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I realize just how fast Harris has moved from his seat at the table. In all my years working for him, I've never seen him move that quickly. He pulls me closer to him, squeezing my shoulder so hard it makes me see stars.
"Harris?" I ask.
In a calm, gravelly voice, he says, "I don't appreciate playing mediator like this, Cooper. I'm not your father. I don't know what happened out in Barton Beach, but you need to promise me it won't happen with this next Better Horizons project. You understand?"
"Yes, sir," I say quickly. "I promise you. I'm disappointed that the project in Barton Beach failed. And I don't want this one to either."
"Good." His gaze penetrates mine again, more serious than I've ever seen him. "Because you're still up for partner. There will be a meeting in August to discuss moving you up in the company. When that meeting happens, I want to have some good things to say. You understand what I'm getting at?"
Swallowing again, I say, "Yes, sir. Clear as day."
* * *
Like Austin suggested,the new project I'm working on can be done entirely from home. And after my discussion with Harris after the meeting, I'm not keen on hanging around the office. I leave the WestRock building early, and as I pass by Harris' office door on my way out, it's been firmly shut.
On the ride home on the METRO Rail, I look up the properties that Austin is attempting to acquire. He's only given me a few places so far, what he described as half of his intended full list, and thankfully, everything seems to be pretty local to Houston. No more traveling for me for a while.
Somehow, that thought only makes me disappointed.
Probably against my better judgment, I look up another business online. The Sugar Breeze Bakery. I was only there two days ago, yet it seems like a dream or another lifetime. But for some reason, I feel drawn to it, to see it again, even if its just on a screen.
Clicking on the "About Us" section of the website, I see a picture of the bakery that must be over thirty years old. It's glossy and grainy, like so many pictures taken in the 1980s are, but I still see the familiar pieces of the bakery there. The shingles are all a bright white, rather than dappled and wind-torn as they are now, and the stickers in the windows all look brand new.
Scrolling down past the photo's description, I catch sight of the next photograph, taken around the same time. Standing in front of the building is a woman who must be Denise's mother, Sylvia Lawson. Beneath her big blond feathered hair and bright turquoise mascara, I can tell she was gorgeous. She smiles, the bakery glowing in the sun behind her while her three children cling tightly to her side.
I recognize Austin, of course, his hair dark and full and his face a scowl as he blinks against the Texas sun. He must be only about five years old, by the look of him. Beside him is a baby carrier, the reddened face of a crying infant poking up over the blanket. Based on their ages, this must be Sheila, the youngest of the Lawson children.
And under Sylvia's other arm is what must be a ten-year-old Denise.
I can't help but smile when I see her. I would recognize her anywhere. Her hair is down, a dark mane that shines proudly in the sun. Her eyes are squinting like her brother's, but rather than from discomfort, it seems to be coming from her enormous, gap-toothed smile. It's the happiest I've ever seen her.
Once I'm back home, I kick my shoes off and look at the picture again as I open the box of cookies Denise gave me. They were a pain to bring back since the box was so big and the chocolate was melting, but it was worth it just to bring back a piece of my time at Barton Beach. As I eat, I keep scrolling through the Sugar Breeze's website, and each bite is as good as that first one back at Bash's loft.
Sweet like honey and just as soft, each bite melts against my tongue in the most delicious way. The chocolate and the little marshmallows almost reminds me of s'mores made while camping with my dad, all those years ago. Bash and I were probably out camping with him the same year Denise was having that picture taken. And just like that picture of her, it's one of the times I also remember being truly happy.
It was one of those rare times we got to see our dad after our mother passed, when he came to pick us up from our uncle's house or our cousin Veronica's or wherever he'd put us that year. It was one of those times we would forget our worries and just go out and have fun. One of the good times.
I finish the first Crescent Moon cookie, but it's so good that I can't stop myself from grabbing another. I settle on the sofa with it in my hand, staring at the most recent picture of the Sugar Breeze Bakery on their website. There is a photo of Denise holding a whisk in one hand, smiling nervously at the camera with the bakery behind her. A lonely recreation of the 80s picture.
Damn, this woman is beautiful.
I cringe at myself, knowing I should have said something. Wishing I had taken the chance when I could have. I could have told her how I feel, even if it had only ended in hurt. She deserved as much.
But I couldn't say it. Telling her how I felt would just complicate things more. And as I realized after our dinner, bringing her further into this mess would just be cruel.
I reach over to the side table and root around in the Sugar Breeze box for another cookie. And I pause as my fingers brush something that feels wrong. Like a scrap of paper instead of the edge of a baked good.
Putting the phone down, I pull the box onto my lap and push the cookies around, searching for it. And right there, buried at the bottom of the box, is a little slip of paper. It's not even laminated. And after spending Wednesday through Friday morning under a pile of cookies, it's become spotted with grease stains. I carefully pull it up, not wanting to accidentally rip it.
Flipping it over, I read what has been typed across it as best I can through the stains. Cups of flour, cups of honey, chocolate chips….
It's a recipe.
And it isn't until I read to the end that I put the pieces together. It's not just any recipe. It's the recipe for Crescent Moon cookies. The one that she said was a guarded family secret.
Shit.
Before I can rethink what I'm doing, I've already jumped off the sofa.
