8. The Next Steps
The Next Steps
The estimate came in lower than she expected.
Jenna sat at the kitchen table, coffee cooling beside her as she scrolled through the document Cole had sent over.
Labor, materials, contingencies. Neat, logical, and surprisingly manageable.
She couldn’t tell if it was his supplier discounts or the sympathy rate she’d said she didn’t want, but either way, she could make it work.
If she tightened her budget and staggered the renovation phases, she’d have enough left for a couple of used cars.
She was jotting notes in the margin when Emmie’s voice came from the hallway. “Hey, my friend bailed. Said her mom doesn’t want her driving out here anymore.”
Jenna looked up from her laptop. “That’s two weeks in a row.”
Emmie dropped into a chair. “Yeah, well, I feel like a little kid begging people to take me places.”
“You are a kid,” Jenna said gently. “You’re supposed to need rides.”
Emmie scowled. “I’m sixteen. I’m supposed to have freedom. I hate having to ask anyone for anything.”
Jenna nodded slowly. “Then we’ll fix that.”
Grace and Manny had loved this girl with their whole hearts. They’d built their world around Emmie. Grace used to say that Emmie was the best thing she and Manny ever made together. And now all of that love, all that steady, ordinary magic, was gone before the girl was even grown.
Jenna felt it like a bruise every time she looked at her niece, this impossible weight for someone so young. Sixteen shouldn’t look like survival.
She thought of her own parents then, of the noisy kitchen table back home and how they’d shown up for every recital, every heartbreak, every foolish teenage plan.
At thirty-four, she’d already lost two siblings, but at least she’d had her parents her whole life.
Emmie never would. That truth hollowed her chest.
The car wasn’t just transportation; it was the smallest of substitutions for the world Grace and Manny would have given their daughter.
Emmie frowned. “Fix what?”
But Jenna was already writing a note in her planner: Arrange rental return. Call about used cars.
* * *
The next afternoon, the driveway filled with the sound of engines.
Two new-to-them Honda Civics rolled in behind the rental car, the newer one a sleek black model with a sport package, the other an older silver one with sun-faded paint.
A pair of salesmen climbed out, handing Jenna a set of keys while taking the rental paperwork from her.
Within minutes, they were gone. The driveway was suddenly quieter but heavy with the smell of warm asphalt and freshly cleaned interiors.
Emmie stood on the porch steps, blinking in disbelief. “What is this?”
Jenna smiled. “Problem solved.”
Emmie’s eyes darted between the two cars. “You bought two?”
Jenna nodded, tossing one set of keys in her hand.
Emmie grinned and started toward the silver one. “This is perfect!”
Jenna laughed, shaking her head. “That one’s mine.”
Emmie hit the key fob, and the black Civic chirped to life behind them.
She stopped mid-step. “Wait. That one?”
“That one,” Jenna confirmed. “Seems fair. I don’t have any teenage friends to impress, and I could use the exercise, so I’ll probably be on that bike anyway. You, on the other hand . . .”
She thought of the bike as she spoke, the one she’d picked up at Tarpon Tom’s Outdoor Adventure Gear a few days ago, after she swung by Renardo’s Family Produce across the street.
She’d asked Tom to install a rack on the back, something sturdy enough to hold groceries.
She liked riding it, the easy rhythm of pedaling through warm air, but it wasn’t practical for everything.
She’d thought of Brooks the day she bought it, how easily they’d slipped through town on two wheels, laughing down Pinellas Trail, sunburned and unbothered.
They’d ridden those bikes for miles, from Tarpon all the way to St. Pete.
Once, they’d made it thirty-six miles to Pass-a-Grille Beach and had to call home because they couldn’t move another inch.
Their dad had been furious, yelling about recklessness while they sat in the backseat, legs like Jell-O, biting back laughter the whole ride home.
The memory hit like sunshine through old glass, warm, a little painful, but still good.
Emmie turned in a slow circle, looking at the black Civic, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and joy. “You’re serious?”
“Absolutely serious. Take it before I change my mind.”
Emmie let out a half-laugh, half-sob and threw her arms around Jenna.
Then she ran for the driver’s seat, the door slamming shut as the engine purred to life.
The sound echoed down the quiet street—a bright, living noise that made the house feel less like a memory.
