Salty, Spiced, and a Little Bit Nice

Chapter 2. The Most Excellent Start to the New Year

CHAPTER 2

The Most Excellent Start to the New Year

It was a fact universally acknowledged that employee productivity dipped significantly post–end-of-year holidays, rendering the first few days pointless and ineffective. Case in point: Today was our first Monday back after the break, and nobody was even pretending to work. People stood around chatting, holding mugs of coffee while exchanging stories about their holidays, not caring whether they’d cleared the 1,828 unread emails in their inbox, let alone getting started on their first investment analysis for the year.

Not that I was any better. On the outside, it looked like I was hard at work, judging from the Excel spreadsheet I’d been frowning at for the past hour. In reality, I was focusing all my energy into ignoring my mother’s face on my vibrating phone.

My father might have started the family business from zero, but my shrewd mother was the driving force behind every decision. Veronica Pang was ambitious, hardworking, and strong-willed, and the main reason my first-generation Chinese Indonesian migrant family had successfully built a multibillion–dollar business empire. The business was her whole life, her pride and joy, because it represented everything she’d worked so hard for. She always said that the one thing she feared the most was being poor and having no money. Which explained why she could be doggedly single-minded once she set her mind on something, especially when it was relevant to the business, exploiting all possible (often questionable) means to achieve her goals. And right now, her sole purpose in life was to rectify the crime I had committed by rejecting George’s proposal.

Since ignoring her was an offense punishable by incessant nagging, she’d upped the ante and increased the frequency of her calls, harassing me six times a day like clockwork: twice in the morning, twice after lunch, twice at night. Sometimes she’d even throw in several text messages as a bonus. All her calls this morning had gone straight to voicemail, and her texts stayed unopened. I’d had enough of her harping on how I’d destroyed my life and future; how there wouldn’t be anyone else interested in me after I’d rejected George; and why the hell did I turn him down, anyway? Finally, did I ever stop to think how selfish that was because it might damage our relationship with his family?

Nope, I didn’t need to ruin my first day back at work by hearing any of that.

My phone stopped buzzing for five seconds, before going off again. Winnie, my coworker and usual lunch buddy, glanced at me. “Someone is dying to talk to you.”

“I’m busy.” I rejected the call, then clicked on a cell in my spreadsheet, pretending to check the formula. “It’s just my mom. She’ll call again tonight.”

She gave me a funny look. “But it’s your mom. What if it’s urgent?”

I liked Winnie, but even though we hung out every day at lunch, I never told her—or anyone else at work—about my family. The less people knew about them, and how dysfunctional they were, the better. My mother never hesitated to use her money, or her network of powerful people, to make certain things go her way. But I was never comfortable with that, with people knowing how well-off my parents were. I’d learned (the hard way) that some people treated me differently once they knew, because of what they thought they could gain from my family by befriending me.

Before I could think of a believable answer, a door suddenly flung open from my right, and Stewart, one of the partners in the company, emerged from his office. “Ellie, can I see you for a minute?”

I closed my laptop, grabbed my pen and notebook, and followed him.

“Have a seat, please. Good Christmas?”

My stomach twisted. Stewart was known for getting to the point, so his making small talk and using the word “please” rang an alarm.

I cautiously lowered myself onto a chair. “Nothing eventful. Yours?”

“Oh, probably overindulged more than I should have.” Stewart cleared his throat and clasped his hands together. “You must be wondering why I called you.”

“Is this about the Axton Mining IPO?”

“No.” He leaned across the desk. “The board had a meeting earlier. After the dreadful past two years, they want to restructure. Cut some costs. Merge some roles, streamline the operations.”

The twist in my stomach tightened. This sounds bad.

“We have to let some people go,” Stewart said, his hands still clasped. “You’ve been a great asset to the company. However, based on your last performance review, we feel you’re probably better suited for a role elsewhere.”

The twist in my stomach was now a Category 5 hurricane. “But why? I exceeded all my KPI targets last year. My last appraisal reflected that.”

“Yes, but there are others who performed better. The decision wasn’t easy, but it was based on the company’s best interests. Nothing personal.”

My head spun as Stewart continued talking about how much he valued my contributions to the team, his words going in one ear and out the other.

It didn’t make sense. I was one of the top analysts for the company last year, and my clients consistently achieved higher than average returns on all their investments. Working in finance was never my first choice, but it was either this, or medicine, or law, because those were the only career paths acceptable to my parents. Arguing with them would be pointless, and I was good with numbers, so finance was the most sensible choice. Even then, there were many, many days when I hated my job and wished I were anywhere else but here.

Still, it was dreadful to have been told the company no longer required my services. On the first day back, no less.

I shifted and squirmed in my seat. Way to make your family proud of you, Ellie. All hell would break loose when they heard the news. My parents would hang their heads in shame, because to them, being fired from a job, no matter the reasons, was in the Top Three Things That Would Bring Lifelong Disgrace to Your Family. Another one was Rejecting a Lucrative Marriage Proposal from An Important Business Partner, so in less than a week, I’d succeeded in disappointing my family twice.

It’s a sign , a small voice said, that you should accept Eric’s job offer .

Not.

“I can write you a recommendation letter, although you probably won’t need it,” Stewart said. “I’m sure your family can give you a job in one of your companies.”

