedule, but none of it triggered the same curiosity and excitement that had been stoked alive by Sophie’s shop.
“I know it sounds overwhelming, but once you set up a system to keep track of everything, it’s easy. Then you can use that to feed projected cash flow.”
“I don’t know. That feels like a lot to ask…” Her friend’s eyebrows knitted together.
“Let me help, Sophie. I want to,” Anne said, surprised by the giddiness already growing in her chest.
“Okay,” Sophie said, though she still looked unsure. “You have to let me pay you, though.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Anne said. Then she held out her hand. “Deal?”
Sophie narrowed her eyes, as if considering. After a moment, she took Anne’s hand and shook. “Deal.”
Anne smiled, more excited about the projected budget for Sophie’s floral shop than she had been about anything in months.
CHAPTER 10
“What are you, blind!” a voice bellowed over the blaring sound of the Jets game as Freddie walked through his parents’ front door.
He had taken the subway, out of nostalgia as much as convenience, and when he walked up the steps onto Queens Boulevard, he suddenly felt eighteen years old again, coming back to his parents’ house after class at NYU. He walked the three blocks to their house, too lost in the memory to notice how the temperature had dropped, until he stepped inside and paused on the threshold, his nose numb, even as he smelled the garlic and onions wafting down from the kitchen. It was a moment that could have been bottled from his childhood.
“Hey! I’m here,” he called out, closing the door behind him.
His father’s head popped around the corner from the living room, his brow furrowed like he was still in doubt of who had just walked into the house.
“Jets are down fourteen. Can you believe it?”
Freddie smiled. “Dad, they’re one in five. I can believe it.”
His father sighed. Not only was Fred Wentworth Sr. a carboncopy of his son, just thirty years in the future; he had also passed down his eternal—and oftentimes heartbreaking—love of the New York Jets.
“Freddie!” His mother’s five-foot frame appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. She hurried down the hall as he hung up his coat, and enveloped him into a warm embrace only to pull back a moment later and glare at him with a critical eye. “You look tired. What’s wrong?”
“My mom made me come out to Queens on a Sunday to get her Christmas decorations up from the basement,” he said, feigning his best martyred expression.
Jean Wentworth rolled her eyes. “I can’t with you.”
“I haven’t even had breakfast, Mom. I’m so weak…”
She waved a hand at him as she turned and headed back into the kitchen. Freddie followed, while somewhere in the living room, he heard his dad’s deep chuckle.
The kitchen had always been the heart of the Wentworth house, with food always readily available, while even more was in the process of being cooked. Today was no exception. A covered pot was simmering on the stovetop while the oven light revealed a loaf of bread baking. The standard fare was on the kitchen table: a bowl of grapes, a bag of fennel taralli, and, in the wild card spot, one lone banana.
“The tree is in the basement by the boiler, but check the box because it might have gotten wet when we had that big storm in June. And I still can’t find that light-up Santa that goes on the roof, so keep an eye out.”
Freddie nodded as he grabbed a few grapes from the bowl and popped one in his mouth. That Santa was terrifying and had given him nightmares since he was five, so he would not keep an eye out.
Fred Sr. appeared in the doorway then, slowly making his way over to the refrigerator and grabbing a beer. Freddie was tempted to tell him that he could have gotten that for him and saved his father the trip, but he stayed quiet. Since Fred Sr.’s operation last summer for a herniated disk, he didn’t move as quickly as he used to, but he’d be damned if anyone reminded him of that.