It felt like something shifted, small but real, in their relationship.
Like she had finally burrowed a small hole in the wall that Emmie had been building.
This. This was what Grace had loved about being a mom. The surprises. The tiny moments when you caught the light changing in your child’s eyes and knew they understood they were seen. Grace had been so good at it, at the noticing. At the loving.
Jenna blinked against the sting in her throat. All Emmie had wanted was a car, but that wasn’t what Grace and Manny would’ve given her. They’d have given her the whole world: safety, sweetness, belonging. Jenna’s gift was just a shadow of that, a clumsy attempt to keep the love going.
She hoped it was enough for now.
Jenna stood on the porch, smiling as the car rolled toward the corner. For the first time, it didn’t feel like replacing what was lost. It felt like beginning again.
* * *
That night, the two of them sat at the kitchen table with Cole’s estimate spread between them.
“This one,” Emmie said, pointing to the line item for painting the bakery walls, “new paint? Can we keep the same color? Mom picked it with Grandma Hart. It’s supposed to be cheerful.”
Jenna smiled. “New paint, same color. Got it.”
Emmie slid her finger down the page. “But the ceiling fans are ugly.”
Jenna laughed softly. “Completely agree.”
They worked through each section together, what to restore, what to refresh, and finally, what to let go. It was slow, deliberate, but it felt good. It felt like progress.
When they finished, Jenna typed the revisions into an email and hit send. Her phone buzzed a few minutes later.
COLE: Got it. You weren’t kidding about the details. I’ll adjust and send a start date tomorrow.
Jenna smiled, setting her phone aside.
Emmie sat next to her, scrolling through photos of her new car. “Is that the guy?” she asked without looking up from her phone.
Jenna blinked. “What guy?”
“The contractor guy. The only guy who has been texting you all night,” Emmie said, grinning. “You’re smiling at your phone like you just got asked to prom.”
Jenna snorted, trying for casual. “He’s sending estimates, not poetry.”
“Uh-huh.”
Jenna shook her head, pretending to focus on her planner. “He’s professional. I’m professional. It’s professional.” She wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince Emmie or herself.
Emmie laughed. “If you say so.”
But when the laughter faded, Jenna’s cheeks still felt warm. Even a sixteen-year-old had picked up on it, that small, charged something she wasn’t ready to name. She could only pray Cole hadn’t. She must have looked ridiculous, smiling at her phone like that.
She exhaled, closing the planner with a soft thud. She had too much to do for this kind of nonsense.
* * *
The call with Hannah and Mark lasted less than half an hour.
Jenna sat at the kitchen table while their faces filled her laptop screen.
Neither of them looked particularly happy.
Hannah sat in the conference room while Mark appeared to be taking the call from his truck.
“You’re serious?” Mark asked.
Jenna nodded. “I’m serious.”
Hannah frowned. “I thought you were coming back.”
“So did I.”
That seemed to surprise them more than anything.
Jenna walked them through the dissolution plan, the sale of the company’s assets, and the severance packages she’d arranged for both of them. By the end, neither seemed worried about the money.
They seemed worried about her.
“What happened?” Hannah asked quietly.
Jenna looked toward the bakery through the kitchen window.
A month ago, she would’ve given the polished answer. Something vague and professional.
Instead, she shrugged.
“I think I got really good at staying busy.”
Neither of them spoke.
“The company was good. It gave me something to build. Something to focus on.”
“But?” Mark prompted.
Jenna glanced down the hallway toward Emmie’s room.
“But eventually the workday ends.”
The silence that followed was gentle. Just people who’d known her a long time.
Hannah folded her arms. “Do you think you should be making this decision so soon after losing someone?”
Jenna laughed softly. “I’ve heard you shouldn’t do that.”
“Maybe don’t dissolve a company, move states, and become a parent all at once,” Hannah suggested.
Mark nodded immediately. “That does sound like a lot.”
“It is,” Jenna confessed.
“So why do it?” Mark asked.
“I think that advice is for people trying to outrun grief.”
Neither of them interrupted.
She looked toward the hallway again. “This isn’t me running away.”
“Then what is it?” Hannah asked.
Jenna smiled. “It’s me staying.”
Nobody tried to talk her out of it.
