by Ali Parker
Occasionally, I might go out on a Saturday morning for breakfast or coffee on a Sunday afternoon, but that was as exotic as it ever became. Welcome to my life.
My new life, anyway. I’d never been a regular party girl or anything, but at least it used to be more exciting than it was now. A voice in the back of my head reminded me life was also less dangerous than it had been, which was all it took to return my focus to my employer, best friend and hands down the very definition of a ‘salt of the earth’ kind of person.
Penny swapped out piping bags, busily adding touches of gold icing to her project. “I’ve got to finish this wedding cake before Sunday morning, then get it delivered to the venue.”
I nodded, not at all surprised that her plans for the weekend were confined to work. The bakery was Penny’s life. She’d used all her savings to open it last year and was working hard to make it successful.
Since I did Penny’s books for the bakery, I knew her endeavors were paying off. “Do you need any help getting it there?”
Transporting a cake to a wedding venue was the very last thing I wanted to be doing, but it would mean a lot to Penny if I stepped in when she needed help. She was my best friend in town, my only friend really.
The job meant everything to me. It was the fresh start I desperately needed to get my life back on track, and Penny had been a good friend to me so far. I didn’t want to lose her.
I was used to being alone, but I didn’t want to be totally alone again. Never again.
Penny rocked her head from side to side, indecision clouding her meadow green eyes. “I think I should be fine, but can I call you on Sunday morning if I end up needing help?”
“Any time.” I guessed helping her transport the cake wouldn’t be so bad. At least it would mean I got to spend some time with Penny outside of work. We could even grab lunch after we delivered it if she had time. “Just let me kn—”
I was cut off by a loud, feminine voice calling from the front of the shop, “Hello? Is there anyone here?”
Penny’s eyes widened. She gently laid the piping bag down on the counter, brushed her hands off on her apron covered in prints of colorful cupcakes and hurried to help her customer.
I stayed behind at first, eyeing a tray of fresh bear claws still cooling on a rack and wondering if eating one would be worth jogging a few extra minutes for later. Penny was a wizard at baking, and I knew they would taste as good as they looked. Screw it, totally worth it.
I hopped off the stool and was heading to the snacks when I heard the woman from before giving Penny a hard time. My eyes narrowed as they tended to do when trying to hear better. “These goods are ridiculously expensive. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“The ingredients we use are—” Penny started softly, tentatively, but the woman didn’t let her finish.
“I don’t give a damn about your excuses. When I first inquired a couple of months ago, everything was cheaper. People keep upping their prices for no good reason around here and just expect their customers to keep paying.”
“Ma’am, I—” Penny tried again, but the woman was on a roll and didn’t show any signs of slowing down.
“You would think small business owners would have integrity and more loyalty toward their customers than the big companies, but that isn’t true. Clearly this bakery is going to be just like the other money hungry companies in this country.”
A chill ran through me at her confrontational tone. She wasn’t giving Penny a chance to get a word in edgewise to explain or defend herself. It was just plain wrong of her to treat Penny that way. She was the sweetest girl who had ever walked the earth. Scout’s honor, really.
She didn’t deserve this, especially not because I knew firsthand how much effort she put into keeping her prices down. A true feat considering she insisted on using only the best ingredients she could get her hands on in our little corner of the country.
My feet carried me away from the bear claws and to the front of the shop before I even had to give it any thought. A woman with a very stiff beehive stood on the other side of the counter, a scowl on her papery skin as she wagged a bony finger in Penny’s face.
“The cookies are on me.” I strode up to join Penny on her side of the counter behind the cash register. I fixed a smile on my face, hoping my eyes were soft and kind on the rude customer’s and not showing how annoyed I was by her attitude. “They’re delicious. Please enjoy them.”
The woman pressed her mouth into a tight line but gave a curt nod. Penny boxed up a selection of goods I knew were absolutely divine, tied a large purple bow around the white box and handed it over.
When the woman was gone, she sagged against the counter. “You’re a saint, you know that? I thought she was never going to let up. Thank you for the save, but you really don’t have to pay for those.”
“I’m not a saint. I would just rather spend my own money than have someone argue with you like that.” I didn’t like seeing people I cared for being treated badly. Besides, Penny worked her hands to the bone and put so much love into everything she baked; it would be a shame if any customer went around town badmouthing her. “I don’t mind paying for them; I’m the one who told her I would.”
She gave me a grateful smile, which I returned before winking. “That woman isn’t completely wrong, you know.”
Penny rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out at me, knowing I was joking. She skipped back into the kitchen and resumed her decorating without another word. Work was her escape, and she would be itching to get back to it after what had just happened. I wouldn’t be surprised if, after the tongue lashing she took, she stayed here baking until late into the night.
“I’ll be in my office,” I told her, seeing her nod when I walked through the kitchen to the small office I’d set up in the back.
The bakery wasn’t big by any means. The kitchen was large enough for Penny to work her magic, but only just. It was still cramped when both of us were in there together.
