27. The Secret Society #2
“She’s carrying the legal fight,” he said slowly. “The phone calls, the meetings, the documents. If we pile a giant public event on top of that, she’ll short-circuit.”
He’d watched her spend the last three weeks hauling herself to lawyer meetings, sorting invoices, tracking contributions, doing everything she could to stay one step ahead of a man who’d vanished months ago and then come back wanting a payout.
On top of that, she was trying to run a bakery she’d never actually run before, at least not on her own.
Growing up around the place wasn’t the same as being the person responsible for payroll, inventory, broken equipment, employee schedules, and every problem that landed on the counter looking for an answer.
Emmie nodded. “But if we ask for forgiveness instead of permission . . .”
“. . . she still might murder us,” he said.
“Probably,” Emmie said. “But at least she’ll be murdering us in a building she still owns.”
He couldn’t help but laugh.
“Okay,” he said, “secret society it is.”
Her eyes lit up. “Ooh. I like that. The Blue Cypress Secret Society. Membership: old people with money and zero boundaries.”
“And two extremely stressed co-conspirators,” he added.
“Us,” she agreed.
They spent the next hour making a list that grew longer and more hopeful with every line.
Mrs. Cartwright – Rotary / Women’s Club crossover
Mr. Delaney – Historical Society president, lover of old buildings and bylaws
Every former employee they could track down
Vendors who owed Jenna favors
The church youth group that always ordered hot chocolate and cinnamon rolls at Christmas
The soccer moms who treated Saturday mornings here like church
The nurses from the hospital who came on their break for sugar and coffee
Emmie texted three people while they sat there and got three enthusiastic yeses in return. “This town is nosy,” she said. “And apparently extremely available.”
“Perfect,” Cole replied. “Nosy people with free time are the backbone of any successful movement.”
They settled on a date: next Friday. Short turnaround, but they wanted to move fast—before Troy filed anything else, before people got distracted, before Jenna could talk herself out of a miracle.
By the time they packed up, Cole’s wrist ached from writing.
He gathered the papers into a stack and slid them into a folder. Emmie hopped down from the booth, grabbing her backpack.
“One rule,” she said, suddenly serious. “She doesn’t find out because one of your guys slips up and calls it ‘Cole’s rally.’ You’re not allowed to call it that. Ever.”
“God, no,” he said, horrified. “This is your mother’s bakery. It’s your future. I’m just the contractor idiot who knows how to set up folding tables.”
“And charm old ladies,” Emmie added.
“I do not—”
“You absolutely do,” she said. “Mrs. Cartwright calls you ‘that nice, tall boy with the arms.’”
He choked. “She said what?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Emmie said breezily. “Just show up, lift anything heavy, be emotionally supportive, and try to look as hopelessly in love with my aunt as possible. Optics matter.”
His brain stuttered.
Emmie smirked, shouldered her bag, and headed for the door.
“We’ll talk flyers tomorrow,” she called over her shoulder. “Secret society adjourned.”
He slipped out after her, pulling the door closed behind him. Emmie turned the key in the lock and gave him a quick, triumphant nod, like they’d just pulled off a heist together.
They needed to come up with money. They needed legal arguments. They needed precedent.
And for the first time since that yellow envelope had landed on the table, he also felt something else.
They had a plan.
They had a town.
And they had a secret society.
Troy Bailey had no idea what was coming.
* * *
A week later, Jenna found out about the rally the way everyone in town found out about everything: On Facebook.
She was in line at the grocery store with a cart full of things she absolutely did not remember running out of: coffee filters, paper towels, dish soap, and the specific brand of cereal Emmie insisted on, while scrolling her phone, and the man in front of her argued with the cashier about a BOGO that expired three months ago.
The post jumped out at her between a recipe for zucchini bread and a “lost cat / possibly raccoon?” photo.
SAVE THE BLUE CYPRESS – COMMUNITY RALLY THIS FRIDAY!
Help us keep a local, female-owned, historically significant bakery in the hands of the family who built it. Live music, auction, raffles, and all the sugar your heart can handle.
Underneath the text was a picture of the bakery, taken from across Athens. Twilight had turned the sign a soft blue, and the front windows glowed like something out of a postcard.
Jenna blinked.
Then scrolled back up, staring.
There were already two hundred likes. Thirty-eight shares. And so many comments pouring in.
“We’ll be there!”
“Tell me where to donate!”
“Not on my watch, y’all.”
“Grace would be so proud of you ladies.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
“Ma’am?” the cashier said.
She jumped. “Sorry?”
“You’re up.”
