Page 119 of Working for the Mob

I hung my head. Lucy had it wrong. She still didn’t know and I wasn’t sure if I could tell her. The words were still difficult to say. My chest wanted to explode. How could I explain to her that I just wasn’t good enough?

Everything that I’d accomplished since I got to Lannington was in vain. It didn’t make a difference what I’d done for the café, what I'd done for the town. It was all worthless. Just like me.

And Art knew it. That’s why he broke up with me. I would never be good enough for him. He ran East Lannington. Art didn’t want to be married to a woman with ambition. He didn’t want a bookkeeper or café manager. He needed someone to stay at home and run his house.

“Lucy, Art’s not coming,” I finally said. Admitting it out loud felt like a dam that had been holding back a tidal wave, finally giving in and breaking.

“What do you mean? Did something happen to him?” she asked, but I merely shook my head while tears welled in my eyes. After a couple beats of silence, Lucy spoke again. “Genevieve?”

I didn’t respond. The wound was still too fresh. Too new.

“Is this because Art didn’t like his eclair I baked for him this morning?” Lucy asked, oblivious as always. “If you give me a heads-up next time, I’ll fill it with arsenic?”

I couldn’t believe it. Did Lucy just use sarcasm? “What?”

“He broke up with you, didn’t he? Nothing else in this town could knock all the fight out of you,” she said. “And after we get out of here, I’m going to make him wish he’d never laid eyes on you.”

But I didn’t want to talk about Art. Not even tied up here at the Valuncias’. I wasn’t ready to discuss feelings that I hadn’t even had time to process yet. My silence said enough and Lucy took the opening to continue.

“When you came to East Lannington, even though you were homeless, jobless, and had no love life, do you remember what you did?” Lucy asked.

“I got my purse stolen and went to work for the mob?”

“You took care of me. Just like you always have,” she said, and leaned back and rubbed her head against my hair. “And now I’m going to take care of you.”

And that’s when I broke. The worry in Lucy’s voice accentuated the finality of the breakup and the realization that I couldn’t continue the life I had spent the last few months building. The life where I thought that I played a part in a successful business. The life that I was proud of.

Lucy remained leaning back against me, and just her presence was worth more than I could ever tell her. I don’t know how long we sat like that together while tears, mingled with the blood on my cheek, dripped down to stain my dress.

Just a few hours ago, I had my whole life planned out. I would eventually return to running the books of East Lannington while Lucy worked under Jamie in the café. I would marry Art and maybe we would have babies––if I wanted them.

But that future was no longer a possibility. There was only one option left for me.

Eventually, I calmed down enough to choke back a sob.

“Goodness, I hope I get my hat back,” Lucy said. “They knocked it off in the parking lot.”

I couldn’t stop the burst of air from shooting through my lips. Only Lucy would be concerned about her hat at a time like this.

“You better?” Lucy asked, a couple moments later.

“I just … can’t help but feel like I failed,” I said.

She was silent for a moment. I could tell she was taking a second before answering.

“I wouldn’t be here without you, Genny. You know that, right?” she asked me.

“What?”

“I wouldn’t be a baker.”

“I didn’t teach you anything, Luce. That was all Mom and God-given talent,” I said, but she brushed my words aside.

“I know. You don’t know the first thing about baking. But that’s not what I mean. Genny, you’ve been taking care of me since we were kids. You got us this house, got us these jobs, put me in the bakery. And you believed in me. When you got here, I was a wreck. My entire self-worth hinged on the comments of some grunt-level mob-scum. But you changed that.

“You gave me responsibility. You gave me the freedom to experiment with different baked goods, different ingredients, and look at me now: I’m basically running a bakery.”

“You earned that,” I cut in. “People are coming from Turnersville just to try your scones.”

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