My office used to be an old supply closet. It was just big enough for a tiny, rather rickety desk, a filing cabinet, and my computer. A far cry from what I used to have, but it was more than enough for me. Doing the bakery’s books was a breeze. I didn’t need anything more here to be able to do my job.
I got settled in for the day, pulling up the spreadsheets I was finishing for the month. By the time I got done, a wide smile was spread across my face. I’d checked and double checked the numbers and Penny was going to be ecstatic when she saw them.
The bakery’s profits had increased significantly since she started getting in more orders for parties and functions and just over the last month, she had almost doubled her profits from the first few months. She was putting in double the hours than she had been then too, but I knew this was the reward she had been working for.
I printed the latest numbers, folding the papers neatly in half. Standing up from my desk, I shut down my computer and grabbed my purse.
A brand new pack of sticky notes caught my eye before I left and an idea started forming in my mind. I knew Penny was a good business owner who cared about more than herself. The comments from the woman earlier were still stuck in my mind, and I knew they would be in Penny’s too.
Grabbing one of the hot pink notes, I tried to make her feel better by jokingly scribbling on it and attaching it to the folded papers I left on her desk. After adding a smiley face to the words “for the money hungry bakery,” I grinned and hoped seeing how she’d done this month would ease her mind.
I wanted my friend to go into the weekend feeling good, not obsessing over one short-sighted woman’s inconsiderate comments. The quality of her baked goods and her dedication spoke for themselves. It didn’t matter what that woman said; Penny’s numbers showed the town supported her and loved her products. We would simply both have to keep working hard to make sure it stayed that way.
Chapter Three
Tyson
This morning’s Monday Madness column in the
Cypress Creek Record was a stellar example of just how wrong the “news” could get stories. It featured a few paragraphs on the deal I’d cut with the defendant on Friday.
My dad’s trial had been the event of the decade for our local reporters. It gave them fodder to write about for months. First was the arrest, then profiles on him and our family. Next, they conducted interviews with everyone who claimed to have ever breathed the same air as he had, which passed their time until the trial started. Eventually, once he was sentenced and the rest of us tried to get back to our lives, they settled for rehashing every detail of his trial. They still did that from time to time, so many years later.
This morning, however, the featured criminal of the month was my robbery defendant. The paper, if you could call it that, gave a quick overview of the defendant himself and the charges against him.
I gritted my teeth, my fists clenched tightly around the soft, thin paper. They knew better than to report on those kinds of details before the court had seen the agreement we reached and entered it into the record.
Some of the journalists in town were starting to skate on very thin fucking ice with me. I wasn’t their biggest fan after their treatment of my father and my family as it was, but their blatant disregard for the rules was getting on my last nerve now.
Their stories were becoming closer and closer to obstruction of justice every week. If they kept pushing… Well, they were going to find out what it felt like to be the story instead of writing it someday very soon.
The column ended by stating I had reached an agreement with the defendant, and that he would be serving time in accordance with the agreement at the Cypress Creek Penitentiary. The same penitentiary, they just had to mention, that my dad was presently serving time in.
That last sentence made the bitter coffee I was sipping on taste foul. I swallowed and set the paper down, taking a deep breath.
When I opened my eyes, I found an older man glaring at me from the table beside mine. I knew Mr. Morrison, and he only looked innocent with his glowing red cheeks and bright blue eyes. His gray curls might as well have been tipped with blades.
“Why do you keep making deals with these scumbags?” he demanded when he caught my eye. “They deserve to go to prison, but you keep letting them off light. Stop offering them these deals of yours and grow a pair, son. Go to damn court.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, stifling a sigh. The assumption he made was a popular one. "I'd love to go to court to put away every one of those scumbags, as you so eloquently called them.”
Leaning over conspiratorially, I motioned for him to come closer. The old man's eyes gleamed, no doubt thinking I was going to let him in on a secret directive from way on high to stay out of court. I was afraid he was going to be sorely disappointed.
The truth was that I hated having to make deals as much as the people hated reading about them, if not more so. Realistically, however, deals were quick and cheap and for that reason, better for the people in the long run. "If I do take them all to court, though, are you going to pay for each one of those trials? Any trial, even a short one, is expensive. I won't allow the taxpayers’ money to go to waste like that."
He gaped at me, the expected disappointment warring with defiance over my statement in his eyes. Before he could reply, I added, "Plus, if I go to trial, there's always a chance they can walk away on a technicality. I would rather have them serve a decent, fair chunk of time than none at all. Don't you agree?"
Mr. Morrison nodded, mumbled something I couldn't hear under his breath and went back to his paper. My coffee no longer appealed to me. I never should have come to the coffee shop in the first place. There was always someone here interested in telling me how to do my job or questioning the way I did it, yet they re-elected me by a landslide every term.
When I walked into my office, the first thing I noticed was a stack of papers sitting on my desk. It hadn’t been there when I left on Friday afternoon. Frowning, I peered over the folder lying right on top as I shrugged out of my jacket, trying to see what it was all about.
