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Curled up like a little Thumbelina on one pink satin chair, Fi is reading a textbook and making notes on her iPad.
“What’s up?” she asks, not taking her eyes from her work.
“I invited Dad over. He’ll be here in five.”
Her brow furrows as she finally looks at me. “Yeah. So?”
I set my hand against my fluttering stomach. “I’m going to Skype Mom. You know...tell them about not wanting to work with her.”
Fi sets aside her things. “You need a little moral support?”
“Yes.” It’s a burst of breath.
From the living room Dad’s voice booms out. “Anybody here?”
“We’re coming,” I shout back as Fi glares at the door.
“We need to get that key back from him,” she says.
“He never comes when he isn’t invited.” Well, almost never. I think about Gray pressed on top of me, his gaze on my lips, and Dad finding us.
“Yeah,” I say a little raggedly. “I guess we should ask for it back.”
“Well.” Fi stands. “He’s here now. No use stalling.”
Right. Only I drag my feet as I follow her out.
I don’t tell Dad why he’s here before Mom is on the computer screen. I set the laptop up on the counter, facing it out toward us, which makes it seem as though her head is a hovering specter in the room.
Although my mother is blonde and green-eyed, I look the most like her. Fi has Mom’s coloring, but Dad’s features.
“Hello, my darlings,” she says to Fi and me as we sit on the couch. “While I’m happy to see you both, is everything all right?”
“You’ve got me, Helena,” Dad tells her. His attitude with her is, as always, slightly stiff but cordial.
I take a deep breath. “It’s me. I’m just going to say it. Mom, I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I’m sorry, but I don’t want to manage the store.”
“What?” Dad snaps.
“Darling, why?” Mom says in a shocked voice.
It’s hard to explain to them my reasons, but I do, with Fi holding my hand the entire time. It’s funny, usually I’m the one holding her hand while she disappoints our parents.
And disappoint them I have.
“Oh, Ivy,” Mom says with a sigh. “I don’t understand this. You’ve spent so much time learning the business. And you love baking. Are you quite certain this is what you want to do?”
“I do love baking. But, Mom, baking and running a bakery aren’t the same things, are they?”
Her mouth presses flat in the same way mine does when I’m annoyed. “No,” she says. “They aren’t. But you cannot run a successful bakery without loving baking.”
“And there’s the fact that I didn’t have a social life when I worked with you,” I say softly. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. Early to bed, early to rise. Everything becomes about the bakery.”
I glance to Dad and back to Mom. “My whole life, I’ve focused on school or working. I want more. I want to love what I do and have time to enjoy the rest as well.”
“All right,” Mom says slowly. “I do understand, Ivy.”
“Well, I don’t.” Dad lowers his dark brows at me. “For years this has been your focus. I expect this of Fiona—”
