Chapter 8 Ball of Stress
BALL OF STRESS
Ember
Sifting through boxes for a school project wasn’t how I wanted to spend my Saturday morning, but what was a girl to do?
My History teacher said we had to write about a family member we’d never met.
That sounded stupid, but when you were in the eighth grade, what else were you supposed to do but listen to what you were told?
I couldn’t tell my teacher to bite me because this project was lame, so here I was, digging through boxes.
Technically, I had met my Grandma, but she died when I was like two, so did it count? I was going with no, it didn’t count.
“What are ya doing up here, doll?” Grandpa Joe asked from the doorway. I couldn’t help but jump when he announced himself. For an old man, he sure was stealthy.
I turned and smiled. “I’m digging through boxes trying to find some stuff that belonged to Grandma for a school project.”
His eyes widened for a moment, and he nodded. “Well, what is the project for?”
I set the couple of photographs I’d found of her and Dad down so I could fully turn to talk to him.
Grandpa Joe valued eye contact and people who got straight to the point.
I’d spent a lot of time with him over the years, and I was starting to notice small habits I’d picked up—such as the eye contact and never beating around the bush, as he said.
Sitting on the dusty attic floor instead of asking for his help was probably also one of them. The stubbornness in this family was intense, I’d been told.
“We have to write an essay about a family member we have never met. The idea is to interview those close to them, find old stuff they owned, and compose a paper on what they were like, hobbies, their job, and whatever else we may find interesting.”
Grandpa smiled. “Is that the assignment word-for-word, Ember Rae?”
I nodded. It was, and I tried not to roll my eyes at the fact that he found me so predictable.
“Come on, doll,” he said as he started back down the stairs.
I grabbed the photos I’d found and sprinted after him. “Do you have stuff not in the attic?” I asked as he led me to his room.
Grandma had been gone a long time, so I assumed Grandpa had packed everything up already and tucked it away. When I’d asked Mom about the project, she told me it wasn’t normal to keep dead people’s things.
It was rare that I went into Grandpa’s room, but as he pushed open the door and wandered over to his wardrobe, I looked around.
It was still decorated the way it had been with Grandma was alive.
He said he saw no reason to change it—her taste was exquisite.
A deep part of me hoped I’d find a guy to love me that much.
To see no reason to change anything about our lives together, because everything we built side by side was already perfect the way it was. To hold onto some of my stuff just to keep me close when I was gone.
Grandpa opened his wardrobe and dug around the back before pulling out a small wooden box; tiny bees, flowers, and birds were carved around the piece, and it looked old. Way older than anything I’d found in the attic.
“What’s that?” I asked, curiosity clawing at the inside of my mind.
He chuckled as he sat on the edge of my bed.
“Come sit, Doll.” I plopped on the bed next to him, my hands sitting in my lap, fingers intertwined as I waited somewhat patiently for some information.
“This was your grandmother’s recipe box.
It has all her favorite recipes she’s made over the years, and even some she was given from her family.
If you dig through, some of the recipes have little pieces of her. ”
I stared up at my grandfather’s face—he looked so much more emotional than I’d ever seen him. My eyes dropped down to the box he was clutching in his palms.
“So, um, Grandpa?” I asked.
“Yeah, doll?” he returned, though his eyes didn’t leave the box.
“The project isn’t due for another week. Do you think we could go through the recipes together? Maybe we could make a couple? It would really help me get a better idea of who she was, and you’re the best person to sous-chef for me.”
Grandpa and I had been cooking together since I was old enough to step up on a step stool myself and knew fire was hot. He’d taught me everything he knew, but I felt as if this was important to him.
He nodded. “I’d love that, doll. Let’s start with her cinnamon roll recipe. It was perfect. One of her favorites.”
I’d woken up sore as fuck and had never felt better about it.
I genuinely didn’t even recognize myself in the mirror this morning.
The woman looking back was fiery and spirited in a way I’d never felt before.
Running through the woods and fucking a stranger had genuinely made me feel more free than anything ever had before.
I’d gotten home last night and rinsed off in the shower before sitting down and taking a long bubble bath, so while I was sore this morning, I was thankful I’d soaked before hopping into bed last night.