I froze when I saw the name printed on the top brief, my blood running cold in my veins. Shaking off the shock, I ripped my jacket the last of the way down my arms and tossed it on a wingback chair next to the bookshelf.
Barely noticing my chair when I sat down, I hastily opened the brief that had caused my reaction. My father’s name had me all shaken up. There was no way anything with his name on it should be crossing my desk.
“Fuck,” I muttered, struggling to absorb what I was reading in the file. “It’s not just a rumor.”
Slamming my back into the chair, my head rolled back, and I squeezed my eyes shut. “Nick!”
I heard my assistant rolling out his chair and his rushed footsteps to my door. “Tyson? Why are you yelling?”
“Where did this come from?” I demanded, ignoring the questions in his eyes when I opened mine. I never spoke to him this way. Nothing caught me off guard, and no one ever saw me shaken up. No one who was around these days, anyway. Back during my dad’s trial… It was different then.
Nick frowned, casting a worried eye over the stack in front of me. “A couple of guys in suits came and dropped it off. They said it was urgent and told me to get it to you as soon as possible, which is why I left it on your desk. Is there a problem?”
“No problem,” I snapped, shoving my chair away from my desk and getting up again. “I have to go. I’ll be out for a couple of hours.”
I didn’t mean to sound as harsh as I did. All I knew was what I had to do, and it wasn’t something I did often or very willingly: I had to go see my dad.
On the way to the penitentiary, I called and let them know I would be coming. A good thing about being the district attorney was that I wasn’t confined to visiting hours at the prison and could have an inmate waiting for me when I arrived.
They had already gotten my dad out of his cell, and he was sitting in a windowless consultation room, staring into the middle distance when I entered. “Tyson?”
Obviously, Roy hadn’t been expecting me. A frown crossed his features before he attempted a small grin. “It’s good to see you, son.”
A pang traveled through my heart at seeing him in his faded orange jumpsuit with his unkempt beard and messy hair. Dad used to dress immaculately. His barber used to come to our house once a week, and he never had more than a day’s worth of stubble.
That wasn’t true anymore, for very obvious reasons. Women used to refer to Dad as a silver fox before his incarceration. As much as I tried to ignore it all those years ago, there was too much talk after Mom died.
Women sat up straighter when he entered the room and made eyes at him, all wondering who he would take as his second wife. There were plenty of takers, but he was never interested. I supposed I knew why now. He was always too engrossed in my mother and what happened to her to take much notice of what was going on around him.
His blue eyes were light, almost the same color as Beau’s. They were still sharp, still never missed a trick. “You’re not here to catch up, are you?”
I shook my head and slapped the folder I’d brought with me onto the table. Opening it, I slid it over to him. I’d taken all the stuff he wouldn’t be allowed to see out in the car before I came in, just in case someone ever asked the right questions.
“What is this?” I asked him firmly, putting my hands in my pockets and leaning against the wall. It was a casual, cool move I used to show I had everything under control, and it came naturally to me, until I remembered who I was in the consultation room with.
Now it felt as unnatural as the prospect of suddenly having to change from being right handed to being left handed.. Abandoning my post, I sagged into the seat across from Dad and watched his eyes widen and finally lift to mine. “I have no idea. My best guess is that the people I stole from must be tired of waiting to find out where the money is.”
My jaw tensed. “Are you involved with this? Is this a bid for you to
get out of here?”
“I have nothing to do with this.” He crossed his arms, sitting back with eyes fixed unwaveringly on mine. Flickering in their depths, I saw the truth. He wasn’t lying.
I released a quiet sigh. “What are we going to do?”
“You’re going to go see someone. Her name is Eve. Find her,” Dad said, his tone low and urgent. The same one he used to use with me when he thought one of my brothers was in trouble and needing my help.
The hair rose on the back of my neck. I would have known if one of them were in trouble now, which meant there was something else going on here. “Who is Eve and what the hell does she have to do with your case?”
“She doesn’t have anything to do with the case.” He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. “She’s my accountant.”
“What makes you think I would do anything for you?” I asked, resting my forearms on the table and leaning forward. “I put you in here.”
“You’ll do it for me because I know there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for me,” he replied without a single hint of doubt or uncertainty. “Just go see her for me, okay?”
“Does she know where the money is?” No one seemed to know except for him. We’d interviewed almost a hundred people before the trial, and none of them had even the first idea of where we could start looking. Yet somehow, I’d never met or even heard about a woman named Eve. “If she’s your accountant, did she help you hide it? Is she still hiding it for you? Is that why no one has ever been able to find it?"
"Whoa." My father lifted a hand and chuckled lightly despite his circumstances and our surroundings. "She has no idea. I just need you to go see her about my will. If I'm getting out of here, I'll be needing one soon."
Pain tightened my heart at his words. It didn't matter what he had done, he was still my dad.
I stood up, trying to sound more certain about what I was about to say than I felt. "Yeah well, you're not getting out of here so you won't be needing a will any time soon."
