Page 8 of A Very Daddy Christmas

I hear the bakery door unlock and open. “Hey, sis. What’s up? How’d the fair go?” Eva greets me.

I look at my sister and feel my heart breaking all over again. Tears burst from my eyes as I finally cave in. I throw my arms around her and let everything out. Eva takes me inside and locks the door.

She makes tea for both of us, adding a plate of pain au chocolat buns from today’s batch. I’m hungry and tired and in desperate need of comfort. The warm food and drink does the trick as I tell Eva about Orson’s visit and Clause 8B. I watch the light fade from her eyes as she listens, quiet and demure, carefully analyzing the situation.

I’m usually the first to focus on the solution instead of the problem, but tonight it’s Eva’s turn. She’s the older sister, making her in charge by default. But in the greater scheme of things, she also has a lot more to lose. Eva and Carl work hard for everything they’ve got, yet they’ve been both blessed and held back by the bakery.

At least I’m single. I crave true love and a family, but I can handle myself. If we get kicked out, if this nightmare does become a harsh reality, it’ll be easier for me than for Eva. Surprisingly, my sister seems eerily calm once I finish telling her about Orson’s decision.

“He said we have until December thirty-first, the prick,” I mumble and take another sip of tea before I devour a second bun.

“And he only just found Clause 8B now,” Eva replies.

“Or yesterday, or recently, anyway. It’s an old and long contract. He probably figured it was just a standard document.”

“Still, he chose today of all days to tell you. Not me. You.”

I give her a confused look. “What’s that supposed to mean.”

“I’m the one named as Mom and Dad’s heir in the contract annex,” Eva says. “Yet Orson came to you with his decision. I wonder why.”

“He probably figured you’d tear him a new one,” I say with a half-grin.

“Or he’s just looking to deliver as much emotional damage as possible,” she retorts. “Either way, you’re right, it’s a dick move. There must be something we can do.”

“Hire a lawyer?”

“Not sure we can afford one. When’s the last time you read our contract?” Eva asks. I take the copy out of my bag and hand it over. “Listen, I’ll give it a proper read tonight. Go to bed, Cora. You’ve got a long week ahead of you. I’ll handle this.”

A fresh round of tears threatens to break me again. “How? Eva, we’re getting evicted.”

“And we have until New Year’s Eve to come up with a solution.”

“How are you so calm?” I whisper.

“I have to be. I have a family to take care of. And, by the looks of things, a sister to keep off the streets, as well,” she replies with a light chuckle.

I’m genuinely in awe of her. She’s only turning thirty in mid-December, yet she has already built a decent life for herself. She struggles much like the rest of us, but Eva holds her own. My nieces are sweet and smart and cunning as hell. Her husband is a good and kind man. And Eva is business-minded, savvy, and resourceful.

We’ve had this place all to ourselves since our parents died ten years ago. I was only fifteen at the time and felt completely lost, but Eva made sure I stayed in school. She sent me to Paris as soon as I graduated, making sure I followed in our father’s footsteps because she understood my passion, my gift, just like Daddy did.

I can never repay her for all she’s done for me. I wish I could give her everything, but with how today unfolded… my everything might not be enough and it tears me apart on the inside. I’m like a boat without a sail, staring at the open water and wondering where it’s going to take me.

By morning, I feel worse.

Scared. Anxious. Restless. I drag myself out of bed and into a hot shower. I take a minute to gather myself before slipping into some jeans and a branded Levine Bakery sweater so I can at least look presentable downstairs. I hear the espresso machine grumbling, the milk steamer frothing furiously. We’re not open for business yet, so it’s just Eva making her first cappuccino for the day.

I’m terrified of losing this place, of not finding a solution to our problem. I’m terrified of having to look Eva in the eyes as she tells me we don’t have a better option, that we only have until Decemberthirty-first, just like Orson St. James said.

“Morning,” I manage as I finally make it downstairs.

The bakery lights are on. The tables are all set. We need napkins and a refill on the sugar packets, but the pastries are already baking—the smell flooding the entire room and filling my soul with a familiar joy.

“Good morning, sunshine!” Eva says just as she’s done pouring a double shot of espresso into her frothy milk. Her smile says sunshine, but her eyes say she’s ready for war. “How’d you sleep?”

“How do you think I slept?” I grumble.

Eva brews me a coffee while I get the rest of the stuff ready before we open the bakery for business.

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