Page 2 of Never Let You Go

“They’ve come here for the reading of the will, as a convenience to us. Save us some time.”

My eyes drift from the snow now falling steadily on Manhattan to the picture on the wall. A red barn, horses grazing in a lush meadow in the background, and a guy in a flannel shirt holding a massive round bread, flashing a smile too white to be true. For all its fakeness, every time things felt awry in this company, I’ve taken solace in the picture that’s supposed to symbolize it.

I take a deep breath. This is just a formality. For a minute, I thought I was in real trouble, but then again that meeting would have been with HR. This is all making sense.

“Ms. Pierce,” the woman across the table says, “Your grandmother, Ms. Rita Douglas—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your names,” I interrupt softly, my gaze darting between the two of them.

The man reaches for two business cards from his suit pocket and hands them to me. Robert shifts in his seat, like he doesn’t approve. I’m just being polite. It looks like these people are about to get personal about me and my grandmother. The least we could do is introductions, no?

“We would normally do this type of thing at the deceased’s estate, or at our offices, but this seemed more convenient than having you come to Long Island,” the woman says.

“This is perfect,” I reassure them. “Thank you.” My grandmother practically lived here, having founded the company decades ago, and managing it almost to the very end of her life. She had a mansion that was never a home. Not to her, and certainly never to me.

I glance at their business cards while the woman clears her throat and starts reading from her stack of papers, never making eye contact with me. The man next to her is fidgety. I wonder if they’re concerned about my reaction when they get to the part where I get nothing. Or rather, when they get to the end of the document and my name never came up. I bet they rarely see that. The sole heir of a tycoon getting absolutely nothing. Although, if they want to see me, there must be something they need to tell me. I clench my bladder again. This should be quick.

Rita raised me like that. You’ll never get anything from me that you didn’t work for, she would tell me.

Now, there’s something to be said about tackling your twenties with a knack for budgeting and penny pinching. I have Rita to thank for that. Her stinginess made me stronger. It turned out to be her gift to me.

It wasn’t Rita who’d recruited me to work for Red barn Baking. I’d followed the standard application process. I never knew whether she was proud, annoyed, or pissed when the head of Marketing hired me. Or how she felt when I quickly became their best asset.

My name comes up in the monotone reading of the will. Rita left me with a sum of money that would have covered maybe three days of her living expenses but amounts to about two of my paychecks.

That’s a nice chunk of money. Fuzziness spreads inside me, but I suppress it quickly. It doesn’t sound right to feel happy under these circumstances.

I twitch in my seat. Surely this is close to being over. I really need to use the bathroom.

Hearing my name again, I straighten my shoulders. A part of my brain listens while the other part drifts back to Rita. To be honest, I don’t miss her. I just have to accept that the opportunity to connect with her will never present itself now. I thought that by working for her company it would happen. With time. When I became an adult.

It didn’t.

End of story. I need to move on.

“Alex, did you get that?”

I jump. Yes. Yes, I did get that. I internally repeat something totally outlandish. The gist of it is, if I want to be vested in the ownership of Rita’s shares of Red Barn Baking, giving me a controlling vote on the board, I have to complete a baking apprenticeship. Said apprenticeship needs to happen in a specific bakery in a village in Vermont.

Um… what? My gaze drifts to the picture of the red barn. Several things don’t make sense: Me potentially being at the helm of Red Barn Baking. Me becoming a baker.

And also, why didn’t this ever come up before? If she wanted me to take over after her, why didn’t she prepare me? At least sit me down, have a conversation?

“Can you run this by me once more?” I ask, and while they do, I wonder what Rita’s intentions were. And as usual, when trying to figure out my late grandmother, I come up empty. “What does this apprenticeship consist of?”

Robert snorts.

The man explains, “You would be working part-time at the bakery in Emerald Creek, under the supervision of their baker, a Mr. Christopher Wright. The rest of the time is for you to study the theory and practice your skills in the bakery. You’ll have to pass the French baking exam. An examiner is scheduled to visit a culinary school in the state, and he will validate your apprenticeship.”

Rita Douglas, founder of an industrial bakery, wants me to undergo a traditional French baking training? “How long is this apprenticeship?”

“It’s on the very short side. Five, six months. Lots to pack in, according to the examiner, unless you have solid baking experience and knowledge.” He cocks an eyebrow at me, and Robert scoffs.

“Can’t I do this here, at a culinary school?” I’m pretty sure I already know the answer, but what’s the harm in asking? “If I pass the exam, what’s the difference?” I am actually thinking about this.

I know. Crazy, right?

Robert sighs and shakes his head while the woman cuts in. “These are the terms set forth by the late Ms. Douglas. There can be no modifications, I’m afraid. You need to follow the rules of a traditional French apprenticeship, one where you live on site and are under the baker’s responsibility for most areas of your life, regardless of your age. The late Ms. Douglas also prescribed the one bakery where the apprenticeship is to take place.”

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