When the call finally wound down, Mark pointed at the screen.
“You better visit.”
“I will,” Jenna laughed.
“Good.”
The screen went dark a few minutes later.
Jenna sat alone at the kitchen table for a moment.
She’d spent years building a business. It hadn’t occurred to her until now that she’d built relationships, too.
* * *
Emmie took the car out for a drive, too excited to let it sit in the driveway, and the quiet that settled over the house gave Jenna no more excuses to avoid Grace’s office.
She went in there, meaning to look for the title folder and insurance papers.
She didn’t mean to find the yearbooks, but as soon as she spotted them, her pulse quickened.
They were stacked on the bottom shelf, under old church directories and a binder labeled “Hellas—wholesale pricing.” Grace had kept everything. Jenna pulled out the one from Grace’s graduating year and carried it to the desk, dust motes lifting in the slanted afternoon light.
She hadn’t opened one of these in . . . what, fifteen years?
She flipped past the posed senior portraits, the too-dark eyeliner, the boys in oversized polos. Her face showed up on a spread about clubs—Yearbook Staff—there she was, younger, eyes bright with the kind of optimism that hadn’t met real loss yet.
She barely recognized herself. She kept turning.
Grace was in there twice as much as Jenna was, in the culinary program and veterinary science, and there was a photo of her holding a goat and laughing with her whole face. She looked for Manny in the FFA section but remembered that he had graduated before Grace.
They had such a tough time being away from each other that year. Grace had no idea how hard things would get just a few short years later. It shouldn’t have been this way.
The thought hit Jenna hard. Emmie should’ve had that same carefree senior year that ended with her two parents in the bleachers. Two people in the audience. A whole town that knew her last name. Instead, she had . . .her. One aunt, who was trying to figure out how to parent a teenager.
She blew out a breath and flipped to sports. And there he was.
Cole Bennett—Varsity Basketball.
Tall even then, shoulders narrower, arms all length. Grinning like he knew half the gym was watching him. Across the top of the page, in bold varsity font, someone had written Bennett’s Bloodbath, followed by a string of impressive stats.
Bloodbath, not massacre. Catchier.
The caption below mentioned he’d led the district that year. Of course he had. She turned the page and froze.
Someone, probably the AV club or the construction teacher, had put together a little feature on the new concession stand they’d built by the stadium. There were three photos of kids in safety glasses holding nail guns and levels.
In one of them, Cole was shirtless, sweat-slicked, hammer in hand, braces on his teeth, skinny as a rail.
Jenna snorted out a laugh before she could stop herself.
Nothing like the man who’d been in her sister’s bedroom yesterday. This kid was all angles and potential. The man now, he was . . . not that. Broader. Filled out. Solid in a way that made a person feel small standing near him.
She ran her thumb along the edge of the page, amused at the contrast. She’d taken that same construction class her senior year. She’d kept her shirt on, though. She wondered what the yearbook staff had been thinking, letting that photo through. Different times.
She glanced back at his picture in the senior section.
Graduated with honors.
She didn’t remember that part.
“Of course you did,” she murmured to the empty office. “Of course, you were good at everything.”
It shouldn’t have mattered; it was just a high school yearbook, but it made something inside her settle. This wasn’t some random contractor who wandered in with donuts. He’d been showing up, working hard, being steady . . . for decades.
Suddenly, yesterday made more sense.
And maybe it made her . . . flutter a tiny bit less ridiculous. Maybe.
She pulled out her phone and typed a message: Thank you for your kind words yesterday.
Her fingers hovered over the send button. It was innocent enough, right? But she knew it was too warm for the cool air of professionalism. She knew that from a decade of being cold.
She snorted. “Yeah,” she muttered, “I might as well type thank you for soaking my panties yesterday.”
Delete.
Instead, she wrote, The soffit looks worse than we thought. Let me know if you need dimensions on the bakery side.
“See?” she said to Biscuit. “All business.” He just yawned like he was over this entire back-and-forth.
She glared at him, annoyed. “Don’t judge me.” Then she shoved her phone in her pocket and slid the yearbook back onto the shelf. “See.”
The cat just blinked, unimpressed.
She leaned against the doorframe, exhaling slowly. “Professional,” she told herself, softer this time. “Professional, starting tomorrow.”