Last Updated on July 28, 2026 by Robin Katra
I stopped, my hand tightening on my coffee mug.
“Rowan and I have been together four years, Brenda.”
“Of course,” she said, letting out a short, sharp laugh. “I just mean he knows a stable business when he sees one. The bakery on Main Street is a very comfortable safety net for a young couple.”
“The bakery belongs to the family,” I said.
“For now,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly as she smoothed her skirt. “But things change when estates are settled. Your father has to think about his own future, too.”
I did not answer her. I walked past her toward the front door, the heat from my mug warming my palms.
The cold autumn air hit my face as I stepped out onto the porch. The maple trees along our Oakridge street were turning a deep, rusted red.
My phone vibrated in my pocket, the screen lighting up with Rowan’s name.
“Tell me you are holding up,” he said, his warm, steady voice instantly grounding me.
“I am trying,” I said, leaning against the wooden railing. “Brenda is already talking about the bakery’s future.”
I heard him sigh, followed by the sound of him running a hand through his hair on the other end of the line.
“Do not let her get in your head, Callie,” he said. “Today is about us, not who gets what portion of the inheritance. We will handle Brenda after the ceremony.”
“She thinks you are marrying me for the business,” I said.
“I would marry you if we were living in a tent,” he said. “I will see you at the altar at two.”
A gray sedan pulled into the gravel driveway, its tires crunching loud in the morning quiet.
Jess stepped out of the driver’s seat, holding a green tea drink in a paper cup. She checked her watch immediately, her movements quick and energetic. She wore a bright yellow cardigan that stood out against the gray morning.
Last Updated on July 28, 2026 by Robin Katra
“We are on a strict schedule, Callie,” she called out, walking up the porch steps. “I have the hair rollers in the trunk.”
Jess handed me the paper cup, the warm cardboard dry against my fingers.
I looked back at the front door, the heavy oak frame suddenly feeling like a barrier I needed to cross.
As I turned to go inside and grab my dress box, a high, piercing sound cut through the quiet house.
It was the sound of Brenda’s sharp laughter echoing from the kitchen.
By ten o’clock, the high ceilings of the church dressing room offered a quiet refuge from that house. Jess pulled a pink plastic roller tight against my scalp, her fingers moving with practiced speed. The smell of hairspray drifted through the small room, mixing with the scent of the green tea Jess had brought.
“Your mother always said the bakery survived the ninety-six recession because she kept the flour inventory under fifty bags,” Jess said. “She knew exactly how much cash to keep in the drawer.”