She moved through the motions of paying, loading her bags into the cart, and walking out into the Florida heat, all while her brain buzzed.
Who had posted it?
The original came from the “Friends of Historic Tarpon Springs” group. The event description was even more detailed:
Join us Friday night at The Blue Cypress to help keep this beloved bakery and the Hart family home in local hands.
Proceeds from the rally will go toward legal and settlement costs needed to prevent an absentee spouse from forcing a sale.
This place has fed our teams, our families, our souls. It’s time we feed it back.
There was a line she recognized almost immediately.
Female-owned, historically significant.
That had attorney-writing all over it. Or Emmie quoting the attorney.
Jenna shoved her phone into her pocket before she could read the rest, her throat already tight. She drove to the bakery on autopilot, the tires picking up every bump.
When she pushed through the front door, the bell chimed cheerfully, at odds with the little storm brewing in her chest.
The late-morning rush had passed. Three tables were occupied by two older men arguing over the sports page in the corner, a young mom with a stroller, and a college kid with headphones and a laptop.
Behind the counter, Steph was frosting cupcakes with alarming speed while Nicole worked the espresso machine.
Jenna beelined for the staff door. “Hey, boss,” Nicole said. “You see—”
“Where’s Emmie?” she asked.
Nicole blinked. “Uh . . . in the office, I think. Printing stuff.”
“Of course she is,” Jenna muttered, pushing through to the back.
The office door was half-closed. Through the crack, she saw the glow of the computer screen and heard the whir of the ancient printer that Grace had always sworn she’d replace and never did.
Emmie sat cross-legged on the rolling chair, feeding bright blue cardstock into the tray in batches. A stack of freshly printed flyers covered the desk, each one featuring the same photo Jenna had just seen online.
SAVE THE BLUE CYPRESS. KEEP IT LOCAL. KEEP IT HERS.
Jenna took in the whole scene in three seconds flat: the flyers, the smug little flourish of the fonts, the tiny watermark at the bottom that read “Tarpon Springs Historical Society” like some sort of stamp of approval.
“Emmeline Cruz!”
Emmie jumped so hard that a flyer fluttered to the floor. “Jesus, Aunt Jenna, you can’t just use my government name like that. Are we in trouble with the IRS?”
“What is this?” Jenna demanded, holding up one of the flyers.
Emmie’s eyes flicked from the paper to Jenna’s face. “Um . . . art?”
“Try again.”
“A . . . community engagement initiative?”
“Emmie.”
She sighed, dropping the act. “Okay, fine. It’s a rally.”
“I saw it online. The event. The post. The comments. Apparently, I’m throwing a huge Save the Bakery fundraiser on Friday night. Who knew?”
“We are throwing a huge Save the Bakery fundraiser on Friday, and you know now,” Emmie said. “So that’s good. Surprise!”
“That’s not—” Jenna pinched the bridge of her nose. “Did you seriously organize an entire event without telling me?”
Emmie raised a brow. “Did you seriously think I was going to sit quietly and let that man steamroll us without weaponizing the Rotary Club?”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s a great answer,” Emmie replied.
Jenna opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “You can’t just—”
“Actually, I can,” Emmie said. “And I did. You’re welcome.”
Jenna stared at her. “This is a lot, Em,” she said finally. “A big public thing like this, on top of everything else—”
“You are handling lawyers,” Emmie cut in. “And probate. And the terrifying stack of legalese that makes my eyes bleed. I am handling this.”
Jenna’s chest tightened. “It’s my name on the documents.”
“And mine. Did you forget that? And it’s my mother’s face on the wall,” Emmie shot back. That landed.
Jenna sagged against the doorframe, the fight leaking out of her for half a second.
“I just . . .” She scrubbed a hand over her face. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to fix this.”
“Oh, good,” Emmie said, “because we’re way past ‘feel like.’ I have fully committed to the bit.”
Jenna blinked. “The . . . bit?”
“The plan,” Emmie translated. “The movement. The Secret Society of Not Letting Troy Bailey Win.”
“The what?”
Emmie waved a hand. “Working title.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Jenna asked warily. “‘We’re handling this’—who exactly is that?”
“Me,” Emmie said. “The staff. Half the women’s club. Some old guys from Rotary. The historical society. The Tarpon Avenue gossips. Oh, and your boyfriend-contractor-hybrid person who definitely isn’t your boyfriend but also definitely is.”
“Okay,” Jenna said quickly, ears heating. “We don’t need labels right now.”
“I mean, I’m fine just calling him ‘our muscle,’” Emmie mused. “He’s been very useful with tables and folding chairs and brainstorming.”
“Cole is involved in this?” Jenna asked.