I had not heard her approach.
Neither had he.
She was still wearing the blue Bellflower apron she used at the counter, one hand resting on the doorframe.
“What are you two talking about?” she asked.
Her husband answered too quickly.
“Nothing.
Just sale logistics.”
I looked at her.
She looked at the folder.
Then she looked at him.
“Is this about the attorney?”
His jaw tightened.
“We discussed that.”
“No,” she said quietly.
“You discussed it.
I asked you what you were doing, and you told me not to worry about it.”
The bakery felt suddenly smaller.
Through the swinging door, I could hear cups being stacked at the front counter and one of our regulars laughing at something.
Normal morning noises continued while something inside my family shifted permanently.
My son-in-law lowered his voice.
“Can we not do this here?”
“You brought it here,” my daughter said.
He glanced at me as if I had arranged the entire confrontation.
I hadn’t.
All I had done was open a folder.
Then his phone rang.
He looked at the screen and declined the call.
A few seconds later it rang again.
This time I recognized the area code.
Indianapolis.
“Maybe you should answer,” I said.
“It can wait.”
“You were very interested in the sale process twenty minutes ago.”
My daughter’s expression changed.
“Is that your attorney?”
He stood so fast his chair scraped the floor.
“I said we should discuss this at home.”
“No,” she replied.
“I want to hear it now.”
He stared at her.
For a second, I saw the exact moment he realized the room no longer belonged to him.
He answered the phone and walked a few steps away.
I could hear only his side.
“Yes.”
A pause.
“I know.”
Another pause.
“No, she’s here.”
His eyes flicked toward me.
“I understand what the document says.”
That was the first honest sentence he had spoken all morning.
He turned farther away, but the bakery was not large enough to hide inside.
“There has to be another basis.
I worked here.
I handled operations.
I improved vendor terms.”
