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As I finished, Sheila took another long drink of wine, emptying her glass completely and quickly pouring herself a new one. "What pigs," she finally said. "I knew something was up with Austin when he didn't come for Thanksgiving and Christmas last year. But I never would have guessed he was capable of… well…. I can't believe he'd do something likethis."
"I know. I didn't believe it either," I admitted. "Things were always weird after the funeral. I'd thought he was just in mourning, like the rest of us." I bit my lip, feeling that horrible clinging guilt in my belly.
"Oh, sweetie," Sheila said. "He fooled all of us."
I opened my mouth to say more and let her know what I was thinking. But I knew that I shouldn't. And my darling sister wouldn't like me wallowing in my self-pity. Even though these days, that's all I could seem to do.
I knew her well enough to predict exactly what Sheila would say: "Stop blaming yourself. What Austin chose to do was not your fault. What Brett did wasn't your fault, either. You are not responsible for the hurt they chose to cause."
Well, knowing Sheila, it might have had a few more expletives thrown in and a large chug of wine in the middle. But she'd say something along those lines, at least. The meaning would be the same.
And it's strange to me that, while I have learned her words of comfort so well, enough to parrot them back to myself, I still can't seem to take in their meaning. She is one of the few rays of sun still shining. But a couple rays of sunlight can't do anything to stop the rain cloud from pouring down.
Leaning across the table, Sheila pulled me in for a warm hug. Like she could tell what was running through my head and knew that while the words wouldn't help, holding me to her just might.
After my reverie, I stand, assisting Sheila with packing all the boxes. It's taken us days to get everything packed away, and to see the bakery so empty for the first time in decades is….
It's impossible to describe the feeling.
Even Sheila seems to be moved by the sight. Her eyes follow the lines of the empty glass displays and the erased words on the chalkboards to the boxes filled with innumerable kitchen utensils that will now go unused.
"So," Sheila finally says, "what's the plan now?"
"We put all these boxes in the van and drive them to the bungalow," I say. "We'll have to be careful, though. I'm going to put the van up for sale, I think, and it needs to be clean."
"That chump brother of ours didn't take the van, too?" she asks bitterly.
"Nope. He didn't get the van."
"So you'll probably have to get it painted, then? Don't want him to fucking sue you over the logo."
"Well… technically, I think the logo is still mine. The name, too."
Sheila turns to look at me, her eyes brightening with hope. "Oh. I guess that's right. He only has the rights to the building, doesn't he? Ha ha!" She pumps her fist in the air, whooping with laughter. "So he got nothing! You still have the bakery!"
"Not really," I say. "Not much of a bakery without somewhere to bake out of."
"We could get you a new place."
"With what money, Sheila? I have no prospects, and you and Paul need to focus on the kids' futures. Don't you dare spend any more money on me."
She blows a raspberry. "Alright, sour-pants. You could use the van as a food truck."
I snort. "That's the worst idea yet. No way."
"I do have one more idea. But you're not going to like it."
"I'm sure I won't. Go ahead. Lay it on me."
Sheila bites her lip for a moment, searching for the best way to phrase it, and that's how I know it's bad. "Well… if only there was someone we knew with enough money for a place. A rich benefactor, if you will."
Stepping away from her, I make a noise of disgust in the back of my throat. "Please, Sheila. I am not going to beg Brett for money. Are you insane?"
"No," she insists, "I meant hisbrother. 'Blam' or whatever he's called."
"You mean Bash? Why would I go to Bash about this?"
"I don't know. You used his kitchen before."
