Page 113 of What Remains of Grace

“Um, yeah,” Emmie said. “Who do you think made that fancy little contribution breakdown chart thing? I failed algebra. I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

Jenna’s stomach swooped. “You told him about the numbers?”

“I told him what the lawyer had said, about the twenty-five percent. About the renovations counting as contributions. About how all the work he and his crew did isn’t just ‘pretty’—it’s leverage. You should’ve seen his face when I told him. He looked like someone had just handed him a sledgehammer and said ‘have at it.’”

Jenna pressed her fingers to her temples. “You went behind my back.”

Emmie crossed her arms. “I went around your meltdown.”

That stung.

“I am not melting down,” Jenna said, even though she absolutely was.

“You are trying not to melt down,” Emmie corrected. “Which is admirable and very adult and exactly why you are not allowed to also be in charge of rally logistics. You’d spend the whole time worrying about the health department or whether there are enough trash cans.”

“Those things matter,” Jenna said weakly.

“And they’re handled. Mrs. Cartwright has cornered half the church ladies into bringing side dishes. The Rotary guys are setting up a dunk tank because apparently someone had one in their yard ‘just in case.’ The historical society is bringing display boards. Nicole’s in charge of a special dessert menu. Steph threatened me with bodily harm if I tried to frost cupcakes myself when I get stressed. I busted a piping bag with my stress rage, so she’s lead sugar wrangler.”

“She said that?” Jenna asked, half-horrified, half-amused.

“Her exact words were, ‘You can plan, Teen Queen, but if you touch my piping bags again, I will bury you in buttercream.’”

“Sounds like Steph.”

“The point is,” Emmie said, “you are handling the serious, soul-sucking, grown-up nonsense. We are handling the fun stuff. The money stuff. The neighborhood stuff. You keep us from going to jail. We keep you from collapsing in a puddle of existential dread. It’s called division of labor.”

Jenna stared at her niece, at the determined set of her jaw.

“This is going to put us on display,” Jenna said quietly. “Everyone’s going to know our business.”

“They already do,” Emmie said. “This is just giving them a healthier outlet than whispering about it in the Publix checkout line.”

She held out one of the flyers. “Look.” Jenna took it, more gently this time.

The bakery was framed perfectly in the photo, the old brick and crisp white trim glowing in the evening light. The text beneath it was spare and powerful at the same time.

SAVE THE BLUE CYPRESS

Help us keep a beloved local bakery and the Hart family home in the hands of the women who built it.

Live music • Silent auction • Raffles • Baked goods FRIDAY, 7 PM • THE BLUE CYPRESS

At the very bottom, in small print:

All proceeds will go toward legal and settlement costs to prevent a forced sale by an absentee spouse.

The phrase hit her harder than she expected. Absentee spouse.

Not grieving widower or poor, misunderstood husband.

The truth, in eight letters.

“You can tell me if you hate it,” Emmie said, suddenly a little unsure. “We can tweak the wording. Or scrap it and sob in a corner instead. I’m flexible.”

Jenna looked up at her. “I don’t hate it.”

Shock flickered over Emmie’s face. “You don’t?”