23
CECíLIA
Joana asked to talk before I picked up another box.
It was Wednesday, and the morning had gone well. Two orders had gone out on time, the supplier had brought everything we were missing, and a longtime customer had recommended us for an architecture firm’s anniversary celebration. I was ready to use that run of successes as a reason to work late.
“Now?” I asked.
“If you wait until everything’s done, it’ll be November.”
I set the box down on the counter.
Joana took off her apron, folded it, and placed it over the chair. The gesture worried me before she said anything.
“Did you get another offer?”
She raised her eyebrows.
“I haven’t said I’m leaving.”
“Sorry. Go ahead.”
We sat near the back door, where it was cooler. Joana had a sheet with the schedules from the past few weeks. I recognized the printout I’d posted on the bulletin board myself.
“I like working here,” she began. “But I need a better idea of when my day ends and which Saturdays you’ll need me. I’ve been canceling plans because we don’t decide until the middle of the week.”
I looked at the schedule.
There were changes that had seemed minor to me: a tasting, a delivery swap, the extra time at the hotel. Added up, they took up evenings and breaks that belonged to someone else.
“The hours have been logged,” I said.
“They have. I’m not saying you don’t pay me. I’m saying I need a life beyond waiting for the next message.”
I pulled my hand away from the sheet.
Joana took a deep breath.
“And when you’re out, I’m handling production, customers, and suppliers all at once. I can do some of it. I can’t do all of it well at the same time. On Tuesday, I was finishing up with an order while a supplier waited and something in the oven needed my attention.”
On Tuesday, I’d taken Bento to the rescheduled visit with Dante. Guilt came quickly, ready to make me promise never to leave at that time again.
That promise would leave the problem exactly where it was.
“We need someone else here when I’m out,” I said.
“Or to take on less. Or divide the work differently. I don’t know what we can afford. That’s why I’m talking to you.”
I nodded.
She wasn’t handing me a list of impossible demands. She was trusting me to handle the part of my job that went beyond a spatula.
“Can I look at the numbers today and get back to you with a proposal on Friday?”
“Sure.”
“In the meantime, I’ll put a firm schedule for the next two Saturdays on the board. We’ll discuss any changes before agreeing to them.”
Joana looked at me for a moment, and her shoulders relaxed.
“That already helps.”
I took the sheet of paper, but paused before standing up.
“Thank you for talking to me before deciding to look somewhere else.”
“I want to stay. I just don’t want to live here.”
I laughed. She laughed too, then put on her apron and went back to the counter.
I stayed seated for a few more seconds.
***
The firm’s anniversary party would be on a Thursday, late in the afternoon, for forty people.
The woman arranging the order wanted a cake and individual portions that could be served without our staff there. She also asked for a dairy-free option. I explained what our kitchen could actually offer, without promising there would be no contact with milk when I couldn’t guarantee that.
We talked on the phone, figured out what was possible, and I prepared the quote.
Before sending it, I opened the cost spreadsheet.
Under labor, I entered Joana’s hours, mine, and the time spent packaging. I added delivery, materials, and a profit margin for the business. My first price came out higher than the number I would have given off the top of my head.
I looked at it until it stopped seeming excessive.
Quoting less wouldn’t make the work disappear. It would only decide who paid for it later.
I sent it.
Next, I reviewed our recent orders. Two I’d thought were great had made less than one small, simple delivery. A change in decoration had cost me hours I hadn’t charged for. The hotel work mattered, but I needed to stop acting as if four months of business guaranteed the following year.
I grabbed a piece of paper and sketched the back area.
There was room to make it easier to move around and add another work counter, once I’d checked the measurements, utilities, and cost of the alterations.
I used to picture expansion as a finished room, everything bought, no hesitation.
On paper, it began with a door that needed to open all the way and a cabinet that could be moved.
I took photos of the space and jotted down questions to request an assessment. I didn’t accept any quotes that afternoon. First, I wanted to figure out what I was trying to solve.
At five o’clock, I shut down my computer.
Joana looked at me.
“Did something happen?”
“I’m going to pick up Bento. And you leave on time.”
