Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
As soon as I’d seen the sign for Art’s Bakery—named after my great-grandfather—I’d known I couldn’t sell, and not even the shabby condition deterred me. When I’d graduated law school, I received an offer from one of the top firms in San Francisco. I’d thought my dreams were coming true. I was never going to have to worry about money again. My hard work had paid off, and I was never going to be at anyone else’s mercy.
But I’d hated everything about the job, the pompous clients, the back-stabbing coworkers, the tedium of the work I did. I’d lasted three years before realizing no amount of money was worth being that miserable, so I took a job at Legal Aid. I tried to help people, and occasionally, I did, but mostly I saw injustice after injustice. Three years of that drained me until I hit total burn out. I’d been searching for a fresh start since I’d quit a few months ago. I’d never baked professionally, but I’d gotten lessons from my grandmother from the time I was old enough to hold a spatula. I’d been baking on my own and taking classes to learn more as a way to keep me sane during my grueling years at Legal Aid.
The bakery could be my fresh start. Standing in the dingy kitchen, I longed to restore the bakery to its former glory, but how was I going to do it? I didn’t even know where to start to sort out all the mess in front of me. I was shit at DIY projects, but I couldn’t afford to hire anyone to do the work the bakery needed. And every day the shop sat empty was another day I couldn’t make any money.
My grandparents had been the only family I’d wanted anything to do with after high school, and they’d been gone for years. My friends in California thought I was crazy for not applying to jobs at law firms where I could actually make money instead of dreaming up a new career for myself. I was on my own, but that was the way I liked it. I was the only person I could rely on, so if the bakery was going to reopen, I was the one who had to make that happen. I’d started looking into loan options, but I didn’t yet know the full extent of my father’s debts. I had a meeting with his lawyer the next day.
What if I couldn’t do this? I pushed that thought from my mind and focused on some of my favorite memories of the place, trying to see it as it had been decades ago. I was reminiscing about five or six-year-old me standing on a stool, kneading a small piece of dough my grandmother had given me, when a knock on the door made me jump. I headed out front and saw a small, dark-haired woman who was likely in her early sixties peering in the window. I opened the door, and she brushed right passed me and headed for the kitchen.
I stared after her for a moment. “Maria?”
“Sì.” She crossed herself as she studied the mess all around us. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph it’s even worse than I remember. Your father never could keep anything organized. Then he had the audacity to go and die with no clear plan for the business, leaving me with no prospects. Do you know how hard it is for a woman my age to find a job? So, tell me, am I out on the street, or are you going to reopen the place?”
I stared at her, feeling as though I was caught in the middle of a whirlwind. A moment passed before shock receded and anger set in. “‘Hello’ would be a better start, don’t you think? I am still the owner here, right?”
She didn’t show any sign of remorse for railroading her way in. “You are. If it were up to me, I’d get this place cleaned up and find a way to get it back on its feet. But if you’re going to close the place down for good, I’d like to know so I can start trying to find work elsewhere. If you’re going to keep it open, you’ll have to keep me on. You’re going to need my help to sort all this out and make sense of whatever pitiful business records your father left behind. The sooner we can get this place opened up and get the customers flowing in again, the better.”
I waited a beat, expecting her to launch into another rant. When she didn’t, I debated attempting to assert my authority again but gave up. “That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“So you are reopening?”
“Yes.” The word seemed to hang there in front of me, far too small a thing to indicate the major leap I was taking with my life. “But I do intend to make some changes.”