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Will opens the door and calls, “Hey, Case—”
Phil is at that door so fast, he nearly topples his chair. He shuts the door and puts his back to it.
“Smart man,” I murmur.
“It isn’t only Casey,” Phil says as he returns to the table. “I want to discuss it logically.”
Will stares at him again. Then he slides into his chair. “Ooh, boy. Are you saying you want to discuss it with the men so the women don’t get all emotional over losing the bakery?”
“Of course not.”
“Forget Casey. I say we pull Iz in on this conver—”
“That is not what I mean. I simply fear the women have a higher stake in the bakery’s existence.”
“You sure about that? If you want my morning coffee and muffin, Phil, you’ll need to come and get them.” Will flexes his biceps with a mock glower.
“We aren’t getting rid of the bakery,” I say. “And I don’t know what this bullshit about the women is. There is a line at the bakery nearly all day, and it’s a representative mix of residents. We didn’t invite Devon and Brian to join us so we can keep Casey in cookies.”
“Though it would be a good plan,” Will says. “She’s very happy when she has her cookies.”
“Which she could get from the commissary,” I say. “Hell, I can bake them myself. The point is that people like a dedicated coffeehouse.”
“It’s a luxury,” Phil says.
“Exactly.”
“No, I mean it’s a luxury, and our—your—new town cannot afford them.”
I lean back in my chair. “Can’t we? Show me the numbers.”
Phil pushes forward his tablet with an air of satisfaction.
I look at the screen. “Now, admittedly, I’ve never taken an actual math class, but I’m pretty sure this shows we’re projected to undercut our budget by ten percent, which is exactly what we agreed on.”
Will whistles. “Impressive, Phil. I never thought we were going to get those numbers where we wanted them without increasing resident payments, which no one wants to do.”
“A ten percent cushion isn’t enough,” Phil says. “There are bound to be unexpected expenses. I’d like to see the new town turn a profit.”
I tense.
“No, Phil,” Will says, his voice low. “This isn’t Rockton.”
“Which I realize,” Phil says. “I’m not arguing it should be a commercial enterprise. But even non-profit organizations pay their employees. You should all be drawing a salary.”
“Someday,” Will says. “But that’s not our immediate concern.”
“I said the bakery was a luxury,” I say. “You think that means ‘unnecessary.’ I think it means a well-deserved extra that isessentialfor this town. Is a bakery itself essential? Are cookies and muffins and good coffee essential? No. But somenonessentials are essential, or we’re asking people—including ourselves—to come to our town to survive. That’s it. Bare survival. People need more.”
“Good coffee makes people happy,” Will says. “It’s a little thing that helps remind them this isn’t a two-year prison sentence.”
“If you get rid of the bakery, what next?” I say. “You might need to fight Casey for her cookies, but you’d need to fight me for the library.”
“And don’t touch my games night,” Will says. “Or movie night or taco Tuesday.” He leans across the table. “People need luxuries. If you want to cut, then look at the things they won’t miss. No one cares if we all have the same ugly-ass rain boots.”
“The bakery stays,” I say, pushing back from the table. I poke a finger at the tablet. “Will’s right. This is amazing work, and we do appreciate it. If things go wrong and something else needs to be cut, then maybe a slight increase to resident fees might be in order. You can reassess after a few months to see where we stand.”
“I won’t be there.”
