Page 101 of Never Let You Go

Then a low funds alert from my bank pops on my screen. I log in, and sure enough, I haven’t received my paycheck. Which makes sense, in a way.

I email HR anyway, from my private address, and this email doesn’t bounce back.

Hands clean and dried, Skye goes straight to the cupboard. She pulls out an almost empty jar of maple butter, the one with her name on the lid, and unscrews it. She goes to duck her finger in the pot, but glances at me and grabs a spoon. Settled on her favorite chair, she loads the spoon and licks it like a lollipop, then loses patience and closes her lips around the spoon, wiping it clean. Ducks the spoon, again. Repeats the process.

I’m queasy just looking at her eat so much sugar. Should I say something?

Nope, that wouldn’t be right. Would it?

There’s already an email from the HR Department at Red Barn, but no answer from Barbara yet. “How was school?” I ask Skye as I start reading.

“Alright,” she says, shrugging.

“That good, huh?” My eyes are stuck on the email. “Where’s your daddy?”

“Doin’ stuff upstairs. What are you reading?” she mumbles, her mouth full.

“Not sure yet,” I mutter as I’m jerked from the warmth of Christopher’s bakery in Emerald Creek to the coldness of corporate life at Red Barn. Just as cold as I remember my grandmother, the email reads:

When you accepted the terms of the offer made by your grandmother, Ms. Rita Douglas, in her will, and subsequently took on the apprenticeship she organized as a condition of your ownership of her shares and appointment to the board, you implicitly lost your status as a Red Barn Baking employee.

We look forward to welcoming you back at RBB as a fully vested leader of our great company, should you succeed in your current endeavor.

Yup. Makes sense.

I log back into my bank account app.

Christopher pays me a decent wage for the apprenticeship, but it’s nothing close to what I used to make. Of course, I won’t get paid for a job I’m no longer doing.

I have some savings to see me through the next couple of months, plus the small lump sum Rita left me in her will. It won’t be enough to cover my Brooklyn rent until I come back, though, so I’ll have to pick up some side work while I’m here, and I’ll talk to Sarah about subletting my room for a little time, if I can find someone.

Both The General Store and Millie at Easy Monday have already approached me about managing their social media and marketing, and others might be interested. Even if I’ll charge them a very reasonable fee, that might be enough to make up for the gap in income until I return to Brooklyn.

I move some money from my savings account to my checking account from the app on my phone and settle my attention on Skye.

Her jar of maple butter is now almost empty. She goes to the cupboard again and grabs a second jar, this one with Daddy written across the lid. She swiftly swaps both lids and puts back a nearly empty jar of maple butter with the name Daddy back in the cupboard, then digs into the mostly full jar.

I try not to chuckle. “I saw that, you know.”

Her spoon freezes midair. “Are you going to tell on me?”

Good question. “No.”

Her legs are dangling faster and faster under her chair. “What are you going to do?”

Another good question. God, I love this kid. “I think I’m going to watch how this turns out for you.”

“Like what?”

“Like… is your tummy going to hurt? Are you going to throw up? Are you going to feel guilty when your daddy has no maple butter left? That sort of thing.”

“Why?”

“What else do you want me to do?

“Adults are s’pposed to tell kids what’s right and wrong.” She licks her spoon, the sticky paste clinging to her tongue.

This time, I laugh out loud. “Oooooooh-kay. So, you would want me to tell you what you did is wrong? Or maybe I should take the jar away from you?”

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