Page 120 of What Remains of Grace

She felt Cole step up beside her, not touching, but close enough that she could feel his presence like a hand at her back.

“You’ve got this,” he murmured. She took a breath. Stepped forward.

“Hey y’all,” she said into the makeshift microphone someone had loaned them. Her voice sounded too loud in the small, crowded bakery. “I’m Jenna Hart. Most of you know me as one of the bakery sisters. It’s been a long time, but I used to live behind that counter. Not to be confused with Grace, the one who always had flour on her shirt.”

A ripple of muted laughter warmed the air.

“When my grandmother opened this place, she wanted it to be more than a business,” Jenna continued. “She wanted it to be . . . a kitchen table for the neighborhood. When Grace took over, she kept that going. You’ve all sat at these tables for birthdays and breakups and post-game carb-loading. You’ve told us your news. Good and bad. You’ve trusted us with your celebrations and your sorrow.”

A wave of grief swept over her, but she kept going.

“Now we’re asking you to help us fight for the right to keep doing that.”

She didn’t go into details about the lawsuit. Emmie and Mrs. Cartwright had helped her shape the words earlier that afternoon, just enough specifics to make it real, not enough to turn it into a TED Talk on probate law.

“We’re here tonight because a man who hasn’t lived in this house in a very long time or worked in this bakery a day in his life has decided that numbers on a page are more important than the people who built this place,” she said. “We’re here because we don’t agree. We believe history matters. We believe local businesses matter. We believe women’s ownership matters.”

She looked around the room, at the faces she’d known for years, at new ones, at her niece standing by the door with her arms folded and her chin high.

“We can’t do this alone,” Jenna said. “But we’re not alone. You’re here. And that . . . that already feels like a miracle.”

She finished with a simple thank you.

The applause was loud and long. Someone whistled. Someone else shouted, “We love you, Jenna!” which made her laugh and cry at the same time.

After that, the night blurred into a whirl of movement.

She helped refill trays. She hugged people. She watched as numbers on the little whiteboard behind the counter climbed higher and higher, the total donations updated every thirty minutes by Steph.

Ten thousand. Twenty.

Thirty.

At one point, Mrs. Cartwright marched back from a side table with a look of pure satisfaction.

“We have three pledges of five thousand each,” she announced. “And Mr. Franklin just donated ten. He says he ‘owes Evie and Gracie for thirty years of birthday cakes.’”

Jenna swayed. “That’s—”

“That’s exactly what you think it is,” Mrs. Cartwright said briskly. “Now go drink some water before you faint on the donation box and scare the Methodists.”

By the time the night wound down, the place looked like the aftermath of a good party. Empty plates, half-melted ice in the coolers, a stray balloon bobbing lazily against the ceiling.

Emmie’s hair was escaping her ponytail, her cheeks flushed. She stood behind the counter with a stack of forms and envelopes.

“Final tally?” Jenna asked, her voice hoarse.

Emmie grinned, wide and wild. “Between cash, checks, online donations, and pledges? Just over ninety-five.”

Jenna blinked hard. “Ninety-five… thousand?”

“Ninety-five thousand,” Emmie confirmed. “I triple-checked. Twice. Mrs. Cartwright watched, and she’s basically a human adding machine.”

Shock settled in Jenna.

“That could cover everything. Buyout. Legal fees. If we play our cards right.”

Emmie nodded, eyes bright. “We can actually make choices now, without panic. Not react. Plan.” Jenna let out a shaky laugh and covered her mouth with her hand.