“I thought your desk lamp must’ve burned out.”
I grabbed my purse, laughing.
***
On Friday, I took the proposal to Joana.
We’d set the hours for events in advance, divide up the customer service duties for when I was out, and arrange help for larger deliveries after checking availability and cost with Ivo or someone else.
I’d also cut back on individual orders on days that were already full, instead of asking whether she could manage just one more.
There was a pay adjustment to check with the person who handled our business administration, one that reflected the responsibilities she’d already taken on. I showed her where the money would come from, without giving her the additional job of feeling guilty about our finances.
Joana read it all, asked two questions, and changed one thing: in a week with an event, she preferred to take her time off in one block instead of leaving early twice.
I made a note to check how to arrange that properly before we finalized it.
“About Saturdays,” she said. “If something urgent comes up, you can ask. I can say no.”
“You can.”
She gave me a sidelong glance.
“I’m warning you not to make that face like you’re going to have to carry the oven down the street all by yourself.”
I lowered my head, smiling.
“I’ll try to keep my face under control.”
My phone vibrated while she finished reading. It was the woman arranging the architecture firm’s event. She’d accepted the quote and asked for the payment details for the deposit.
I read the message aloud.
Joana raised both hands.
“Does it fit the schedule you just planned?”
I checked my calendar for the sheer pleasure of it.
“It does.”
“Great, then.”
I sent over the paperwork for the booking and only considered the order final once we’d received the agreed confirmation. No hotel group was involved. Neither Dante’s name nor an introduction from Teresa. A customer had eaten one of our sweets and told someone else about us.
I stared at the message for a few seconds.
Joana tapped my shoulder as she walked by.
“You can be happy. You don’t have to bake something else to justify it.”
***
That night, Bento asked me to draw a house.
I was on the living room floor, with my sketch of the bakery beside me and a tape measure I’d brought home to check a measurement. My son drew an enormous door on the back of a used sheet of paper and announced that a truck could fit through it.
“Mine will have to fit a work counter,” I said.
“Is it big?”
I gestured with my arms.
He made the door bigger.
I laughed and kissed his hair. Then I helped him put away his pencils, we went through our bedtime routine, and I went back to the table with the floor plan still incomplete.
There was a message from Dante confirming Saturday. I replied that it was still on. My finger hovered over the keyboard, and I felt like telling him about the new order.
I almost put my phone away.
Then I wrote: “We booked an event outside the hotel group today. A longtime customer referred us.”
The reply came a few minutes later.
“That’s great news. Congratulations to you both.”
He asked how many people would be attending. I replied. We exchanged four messages about the cake, with no offer of investment or promise to introduce anyone.
When the conversation ended, the good news was still mine. I’d just chosen to share it.
I picked up the ruler and went back to drawing the kitchen.
24
DANTE
The following Tuesday, Eunice asked me to read the entire message before asking any questions.
The document was open on the screen in a room we used for private meetings. Beside Eunice, a woman from the external team followed the notes. I recognized Rubens Faria’s name as the sender and Augusto’s corporate email address among the recipients.
It was dated before the 2019 article.
I sat down.
Rubens had forwarded an exchange with the journalist whose byline appeared on the article. The surviving portion mentioned checking figures and referred to a table. Below it was a brief reply saying the information would be covered in that week’s edition.
I read it again.
“He was talking to the reporter.”
“This message establishes contact,” Eunice replied. “And it was found in the finance department’s preserved corporate mailbox. We need to reconstruct the full exchange and verify the missing attachments.”
I looked at Augusto’s name.
“My brother received this before telling me that Cecília had sold the information.”
“It was sent to his address. We have a reply from him in this same thread, but it’s about an expense entry. We’re still sorting out what he received, what he replied to, and what he authorized.”
The woman from the external team opened another file. It was a request for payment to Linha Norte, with a vague description of liaison and representation services. Augusto had approved the entry. The amount was not Cecília’s loan.
“The sender himself linked this expense to the exchange,” she explained. “Both records contain the same reference. That needs explaining. The description alone doesn’t yet tell us what was paid for.”
My mouth was dry.