Page 111 of What Remains of Grace

“We’ll be there!”

“Tell me where to donate!”

“Not on my watch, y’all.”

“Grace would be so proud of you ladies.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

“Ma’am?” the cashier said.

She jumped. “Sorry?”

“You’re up.”

She moved through the motions of paying, loading her bags into the cart, and walking out into the Florida heat, all while her brain buzzed.

Who had posted it?

The original came from the “Friends of Historic Tarpon Springs” group. The event description was even more detailed:

Join us Friday night at The Blue Cypress to help keep this beloved bakery and the Hart family home in local hands.

Proceeds from the rally will go toward legal and settlement costs needed to prevent an absentee spouse from forcing a sale.

This place has fed our teams, our families, our souls. It’s time we feed it back.

There was a line she recognized almost immediately.

Female-owned, historically significant.

That had attorney-writing all over it. Or Emmie quoting the attorney.

Jenna shoved her phone into her pocket before she could read the rest, her throat already tight. She drove to the bakery on autopilot, the tires picking up every bump.

When she pushed through the front door, the bell chimed cheerfully, at odds with the little storm brewing in her chest.

The late-morning rush had passed. Three tables were occupied by two older men arguing over the sports page in the corner, a young mom with a stroller, and a college kid with headphones and a laptop. Behind the counter, Steph was frosting cupcakes with alarming speed while Nicole worked the espresso machine.

Jenna beelined for the staff door. “Hey, boss,” Nicole said. “You see—”

“Where’s Emmie?” she asked.

Nicole blinked. “Uh . . . in the office, I think. Printing stuff.”

“Of course she is,” Jenna muttered, pushing through to the back.

The office door was half-closed. Through the crack, she saw the glow of the computer screen and heard the whir of the ancient printer that Grace had always sworn she’d replace and never did.

Emmie sat cross-legged on the rolling chair, feeding bright blue cardstock into the tray in batches. A stack of freshly printed flyers covered the desk, each one featuring the same photo Jenna had just seen online.

SAVE THE BLUE CYPRESS. KEEP IT LOCAL. KEEP IT HERS.

Jenna took in the whole scene in three seconds flat: the flyers, the smug little flourish of the fonts, the tiny watermark at the bottom that read “Tarpon Springs Historical Society” like some sort of stamp of approval.

“Emmeline Cruz!”

Emmie jumped so hard that a flyer fluttered to the floor. “Jesus, Aunt Jenna, you can’t just use my government name like that. Are we in trouble with the IRS?”