Chapter 10 Lottie
LOTTIE
The giant circus tent we’re in carries a mix of dandelion tea and misplaced good intentions, with the faint scent of Easter lilies drifting in from the abandoned fairgrounds outside.
The afternoon sun filters through the striped canvas, casting everything in a warm glow that makes even the most questionable health food look almost appetizing. Almost.
Bunny Whitmore just wrapped up part one of her seminar on the evils of the pastries in my bakery—okay, so it wasn’t specifically about my pastries, but we all know my baked goods were just placed on the chopping block.
According to her, my entire career is basically legalized drug dealing, with sprinkles and a side of diabetes. If she’s right about sugar being toxic, I should be dead seventeen times over—which, come to think of it, might explain my talent for seeing the dead.
The sound of women chattering around the refreshment table provides a steady hum of background noise, punctuated by the occasional clink of teacups and the rustle of someone biting into what I can only assume is a dessert made from compressed hope and organic suffering.
I tiptoe over to Bunny at her chalkboard—my version of tiptoeing is something akin to the way Godzilla struts through Tokyo—still nursing both twins with the grace of someone who’s learned to multitask at a professional dairy cow level.
She’s writing something about mineral absorption rates in neat, precise handwriting that suggests she actually believes people will implement her suggestions.
And knowing the women I’m with, they so will. And so will I.
Lenny materializes beside me, and his ghostly mane catches the light. “She was always the sweetest of Richard’s children,” he rumbles and his voice carries the warm affection of someone remembering better times. “She defended me when others said I was too dangerous to keep around children.”
That sounds about right, I muse as I take in the woman up close. Bunny Whitmore looks as if she were assembled in a farmers’ market—everything about her screams “locally sourced” and “mindfully curated.”
Bunny glances up from her chalkboard and does a double take my way. Her eyes immediately zero in on my boobs and babes with the kind of genuine enthusiasm that suggests she’s about to launch into a lecture about the benefits of breast milk.
“Oh my goodness, you beautiful mama!” she exclaims, her voice carrying the reverent tone usually reserved for religious experiences or really good chocolate. “Look at you, feeding both babies simultaneously! I am absolutely in awe of your dedication to natural nourishment.”
“Nothing but the best for my sweet angels,” I say, leaving out the fact that I don’t look down on a single soul who feeds with formula. A mama has to do what a mama has to do.
She moves closer with the excitement of someone who’s found a kindred spirit in the art of infant feeding and quickly procures a chair for me to sit in and one for herself as well.
“I nursed all my children, too.” She’s quick to own up. “Even with my inverted nipples.”
“Inverted nipples?” I squeak as if I’ve just been given something else to worry about and have nightmares over. Because pregnancy and childbirth don’t come with enough potential complications—now I have to worry about my nipples staging some kind of reverse rebellion.
“Oh yes.” Bunny nods, as if we’re discussing the weather instead of anatomical peculiarities that sound like they belong in a medical textbook.
“Let me tell you, that was quite the adventure! I had to use a breast pump for the first three months just to coax those little guys out of hiding. It was like playing hide-and-seek with my own body parts.”
I stare at her, trying to process this information while simultaneously nursing twins who seem blissfully unaware that nipples can decide to take up residence inside instead of outside where they belong.
“By the time I was done, my nipples looked like they’d been through basic training,” Bunny continues with the matter-of-fact tone of someone who’s survived a war against her own anatomy.
“But it was worth every minute of mechanical coercion. Though I did develop a very complicated relationship with that breast pump. We went through couples therapy,” she adds with a wink.
“Couples therapy with a breast pump?” I ask, half-serious, because my life has officially entered a realm where this seems like a reasonable conversation topic.
“Well, not literally.” Bunny laughs. “But there were definitely trust issues. That machine and I had to learn to work together, you know? It’s all about finding the right suction level—too little and nothing happens, too much and you feel like you’re being attacked by a very determined vacuum cleaner. ”
I glance down at my own nipples, which are currently functioning exactly as advertised, and send up a silent prayer of gratitude to whatever heavenly department that handles mammary logistics.
I blink at her, trying to process this unexpected overshare. “Well, that’s very dedicated of you.”
