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Sheila and I shared Sylvia Lawson. Out of Sylvia's two birthed children, Sheila is the one who looks the most like her. She got her smile and her hair. She moves her hands the same way my Mom used to when she talks.
For the first time, I can't separate the two of them in my mind. Sheila and Sylvia have become one. To tell Sheila the bad news is to tell it to my mother's disappointed face.
Sylvia would be just that, I realize. Not angry. Not even sad. Just disappointed. And it's that disappointment from my mother's lingering spirit that I've been struggling to avoid since I found out that the bakery would be mine.
Oh, Mom. I'm so sorry.
Finally, Sheila gives a great huff through her nose. "Nope," she finally says, shaking her head. She holds out her hand to me, wiggling her fingers expectantly. "Give it to me."
Confused, I go to hand the thermos back to her, but she gently pushes this away.
"No," she insists. "The letter that your landlord sent you. I know you very well, Denise, so I know you have it with you. Give it to me. I want to read it."
"I don't think that's—"
"I don't care," she hisses. Definitely in full Mom Mode today. "Give it to me. I need to see it with my own eyes."
Reaching into the back, I pull up my purse and unclasp it. As I hand Sheila the letter, she whips it open, and her eyes begin to dart furiously along the typed text.
"You're not gonna find anything new," I start to say, but she shushes me quickly and keeps reading.
After about a minute, she looks up at me, her eyes bright and triumphant. "A-ha!" she exclaims. "There's an appeals process! You just need to make an appointment, and you can go and appeal the decision!"
I shake my head at her. "Yeah, they say there's an appeals process. But that's just a legal formality. Look at the rest of the letter. They've already decided what they want to do."
She smacks me across the arm with it. "Yeah, it's a legal formality. But that means they legally have to hear you out if you call to make that appointment. This isn't a failure on your part, Denise. This is a bunch of rich douchebags trying to step on your dreams, and I won't let that happen. Even I have to march into that appeal myself and shout in all their faces. I'll do it!"
"I'm not sure shouting would help—"
She cuts me off again, turning to me with wide eyes. "Brett!" she almost yells. "He's a smart guy. Get his help on this!"
"He's definitely smart, Sheila. But he's a money guy. Not a real estate guy."
Sheila wiggles her eyebrows. "But you know whois, right?"
"Noway, Sheila. I'm not asking Austin for help. Do you know how embarrassing that would be? To admit to the person who wanted the bakery that I can't handle it?"
"I don't care. Austin is our brother, Denise. No matter what happened with Mom's will, there's no way that he's still holding that against you now. He'll help you. You just have to try. You have to be willing to fight for it."
* * *
Friday night,Brett's car rolls up outside the bungalow.
He's barely shut the door behind him when I bring my arms to the buttons of his blazer and shirt. Wordlessly, he finds the buttons of my shirt, too. He knows what I need. And he gives it without complaint or any hint of hesitation.
He lays over me in the bed, the muscles of his shoulders and arms bulging as he rides me. I let him take over, let him master my body the way he knows how. I submit to his animal sexuality, letting my mind and nerves disappear for the night.
Afterward, he holds me close, his hand still on my bare hip, his fingers cupping the curve of my rear.
"You ready to talk about it?" he whispers, his eyes peering straight into mine, holding me there as if frozen by his gaze. He's serious, intent on not letting me duck the question. "I gave you what you wanted. Now it's your turn to do the same."
"Brett…." I bite my lip. "I… I already told you. It's just work drama. It's fine." My eyes pull away from his, staring down into the wrinkles of the sheet beneath us, the patches of sweat left from where we just made love.
Moving his hand from my hip, he grasps my chin and gently turns my face back to look at him. "It didn't seem fine on the phone on Tuesday. You sounded upset. And you've avoided the question every time we've talked since then. You told me it's easier to talk in person. Well," he gestures to his wonderful form. "Here I am. Talk. Please."
I take a deep breath, thinking hard about what to say. Brett only knows about the mommy blogger. He doesn't know I'm potentially about to lose the bakery too. For some reason, even with Sheila's insistence that he'd be able to help me, I can't bring myself to tell him.
He's already so offended by the blog situation. If I tell him about my landlord, he will focus on that. Like he proved on the phone, he's a problem solver. But what I want is comfort. I want to possess him. For his focus to be all on me, on my body, the entire time he's here.
