27. The Secret Society #3
“Um, yeah,” Emmie said. “Who do you think made that fancy little contribution breakdown chart thing? I failed algebra. I’m good, but I’m not that good.”
Jenna’s stomach swooped. “You told him about the numbers?”
“I told him what the lawyer had said, about the twenty-five percent. About the renovations counting as contributions. About how all the work he and his crew did isn’t just ‘pretty’—it’s leverage.
You should’ve seen his face when I told him.
He looked like someone had just handed him a sledgehammer and said ‘have at it.’”
Jenna pressed her fingers to her temples. “You went behind my back.”
Emmie crossed her arms. “I went around your meltdown.”
That stung.
“I am not melting down,” Jenna said, even though she absolutely was.
“You are trying not to melt down,” Emmie corrected. “Which is admirable and very adult and exactly why you are not allowed to also be in charge of rally logistics. You’d spend the whole time worrying about the health department or whether there are enough trash cans.”
“Those things matter,” Jenna said weakly.
“And they’re handled. Mrs. Cartwright has cornered half the church ladies into bringing side dishes.
The Rotary guys are setting up a dunk tank because apparently someone had one in their yard ‘just in case.’ The historical society is bringing display boards.
Nicole’s in charge of a special dessert menu.
Steph threatened me with bodily harm if I tried to frost cupcakes myself when I get stressed.
I busted a piping bag with my stress rage, so she’s lead sugar wrangler. ”
“She said that?” Jenna asked, half-horrified, half-amused.
“Her exact words were, ‘You can plan, Teen Queen, but if you touch my piping bags again, I will bury you in buttercream.’”
“Sounds like Steph.”
“The point is,” Emmie said, “you are handling the serious, soul-sucking, grown-up nonsense. We are handling the fun stuff. The money stuff. The neighborhood stuff. You keep us from going to jail. We keep you from collapsing in a puddle of existential dread. It’s called division of labor.”
Jenna stared at her niece, at the determined set of her jaw.
“This is going to put us on display,” Jenna said quietly. “Everyone’s going to know our business.”
“They already do,” Emmie said. “This is just giving them a healthier outlet than whispering about it in the Publix checkout line.”
She held out one of the flyers. “Look.” Jenna took it, more gently this time.
The bakery was framed perfectly in the photo, the old brick and crisp white trim glowing in the evening light. The text beneath it was spare and powerful at the same time.
SAVE THE BLUE CYPRESS
Help us keep a beloved local bakery and the Hart family home in the hands of the women who built it.
Live music · Silent auction · Raffles · Baked goods FRIDAY, 7 PM · THE BLUE CYPRESS
At the very bottom, in small print:
All proceeds will go toward legal and settlement costs to prevent a forced sale by an absentee spouse.
The phrase hit her harder than she expected. Absentee spouse.
Not grieving widower or poor, misunderstood husband.
The truth, in eight letters.
“You can tell me if you hate it,” Emmie said, suddenly a little unsure. “We can tweak the wording. Or scrap it and sob in a corner instead. I’m flexible.”
Jenna looked up at her. “I don’t hate it.”
Shock flickered over Emmie’s face. “You don’t?”
“It scares me,” Jenna admitted. “It makes it feel real, seeing it like this. Not just in legal language, but in . . . big fonts and blue paper and an event time.” She swallowed. “But I don’t hate it.”
Relief moved through Emmie’s shoulders like a wave.
“Good,” she said. “Because the Tarpon Avenue page already shared it, and Mrs. Cartwright has sworn vengeance on anyone who backs out.”
A strangled laugh escaped Jenna. “Of course she has.”
Emmie grinned. “She’s a one-woman task force. Give her a task, and she’ll mobilize half the county.”
“I should’ve known you’d recruit the army without being asked,” Jenna said.
“You’re welcome,” Emmie replied, lifting one shoulder in a shrug.
Jenna looked at the flyer again. At the words, keep it hers.
“It’s a lot,” she said one more time, because the weight of it still pressed on her ribs.
“I know,” Emmie said. “But so is losing everything and pretending we didn’t go down without a fight.
Great-Grandma Hart always said cypress trees survive storms because their roots wind around each other underwater.
Mom said it all the time. That’s all I’m doing, intertwining our roots and helping you stay upright or whatever. Just let me.”
Jenna let that sit.
Then she sighed. “When’s the rally?”
“Friday.” Emmie’s mouth curved. “And before you ask, the answer is yes—you have to come.”
“Wow, thanks,” Jenna said. “I thought maybe I’d just stay home and watch a movie while everyone rallies around my life.”
“We’ll stream it for you,” Emmie said sweetly. “No. You’re coming. You’re speaking.”
“I am what?”
“You’re not getting out of this,” Emmie said. “They need to see your face. Hear your voice. You’re the one who did the work. You and Mom. I can yell, but you can make them believe.”
Jenna’s stomach rolled. “Em—”
“I’ll help,” Emmie said quickly. “We’ll write something together. It doesn’t have to be long. Two minutes. Three, tops. If you talk longer than that, Mr. Delaney will start telling stories about railroad zoning, and we’ll lose the crowd.”
Jenna let her head tap lightly against the doorframe. “You’re impossible,” she said.
“I’m effective,” Emmie countered. “There’s a difference.”
There was a beat of silence. “Friday,” Jenna repeated, more to herself than anything.
“Friday,” Emmie confirmed.
“And what, I’m just supposed to, what, show up in jeans and a t-shirt?”
“Ew, no. You’re the face of the resistance. You need a dress.”
Jenna blinked. “Excuse me?”
“A dress,” Emmie said, as if explaining gravity. “Something that says ‘approachable but formidable.’ ‘Soft but unshakable.’ ‘Will absolutely take your donation and also your soul if you cross her.’”
“I own exactly zero of those dresses.”
“Which is why,” Emmie said, smug now, “We’re going shopping, because every time you pick your own outfits for Important Life Moments, you dress like a tax auditor. I love you, but you do.”
Jenna sputtered. “I do not dress like a tax auditor.”
“You do,” Emmie said. “Beige. Structured. Very ‘I’m here to collect forms.’ It’s great for court days, but this is a rally. We need color. I’ll pay you back by letting you dress me for the hearing. It’ll just be bailiffs and old people there anyway.”
Against her will, Jenna felt a laugh bubble up.
“You’re unbelievable,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” Emmie said again, like it was becoming her catchphrase. “Rally’s on Friday. I’ll handle the masses. You handle not passing out.”
Jenna shook her head, a mixture of exasperation and reluctant awe. As she turned to go, Emmie called after her, almost casually, “Hey, Aunt Jenna?”
“Yeah?”
“We’re going to make it harder for him than he ever imagined, I promise. He is not walking in here and taking what’s left of my mom without fighting all of us. The whole damn town.”
Jenna met her niece’s eyes.
In them, she saw Grace. And something new, too. Something fierce and young and unbreakable.
“Okay,” Jenna said gently. “Secret Society. Lead the way.”
Emmie grinned, wicked and bright. “Oh,” she said. “I already am.”
A small, surprising warmth uncurled inside her, faint but real.
It wasn’t quite hope.
But it felt like the doorway it might walk through.