How to Bake a Perfect Life - Barbara O'Neal [105]
With a sigh, I turn my attention back to the less-thrilling task inside my office. I’m trying not to panic, which won’t help any of us, but this is a huge blow. Lost wages, lost income, huge outflow of cash. I need advice.
The first person I call is my brother Ryan, but he has no ideas. “Call Dad.”
The last time I asked my father for advice, he said I should have thought of how hard it was going to be before I opened a restaurant to compete with him. Which is how he sees the bakery: in competition with the Gallagher Group restaurants.
And yet I’d rather call him than Cat, who is probably angry with me. I haven’t taken any of his calls or even listened to the messages he has been leaving.
Gnawing my lip, I juggle the two possibilities and wonder if my sister is right that I use people.
Steph. Steph will know what I should do.
I punch in her number before I can chicken out, and she answers on the second ring. By the background noise of radio and horns, I can tell she’s in the car, which explains why she answered so readily. “Stephanie Gallagher speaking.”
“Hi, Steph, it’s Ramona.”
“Ramona?”
“Yeah. I need advice on how to get my hot water fixed as fast as possible.”
She’s silent. Then, “Why not ask your sweetie?”
“Because, as I told you, he isn’t my ‘sweetie’ at all, and I’ve been trying hard to set boundaries between us. Unfortunately, I now have a huge problem and I need some advice. He’s been my go-to guy. I’d rather ask other people.”
“You’re kind of putting me on the spot.”
“How?” My mouth goes tight, and I think of the inspector’s pinched face. Deliberately, I move my lips around, making them soft again. “Come on, Stephanie. We have to get over this.”
A horn honks loudly and she swears. “Look, I’m in Denver and the traffic is really heavy. I have to go.”
“Steph! Please, I’ll do whatever—”
She hangs up on me. For a moment I’m so breathlessly angry with her that I want to fling the phone across the room. Instead, I take a breath and dial my father’s telephone number.
He answers, “Hello. This is James Gallagher.”
I start to speak, but his message goes on. “I’m in a meeting for the rest of the day, but if you leave your name and telephone number, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If this is an emergency, please call my assistant, Stephanie Gallagher, at 555-6820.”
I punch the off button and look out the window. Merlin is dancing around the grass as if there is a person playing tug-of-war with him. Katie is sitting on the bench, talking to him. Curved up against her is Milo. Traitor, I think.
There’s nothing to do but call Cat.
Turnabout is fair play: He doesn’t answer my call.
No help for it—I’m going to have to go see him in person, and right away. As I walk through the bakery, Jimmy holds up two jars of starter. “You want me to put everything in the walk-in?”
“Leave the rye and malt. I’m still feeding it. The rest … yeah. Put it away.”
In the muffled quiet, I wonder if this is it. If this is the thing that will bring me to my knees. It’s Thursday. There is a very minute chance someone will have this hot-water heater in stock nearby and can install it tomorrow, but I’ve spent my life in restaurants, and I know I’m telling myself a big fat lie. It will be Monday. Maybe Tuesday.
My stomach aches. No revenue coming in on Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday. Maybe even Tuesday?
I have no idea how we are going to survive.
Going to the back porch, I call through the screen, “Katie, I have to run some errands. Do you want to go or stay?”
She walks toward the window. Merlin has given up and is lying in the shade. “Are we going out to dinner later?”
I forgot, in all the madness, to call my mother. “Absolutely.”
“I’ll stay here, then.”
Leaving her in the yard, I don’t even bother with changing anything except my shoes. I trade clogs for a pair of sandals and head out wearing printed cotton chef’s pants and a pale lavender chef