Page 22 of Mom Com

For the duration and entirety of the first year of ownership, both parties must not only be present but involved in the day-to-day activities of There’s Nothing Batter Bakery. If one party does not comply, said party forfeits their share to the other.

Hang on.WHAT???

I speed ahead, hoping I read it wrong, skimming where it frameworks day-to-day activities, desperately searching for a loophole. But it goes on to say that each party must spend a minimum of forty hours per week in the bakery and that the only exceptions are a medical or family emergency.

“Holy fuck!” I breathe, grabbing the sideboard for support, my thoughts in ruin.

A year?! A year in Haverberry? No. That’s not... Icannotdo that.I won’t. But the idea of allowing the bakery to pass solely to Wilder is unthinkable. Somewhere in the house, I hear a door shut, but I’m too overwhelmed to give it significance. My mind is pinging between the utter horror of being trapped here and the image of Wilder casually usurping the bakery this afternoon.

“So if you refuse to buy it, I guess you’ll just have to send my share of the profits to California.”

“Sorry, but I can’t do that,” Wilder says, his eyebrows momentarily pinching like something I said was off.

Blind fury rises in my throat and I’m certain I’m going to be sick.

I shove the document back in the drawer, slamming it shut with a dull and unsatisfying thud. The vase on top of the sideboard rattles in response.

“Do you plan on fighting with any other furniture this afternoon, because if you do, I would like a warning so that I may safeguard the breakables,” my mother says, appearing in the doorway, her purse in her hand and an edge of warning in her tone.

I spin to face her, my upset vibrating through me like an impending earthquake. The door, I think. That was her coming home. I want to take a minute, to think through my reaction, but one thought is screaming inside my head and it seeps past my lips before I can collect myself. “You knew,” I say, feeling betrayed. “You knew when you invited me here for the holidays that I was supposed to be herefor a year, and you said nothing. Then you sent me to that bakery today, fully aware that Wilder would be there and that he knew what I didn’t.”

Her expression turns steely. “First, do not suppose you know my mind. And second, if you hadn’t run from this room while I was reading the addendum, you’d have already known yourself.”

Embarrassment spears me. But this is also quintessential Eleanor, twisting my objection into a personal shortcoming. “I just don’t understand, Mom. How could Dad do this? How could you let him do this?” I no longer imagine that she was completely ignorant of this plan—it has the workings of my mother written all over it.

She purses her lips, telling me she’s just as frustrated as I am. “Are you asking me how your father could be so generous as to leave you half of the bakery, a bakery you could not even be bothered to step foot in more than once in ten years? In this moment, I’m actually not sure.”

I wince, the truth of her words flaring my indignation. “This has nothing to do with gratitude and you know that. I never asked for the bakery. In fact, I’ve never once in all the years asked you for anything—”

She holds up her hand. “Enough, Madeline,” she says in an authoritative tone. “I do not care if you like or dislike your father’s will. It was his bakery and his choice to make. Be happy he left you anything at all.”

My eyes flick to the ceiling and I inhale. She’s using my love for the bakery and my remorse over Dad’s passing to force me back into a position where I’m beholden to her. “Mom,” I start in the most civilized tone I can muster, “you know this—”

Only this time she cuts me off, indicating she’s much angrier than I originally presumed. “If you are bent on discussing what people know and do not, why don’t we discuss the benefit that you were graciously invited to two days ago?”

Shit.

“The one where you yelled profanity at the hosts for the whole dining room to hear?”

Double shit.

“Because I was taken completely unawares at my lunch today with Mrs. Templeton, who is not only the prestigious head of my ladies’ club but is the godmother of Kate Van Doran, whom I hear had a front-row seat to your blow up?” she says, arching one furious eyebrow.

“Mom—” I start but stop, realizing that I’ve backed myself into a corner. There are very few things my mother takes as personally as public embarrassment. And Mrs. Templeton, like Mrs. Buenaventura, is a premiere Haverberry socialite, whose good opinion is essential in my mother’s view.

“Do you know what else Mrs. Templeton told me?” she asks, her tone far too reasonable.

I shake my head, but I have a few guesses. The game of telephone is beloved in this town.

She straightens the cuffs on her blazer. “Mrs. Buenaventura’s thoroughly put out I have yet to contact her about the whole thing.”

My stomach twists into a knot of despair. I hadn’t considered the fallout from that angle, but now that I do, it seems stupidly obvious. Only before I can think of how to apologize for it, she’s speaking again.

“So, now I have the unpleasant job of explaining, and hopefully making amends before our dinner with them this weekend.”

“Them?” I blurt out, taken aback.

“Yes, dinner with the Buenaventuras. At their house.”