“The benefits are just incredible,” she continues, warming to her new favorite topic. “Breast milk is liquid gold, pure medicine straight from nature’s pharmacy. Those boys are getting antibodies, enzymes, probiotics, and enough nutrients to build little Einstein brains.”
“Let’s hope they use those Einstein brains for good and not for plotting a hostile takeover of the world,” I reply, adjusting my hold on the squirming bundles of future mischief.
Lenny chuckles beside me. “She always did get excited about the healing arts, always with an herbal remedy in hand. The woman means well.”
I nod because I certainly agree with that.
“I’m Lottie Lemon,” I say with a smile, extending a free hand while somehow managing to keep both babies attached and functioning.
“We met briefly yesterday, but with so much happening, I don’t expect you to remember.
I’m so sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for your family. ”
Bunny’s expression shifts to something softer, tinged with genuine grief. “Thank you. That means more than you know. Duncan and I weren’t always close, but family is family, and losing him so violently...” She trails off, shaking her head.
“Speaking of family,” Lenny growls, his voice carrying years of fond memories mixed with a smidge of righteous anger. “Richard spoiled us all. Built me that magnificent pride where I could roam and hunt. Bunny used to sneak me extra treats when the zookeepers weren’t looking.”
I bite down on a smile as I look at him. Richard sounds like one very special man. Up until today, I didn’t know much about him other than he really loved chocolate, and well, now I know he loved lions just as much. And with good reason.
“Were you close with your father?” I ask Bunny, genuinely curious about the family dynamics that produced both a wellness guru and a chocolate empire mogul.
Bunny’s face lights up with the kind of joy reserved for favorite memories.
“Oh, my father was wonderful. He had this incredible gift for making everyone feel special. He loved exotic animals, rare plants, and unique experiences. When he brought an actual baby lion cub home, we called him Lenny. Most people thought my father was certifiable, but Dad saw the beauty in having something magnificent and wild in our lives.”
“Duncan inherited Richard’s business sense but not his spirit,” Lenny adds with a low rumble that suggests he has strong opinions about the deceased. “Richard gave from the heart. Duncan calculated every gift, every gesture from his bottom line.”
Bunny sighs hard. “Dad built the chocolate empire for all of us,” she continues.
“He wanted each of his children to have something meaningful to pass on to the next generation. Duncan took it and ran with it, but sometimes I think he forgot that chocolate was supposed to bring joy, not just profit.”
“What do you mean by that?” I ask, sensing there’s more to this family story than surface-level business disagreements. “Was Duncan difficult to work with?”
Bunny’s expression grows more serious, and she glances around to make sure no one else is listening. “Duncan changed after Dad died. He became ruthless. He started cutting corners on ingredients, pressuring suppliers for cheaper rates, and firing long-term employees to boost profit margins.”
“Tell her about the factory workers,” Lenny growls as if beckoning Bunny to continue. “Duncan laid off half the staff right before Christmas three years ago. Richard would have been horrified.”
“He laid people off right before the holidays?” I press.
“Oh, it was worse than that,” Bunny says, her voice dropping. “These were people who’d worked for our family for decades. Some of them had been there since Dad started the company. Duncan called it ‘streamlining operations,’ but really he was just padding his own bank account.”
She pauses, clearly struggling with family loyalty versus honesty.
“And then there were the ingredient substitutions. Dad always insisted on the finest Belgian chocolate, pure vanilla extract, and real butter. Duncan started using artificial flavoring, cheaper chocolate blends, even some questionable preservatives that I’m pretty sure aren’t fit for human consumption. ”
“Did anyone confront him about these changes?” I ask.
“Oh, we tried,” Bunny sighs. “My brother Fairbanks and I both talked to him multiple times. Even some of the long-term business partners expressed concerns. But Duncan would just say we didn’t understand modern business practices, that sentiment doesn’t pay the bills.”
“He was burning bridges faster than a pyromaniac at a matchstick factory,” Lenny adds with obvious disgust. “Even had the nerve to cancel the annual company picnic because it was ‘an unnecessary expense.’”
I gasp. “The company picnic?”