Page 112 of What Remains of Grace

“What is this?” Jenna demanded, holding up one of the flyers.

Emmie’s eyes flicked from the paper to Jenna’s face. “Um . . . art?”

“Try again.”

“A . . . community engagement initiative?”

“Emmie.”

She sighed, dropping the act. “Okay, fine. It’s a rally.”

“I saw it online. The event. The post. The comments. Apparently, I’m throwing a huge Save the Bakery fundraiser on Friday night. Who knew?”

“We are throwing a huge Save the Bakery fundraiser on Friday, and you know now,” Emmie said. “So that’s good. Surprise!”

“That’s not—” Jenna pinched the bridge of her nose. “Did you seriously organize an entire event without telling me?”

Emmie raised a brow. “Did you seriously think I was going to sit quietly and let that man steamroll us without weaponizing the Rotary Club?”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s a great answer,” Emmie replied.

Jenna opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “You can’t just—”

“Actually, I can,” Emmie said. “And I did. You’re welcome.”

Jenna stared at her. “This is a lot, Em,” she said finally. “A big public thing like this, on top of everything else—”

“You are handling lawyers,” Emmie cut in. “And probate. And the terrifying stack of legalese that makes my eyes bleed. I am handling this.”

Jenna’s chest tightened. “It’s my name on the documents.”

“And mine. Did you forget that? And it’s my mother’s face on the wall,” Emmie shot back. That landed.

Jenna sagged against the doorframe, the fight leaking out of her for half a second.

“I just . . .” She scrubbed a hand over her face. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to fix this.”

“Oh, good,” Emmie said, “because we’re way past ‘feel like.’ I have fully committed to the bit.”

Jenna blinked. “The . . . bit?”

“The plan,” Emmie translated. “The movement. The Secret Society of Not Letting Troy Bailey Win.”

“The what?”

Emmie waved a hand. “Working title.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Jenna asked warily. “‘We’re handling this’—who exactly is that?”

“Me,” Emmie said. “The staff. Half the women’s club. Some old guys from Rotary. The historical society. The Tarpon Avenue gossips. Oh, and your boyfriend-contractor-hybrid person who definitely isn’t your boyfriend but also definitely is.”

“Okay,” Jenna said quickly, ears heating. “We don’t need labels right now.”

“I mean, I’m fine just calling him ‘our muscle,’” Emmie mused. “He’s been very useful with tables and folding chairs and brainstorming.”

“Cole is involved in this?” Jenna asked.