Hal
After all the paperwork had been signed, tickets purchased, and one private yacht rented, I managed to convince Sarah and Marla to leave their notes of resignation and bakery (cakery) keys with me last night.
I wasn’t sure what time Stella would get there, so I made sure I was at the bakery—still sounds better as a cakery—at five in the morning. Since it was boring as hell, I took the liberty of setting up my work laptop in Stella’s office and then spent the better part of three hours answering emails, going through files, and attending to phone messages. I approved funding for no less than six new startups, two massive loans for already operating, high-risk businesses and also agreed to lend three million dollars to save another business from bankruptcy. No bank was going to lend to them, so I guess I saved their bacon, which is kind of funny because that’s exactly what they’re in the business of. They’re pork farmers, and I’ve been promised a delicious pork-filled gift basket as early as next week. I can hardly wait.
So, if that’s not magic, I don’t know what is.
I don’t just muck fuck people’s businesses, or whatever it was Stella accused me of. If they are serious, I give them a chance, a second chance, a third chance, god, even a fourth. I do it happily because life is sometimes just one big pile of trash after another, and people need a break.
As soon as I hear Stella’s keys jingle in the lock, I snap my laptop close, race out of her office, and am there to greet her by the prep table as she walks back into the silent bakery.
She raises her nose, sniffs the air, and looks around, pivoting left and right. Her eyes narrow like a sleek, beautiful, stealthy lynx in the path of an injured hare. “Where are Sarah and Marla? Why isn’t anything baking yet? And why are you wearing that?”
By that, I suppose she means the pink apron with a very pretty pleated skirt, dancing cupcakes, and pink scalloped fabric ruffles all around the edges. I have it thrown over a faded-out football t-shirt and a pair of jeans.
“Well…” I nod at the prep table, where I’ve set the envelope with Stella’s name on it. “I’m sorry. They’ve decided to quit.”
“What?”
“Yeah, it was…I guess it was kind of my doing. I adopted them officially last night, as grandmothers. I booked them a yacht to see the Maldives, and I gave them each two million dollars. I thought that should cover them to buy whatever they see fit. They left on the red-eye flight this morning, and by now, maybe they’re even boarding their ship.”
Stella processes my words for all of six seconds. Then, the color rises from the neck of her usual white, oversized t-shirt. Her face turns scarlet, her eyes get wide and smoky, and her nostrils flare. “You!” She screams. She races around to the area where she keeps a bunch of cake liner things. They’re all silicone, thank god, because Stella picks up one after another and hurls them at me. “You’re trying to ruin me!”
I dodge the objects easily. Stella never was as athletic as her brother, thankfully. Sam has a good arm, and well, let me tell you, I’ve been beaned with projectiles from his hands more than a few times.
Stella goes for the wooden spoons and the spatulas next. “You asshole, wizard, mother flucker! How could you even make that happen?! How could you make all that come about in just one night?”
Thwamp. A spatula hits me straight in the forehead—the plastic part, not the wooden handle. Lucky me. But still, I reach up and rub at the stinging spot anyway. “Lots of money can make all your dreams and desires come true.”
“Uh-huh,” Stella grunts in a scream. “And Amelia? Did you get to her too?”
“I might have paid off all her student loans and given her money for this coming year, so she’s sad she has to tell you that she’s going to concentrate on school now instead of working here.”
“Wizard spell caster! Supreme asshole! MONSTERRRRRRRR!” Her screams rebound through the back area, bouncing off ovens, stainless tables, the sink bay, all the dishes, the big fridges, and the freezer.
She marches over to a metal stand rack on the far side of the room that I hadn’t even noticed. When she produces a massive, heavy-looking pot that probably weighs forty pounds empty and dry, I start to get a little worried. And when Stella hefts it above her head, I’m impressed, but I take a cautious step back.
“I also lined up your date for this evening,” I add.
That was unwise, and Stella charges, the big cast iron pot raised above her head. I flinch. When she’s a foot away, I throw my hands up over my head and wait.