My coffee had just finished brewing when my phone started vibrating. I glanced down, confused to see it was my accountant calling me. I picked it up, clicking it on speaker phone while I dished CC out his food.
“Hello?”
“Good morning, is this Ms. Brady speaking?” a feminine voice asked through the phone.
“It is, yes. Is everything okay?” I couldn’t imagine why my accountant would be calling me this early in the morning. We really only chatted when I needed to get my tax paperwork together, or when I wanted to upgrade something in Buns of Delight, and I needed to ensure the funds were good.
“Yes, I just spoke with Pam. She works in the fraudulent charges department of your bank, and I was calling because they’ve noticed some odd charges on your account that they wanted to confirm with us before moving forward.
” My heart rate sped up as the world started spinning slightly off kilter.
My first worry was that this damn sex app had hacked my card and stolen my money, only they didn’t have my card info.
Then she started rambling off about how someone was trying to open up a new credit card in my name, and they’d shut that down, so they were applying for a loan now?
By the end of the call, all my accounts were frozen while they did a deep dive into what was going on.
I hung up the phone, trying not to panic or worry.
I wasn’t sure what half the shit she said meant.
It almost sounded as if she was saying someone was trying to steal my identity, and I just didn’t understand one bit how that had happened or was happening at this moment.
I forced myself through the motions of getting ready for the day, guzzling more coffee than was probably healthy at this point, but fuck it.
Two hours into my morning—making fresh bread, bagels, the works—my phone started ringing again. Only this time it was one of my delivery guys. I let out a deep breath and tried to sound like my normal chipper self.
“Good morning, Matt, what’s up?” I asked.
“Hey Ember, I’m sorry to call so early, but I figured with the bakery and all that you’d be used to the early calls,” Matt said, his voice sounding a bit off from his normal cheery tone.
“It’s fine, Matt, don’t worry about it. Is everything okay?” I tried not to sound impatient, but it had already been a fucking morning, and my tolerance was feeling a bit low.
“Yeah…well, no actually. I, uh, went to charge you for this afternoon’s delivery, and it didn’t go through. So I was just wondering if there were any issues or…” his voice trailed off, and I leaned against the counter, setting my phone down and letting out a deep and slow breath.
“Yeah, Matt, I’m sorry. The bank called me earlier, and they were having some issues with my accounts, so it’s locked down.
I just didn’t think about it affecting my business account too.
” I stared at the floor beneath my feet.
The dark wood I’d spent hours staining to match the natural wood of the walls, to complement the exposed brick of the building.
The blood, sweat, and tears I’d put into this place.
This felt like someone was trying to attack it from the inside out. As if someone were trying to attack me.
I looked around at the dimly lit space. My potted plants and hanging ivy along the ceiling banisters.
The fairy lights I’d spent hours hanging just right.
The mismatched chairs and tables that I thought added a bit of whimsical vibes to the place.
Matt’s voice brought me back to the call I was on, and I tried to shake away the uneasy feeling in my gut.
“Ahh fucking banks. I’m sorry Ember. Look, I’ll still bring by your delivery this afternoon.
We’ve been working together long enough that I know you’re good for it.
Just let me know when it’s fixed up and I’ll run the invoice.
” I found myself nodding as I blinked back tears that were determined to form in my eyes.
“Thank you, Matt. I’ll see you later,” I said through thick emotions. We hung up after saying our goodbyes, and I lowered myself to the ground and allowed myself two solid minutes to cry.
Two minutes, and then I had a bakery to open and a business to run.
The day had flown by in a whirlwind. Matt, good on his word, had delivered my basic ingredients for the week.
I ordered flour, sugar, coffee beans, and so on from him, while I purchased other stuff—peppers, berries, cream cheese, and so on—as locally as possible at the farmers’ markets.
Customers liked knowing things were local and in season when they were eating it.
The whole farm-to-table aspect made me more appealing.
I was doing my best during my slow moments throughout the day to call my bank and find out what the fuck was going on.
My personal account being frozen? Infuriating but manageable for a bit.
My business account? I think the fuck not.