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Why the fuck hadn’t I left when I’d had the chance?
I didn’t even look at Pop or Hale, knowing they wore identical pitying looks on their faces. Mom gave me her reassuring smile.
Heaving a sigh, I followed in my dad’s wake toward his office, feeling like I did when I was sixteen, working at his appliance store. He’d often lecture me on how to handle customers or when to upsell a new model or how proper salesmanship led to a gratifying, successful business career but came with lots of hard work.
By the time I stepped into his office, my muscles were strung tight, my lips compressed to keep my mouth shut. I’d been edgy all day.
Something about that conversation with Betty this morning had rubbed me wrong. I’d just wanted to wait a while longer before she started seeing all of my faults, say when she was as obsessed with me as much as I was with her.
Obsession wasn’t the right word. It was much more profound, much more life-changing. More heart-changing.
I rubbed my chest, remembering her sweetness as she apologized for being nosy.
Simply the thought of her eased the throb of stress pressing in on my temples as I stopped beside Dad’s desk.
He’d been sending me article after article for the past two years, ever since I’d started researching and planning to open my own business. Originally, he’d balked at the idea of a Whole Foods-type supermarket in Beauville. But he backed down once I’d researched the town’s demographics through the Chamber of Commerce. When I’d given him a detailed chart of my data, I had the triumphant honor of proving that I knew what I was talking about.
Thank God for my grandfather. If Pop hadn’t helped me out, investing in me financially, I’m not sure I could’ve pulled it off. Pop had believed in me.
Now my father? His high expectations were the ones that kept me up at night. The ones that made me doubt whether I actually knew what I was doing. The ones that had me balling my fists in my pockets as he pulled up whatever he was going to show me on his computer.
Dad clicked open an Excel spreadsheet. I scowled at what I was looking at. Then the anxiety retreated, replaced by fury.
“How did you get those numbers?”
My father frowned up at me, recognizing the anger in my voice. I didn’t spare him a glance as I zoned in on the receipts of my store since opening day. They were accurate because I checked them daily, almost obsessively.
“Don’t get bent out of shape,” he told me. “I got them from your new bookkeeper.”
Sylvia Theriot. The woman I’d recently hired whose son was in Betty’s class. Of course, he’d go to her and demand information he had no right to, knowing she’d give him whatever he asked.
I didn’t blame her. My father could be authoritative and persuasive, one reason he’d been so successful as a local businessman. But I would be having a discussion with all of my employees and drive home the fact that my father, though his name was Broussard, does not, in fact, have permission to give any orders at my store. Nor does he have the right to take vital information, like my incoming/outgoing receipts.
I inhaled and exhaled, trying to calm my boiling blood. But it wasn’t working.
“I wanted to show you that if you stay on this course, you won’t even come out even next month. You’ve got to cut back on these imported products from overseas that are costing a fortune. And what the hell are you hiring a Michelin-star chef from Lafayette for? It’s a grocery store, not a restaurant, Ben. If you—”
“Dad.” The rattling rage in my voice cut him off.
His mouth spread into a thin, tight line as he recognized I didn’t appreciate his advice.
If I wasn’t so fucking furious, I’d laugh.
My father had stepped over the line plenty of times, all in his efforts tohelpme. But this was beyond that. This was not only illegal but was damaging to my psyche. If I was going to fail, I wanted to fail all on my own. I didn’t need him trying to throw me a life raft. And the thing was, he had no fucking idea what he was talking about.
Dad,” I started again, marginally more civil, “you own appliance stores. While yes, it is a retail business, it is far, far,fardifferent than my own. I’m not simply running a grocery store. I’m attempting to offer something new and different for Beauville and local residents. A lifestyle change to better their quality of life. This isn’t just a mini-Walmart.”
“Exactly. And you’re in way over your head, Bennett. I can see with the numbers that—”
“Don’t ever presume to come into my store and steal my receipts again.”
He stopped talking, finally realizing the level of anger riding me hard. He didn’t even defend himself; he wasn’t stealing, just trying to help or some similar bullshit.
“You know appliances,” I continued, slowly gaining control of my temper. “You don’t know anything about what I’m doing. I’ve done my due diligence for longer than the two years I’ve been planning and building this store. I’ve been considering this since I graduated college and saw the upward trend in healthy foods and realized that there was very little of that offered to residents in Beauville and within a thirty-mile radius.”
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms defiantly, but he didn’t say a word.
“I am well aware that my expenses extend beyond sales this month. I expected it. I planned for it. It’s an investment in the community to build a different kind of experience and draw the kinds of customers that will come back again and again when they see what I have to offer at Fresh Market.”
