Page 26 of A Very Daddy Christmas

Cora

“Five-hundred thousand dollars? Are they insane?” Eva says, her eyes as wide as saucers as she stares at her laptop screen. Our bank account balance has stunned her. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the enormous figure as well. She looks around at me. “What the hell did you do, Cora?”

“Nothing. Just my job!” I croak, briefly wondering if the added two-hundred and fifty thousand is “payment” for the other night. No, that can’t be right. They wouldn’t. It would be the ultimate form of disrespect. “All I’ve been doing is working, Eva. I take care of Dario, I come here, then I go home. That’s it. I don’t understand it either.”

“Cora, we’ve got half a million bucks in our account!”

“Sebastian did mention I’d get a bigger bonus yesterday. He said he wanted to make sure we secure a high enough payment for the building to prevent Orson from selling to a higher bidder. He said it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Better to be safe than sorry? Wow.”

“I know. I know! I’ll just send it back,” I say, reaching for the laptop, but Eva swats my hands away. “Ouch.” I chuckle softly at her reaction.

“No. Leave it. He does have a point,” she grumbles. “But it’s still insane.”

“We’ve got enough to make one hell of an escrow payment.”

“Might as well. We’ve worked so hard for this, Eva. Orson was so quick and eager to screw us over. Let him suffer.”

I smile, watching my sister as she proceeds through the online banking app, preparing to deliver the escrow payment, following the tenancy agreement’s original terms and dates.

“I don’t know how much suffering he’ll get from an extra quarter of a million dollars though,” I mutter.

“At least he’ll leave us alone for good.”

It’s what we’re hoping for. The bakery has had its share of both good and bad days. We make a decent living from it, and the locals love it. We don’t always pack a full house, but we’re steady in our sales reports. We could do with a little bit of growth, but once we own the building, we’ll be able to invest our profits differently. Rent will be one less expense to worry about.

Lunchtime on Mondays is usually quieter than the other weekdays, so I take advantage of the absence of customers to wipe down all of our glass displays while Eva handles the escrow payment.

“I’m adding a copy of the contract to my confirmation email to Orson,” Eva says, taking a long sip from her coffee. “I highlighted the specific clause regarding our payment, just to be on the safe side.”

“I wonder if he’s going to be thrilled or pissed off,” I reply, moving around the front of the pastry display. Our pear tarts look so pretty in this light. Not a day goes by that I don’t reminisce about the hours I’ve spent here, shadowing Dad and learning every trick of his craft. My first pear tarts were terrible, but I know he’d be proud of me now. “I mean, he’s getting paid a lot of money.”

“Yeah, we keep telling ourselves that, but I don’t know. Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Mom and Dad would be popping open a bottle of champagne at this point.”

She gives me a wry smile. “Dad would. Mom would wait until the escrow expires.”

“Ever the cautious woman.”

“For good reason,” Eva says, then quietly adds, “She didn’t want Dad to drive that night.”

My stomach sinks. We both know it’s true. Had they spent another night at the inn instead of taking their chances through the monstrous blizzard, maybe they’d still be with us today. But we cannot change the past. All we can do is live in the present while we secure our future.

I still can’t believe Sebastian, Riggs, and Waylan gave us so much money. I feel like I should be offended, but we need this. “Is it done?” I ask her after a few minutes.

“Yeah. It’s only a matter of time before we know how he feels about it.”

Three hours have gone by and we’ve yet to hear from Orson. We’ve got customers keeping us busy, though. Most of them arelocals along with a few out-of-towners who stuck around for the Christmas fair.

The pear tarts are selling like crazy. “We’re going to have to make more for tomorrow,” Eva warns me as she wraps the last one in a pretty red and green box for Mrs. Sandoval.

“Should we? I mean, the Christmas stuff is ready to roll out,” I reply from behind the till.

Mrs. Sandoval chimes in with a pleading smile. “You absolutely should, I love these tarts. And my nieces are coming over for the weekend. I know I’ll be back for another order.”

“Say no more, Mrs. Sandoval. We’ll whip up a few more just for you and your lovely nieces,” I reply.

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