Page 19 of Promised to the Heir

Granddad’s voice carries through the screen door before we’re even inside. “You’re late. Bacon’s getting cold.”

“We’re right on time,” I say, stepping into the kitchen.

He’s at the table, the morning paper folded beside his plate, reading glasses perched on his nose. Grandma’s moving between the stove and counter with her usual quiet efficiency. The kitchen carries its usual perfume of coffee and frying bacon, layered over the soft sweetness of biscuits baking and the clean, sun-warmed scent of old pine floors.

“Morning, Charles. Evelyn.” Her voice carries a quiet warmth, as if she’s stepping into familiar ground but still mindful of where she places her feet.

Granddad peers over the glasses. “You look tired, girl. The inspection run you ragged?”

Clara sits, smoothing her skirt before answering. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Grandma sets a plate in front of her, piled with eggs, bacon, and biscuits. “You handled it just fine. Passed with flying colors, didn’t she, Jeremy?”

“She did.” My chest swells a little. “The inspector said he’d never seen a line so clean.”

Granddad nods once, approving. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Clara shakes her head. “It was a team effort. Everyone pulled their weight.”

Granddad sets down his fork. “You still can’t take a compliment, can you?”

Her brows lift. “Excuse me?”

He leans back, and the chair creaks a protest. “When someone praises your work, you nod and say thank you. None of that false modesty. You’ve earned it.”

She opens her mouth, closes it again. Then she smiles, a little rueful. “Thank you.”

“That’s better.” His mouth tips in approval, eyes creasing at the corners.

Grandma pats his arm. “You and that speech. You gave the same one to this one here at twenty-one.” She nods at me.

“And he still needed it,” Granddad grumbles.

I sip my coffee to hide my grin. He’s right. I used to dodge praise too, being afraid it made me look arrogant. Clara’s the same. Always putting the company first and herself last.

Conversation drifts easily after that. We talk about the inspection, the shipment schedule, the new maintenance system Clara set up. She lights up when she talks about the workers, her hands moving as she describes their ideas for improving efficiency. Granddad listens, nodding along, pride flickering in his eyes.

Finally, he sets his mug down and announces, “I’ve been thinking it’s time I stepped back. End of the month seems about right.”

Clara stills, the fork halfway to her mouth. “You’re serious?”

“I am. My knees tell me every morning.” He glances at me. “Jeremy’s ready to take over.”

The words hang in the air. Clara turns to me, blinking once, then twice, as if trying to read my face. “You’re taking the reins?”

“Was always the plan,” I say. “I just needed to finish what I started in Chicago first.”

Her lips part, and a quiet breath leaves her. “It’s what your grandfather built. You’ll do it justice.”

The breath I draw catches halfway. Her words land clean in my chest, heavy and bright, and I can’t remember the last time someone’s faith felt like that.

Grandma wipes her hands on a napkin and beams at both of us. “Then we’ll have to celebrate. Pancakes tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is a working day,” Granddad mutters. “We’ll have the same oatmeal we always do.”

“Not if I’m cooking,” she fires back.

Clara laughs, and the sound makes the whole kitchen lighter. Granddad’s smile is faint but satisfied.