28. The Rally #3
After that, the night blurred into a whirl of movement.
She helped refill trays. She hugged people. She watched as numbers on the little whiteboard behind the counter climbed higher and higher, the total donations updated every thirty minutes by Steph.
Ten thousand. Twenty.
Thirty.
At one point, Mrs. Cartwright marched back from a side table with a look of pure satisfaction.
“We have three pledges of five thousand each,” she announced. “And Mr. Franklin just donated ten. He says he ‘owes Evie and Gracie for thirty years of birthday cakes.’”
Jenna swayed. “That’s—”
“That’s exactly what you think it is,” Mrs. Cartwright said briskly. “Now go drink some water before you faint on the donation box and scare the Methodists.”
By the time the night wound down, the place looked like the aftermath of a good party. Empty plates, half-melted ice in the coolers, a stray balloon bobbing lazily against the ceiling.
Emmie’s hair was escaping her ponytail, her cheeks flushed. She stood behind the counter with a stack of forms and envelopes.
“Final tally?” Jenna asked, her voice hoarse.
Emmie grinned, wide and wild. “Between cash, checks, online donations, and pledges? Just over ninety-five.”
Jenna blinked hard. “Ninety-five… thousand?”
“Ninety-five thousand,” Emmie confirmed. “I triple-checked. Twice. Mrs. Cartwright watched, and she’s basically a human adding machine.”
Shock settled in Jenna.
“That could cover everything. Buyout. Legal fees. If we play our cards right.”
Emmie nodded, eyes bright. “We can actually make choices now, without panic. Not react. Plan.” Jenna let out a shaky laugh and covered her mouth with her hand.
Ninety-five thousand dollars. In one night.
From the people who’d eaten their cupcakes and sat at their tables and apparently decided that was worth paying forward.
She felt Cole’s gaze on her and turned.
He stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, shirt sleeves rolled. When their eyes met, his mouth curved.
“Not bad for a surprise party, huh?” he said quietly.
She walked over, carried more by momentum than intention. “You did this,” she said. “You and Emmie and half the town.”
“We did this,” he corrected. “They did this. Grace did this. Every birthday cake, funeral cookie, and cinnamon roll to celebrate a soccer win did this. We just gave them a time and a place to show up.”
She looked around at the emptying bakery, at the little donation box still half-full of crumpled bills and folded envelopes, at the posters on the wall and the string lights in the window.
“It’s not the twenty-five percent,” she said softly.
“No,” he agreed. “It’s not.”
“We still have to convince a judge to recognize the renovations. To credit the work. To reduce his cut.”
“We do,” he said. “This didn’t make the problem go away.”
Her chest tightened. “Then why does it feel like it did?”
“Because for the first time since this started, it’s not just you and Emmie standing in a kitchen with an envelope,” he said. “It’s you, Emmie, and a town full of people who just proved they’re willing to stand between you and him.”
Something in her loosened. Tears burned hot at the back of her eyes. “Hey,” he said, softer. “Look at me.”
She did.
“I know you don’t trust miracles, but this isn’t one. It’s work. It’s people. It’s strategy. But it’s also . . . momentum. Judges like to see that. So do lawyers. So do exhausted bakery owners who need a reason to keep going.”
“You always do this,” she said, her voice thick. “You always make me believe this is . . . survivable.”
“Good, because it is.”
She shook her head, half-laughing, half-crying. “You’re the best stress reliever ever.”
“Careful,” he murmured, voice low. “I can think of a few other ways to handle your stress.” She bumped her shoulder against his, heat blooming in her cheeks at the implication.
Around them, the last of the volunteer crew started stacking chairs and clearing tables. Emmie darted by, wrapped Jenna in a quick hug, and whispered, “We did it,” into her ear before disappearing again to argue with Mr. Delaney about whether the history boards could stay up permanently.
Jenna watched her go, this girl who had lost so much and still somehow found the energy to wage war in glitter pens and poster boards, and felt a swell of fierce love.
They hadn’t won. Not yet.
There were still hearings ahead, motions to file, numbers to argue over. There was still a man out there who thought he could put a price tag on her sister’s life and name it “fair.”
But tonight, standing in the warm, exhausted heart of The Blue Cypress, with ninety-five thousand dollars in pledges, crumbs on the floor, and the echo of laughter still hanging in the air, Jenna didn’t feel defeated.
She felt backed. She felt seen. She felt, for the first time since the knock on the door, like the story might not end with them losing everything.
“We’re not done,” she said, more to herself than to him.
“No,” Cole agreed. “We’re just getting started.”
And for once, the idea of starting again didn’t feel like punishment. It felt like a fight she might actually be able to win.