My head snapped up at that. “What?”

“Pang Food Industries. That’s your family, right? One of the largest manufacturers and wholesale distributors of Asian food in North America. I saw the YouTube video.”

That damned video would be the death of me. “Yeah, that’s us.”

“If I were you, I’d be living it up at the family business instead of slumming it here with the rest of us common folks. Two billion dollars turnover in the last financial year, multiple subsidiaries, and thousands of employees across the country. A brewery joint venture with Fitzgerald Creek Wines.” Stewart let out a laugh. “You won’t have any problems finding your next role.”

I stilled. “How did you know about the brewery?”

He shrugged. “Everyone knows about it. It’s public knowledge. There are social media accounts promoting it.”

“But the joint ownership has never been publicly disclosed,” I said slowly, my brain sifting through all the probable answers. “The only ones that knew about it were the people working for my family or the Fitzgeralds’.”

For the briefest second, a look of guilt crossed Stewart’s features. “No, I’m sure I read about it somewhere.”

A siren wailed in my head as a disturbing possibility entered my mind. “My mother. Did my mother have anything to do with this? Wait. Did she pay you to fire me?”

The look of guilt returned to his face, giving me the answer I needed.

“Un- fucking -believable.”

I stood up so quickly my chair toppled over backward. I’d been tolerating my family’s interference all my life, but this was above and beyond. Was this their way of punishing me for rejecting George’s proposal?

No, I realized. This was a ploy to force me into accepting Eric’s offer. If I didn’t have a job, then I’d have no choice but to say yes and join the family business.

And to think I had felt guilty for getting fired and giving them shame.

“You’ve just made the biggest mistake of your career.” I pointed at Stewart. “I’ll make sure HR and the Department of Labor hear about this. You won’t be able to get a job anywhere in the financial services industry. I hope she paid you enough to last you the rest of your life, because you’re going to need it.”

With that last parting shot, I turned around and stormed out of his office.

An hour later, I arrived at the headquarters of Pang Food Industries. I loathed coming to this place, and in the twenty-five years since my parents started the business, I could count the number of times I’d been here on one hand. The first time was when I was seven, when I’d been too sick with a cold to go to school. Twenty-one years later, the memory was still fresh in my mind, as if it had only happened yesterday. They’d ushered me into an empty meeting room with my stuffed penguin, two Famous Five books, a bottle of water, and some rice crackers. The cleaners had found me wandering around after hours, because my parents had been too busy and had forgotten they’d stashed me there.

Then everything changed when I was nine.

My unexpected type 1 diabetes diagnosis completely redefined my life. My mom had been annoyed with me because I’d been waking up multiple times in the middle of the night feeling thirsty and running to the toilet almost every hour because I’d been drinking so much water. I started to lose a lot of weight and was constantly exhausted and irritable, which she’d blamed on my lack of sleep. That went on for a few weeks, until one afternoon after school, when I’d vomited violently while I was at Naomi’s house.

Naomi’s mother, unable to reach my parents, had rushed me to the ED, where the nurses and doctors took (what had felt like) gallons of blood samples. By the time my parents arrived two hours later, the doctors had returned, wearing very serious looks on their faces, and told me that I had type 1 diabetes. My mother had argued with them, disputing the results and demanding another round of blood tests, while Naomi’s mother had given me a bone-crushing hug (everyone in their family was a tight hugger), whispering that everything would be okay. But I had no idea what it meant. Or how life would never be the same.

Because it had gone on undetected for a while, my blood sugar was off-the-charts high. The doctors told me that I was in diabetic ketoacidosis, which meant that my body didn’t have enough insulin to process the blood sugar into energy, and started to break down fat instead, releasing acidic chemicals called ketones. If I hadn’t been diagnosed and treated when I was, it could have been fatal. I had to spend a week in the hospital, hooked up with IV fluids and insulin to bring my glucose levels down, while learning new terms like “hypoglycemia,” “basal insulin,” and “bolusing.”

The doctors had also said that the diagnosis shouldn’t limit me from doing anything and everything I wanted, that I just had to learn to include my diabetes in my life. Still, it took me a few weeks to adjust, to come to terms with the fact that I couldn’t just open the kitchen pantry and graze on whatever snacks I’d like throughout the day without giving it much thought; or that I’d have to count the amount of carbohydrates and give myself insulin for everything I ate. That I had to always remember to carry a small bag full of glucose tablets, jelly beans, and juice boxes, so I’d always have some sugar ready for whenever my glucose level was low.

My parents had blamed the foods I ate, ignoring the doctors’ repeated explanations that type 1 diabetes was an autoimmune disease. After that, everything began to revolve around my glucose levels, and every single decision was made based on that. If my level was high, give myself more insulin. Lay off the carbs. Go for a run. If I was low, bring out the emergency apple juice stash from the back of the pantry. I once drank three juice boxes and ate two fun-size packs of Skittles in one sitting after a particularly grueling swimming session, just to bring my levels up. Everything was a balancing act, making sure that I was always within the acceptable range.

It had also transformed my busy, inattentive parents into their current state of workaholic, overprotective, and super-controlling parents. The first thing they’d ask about when they got home at night was my glucose levels. If my mom could somehow take time away from work, she’d stay and hover at the occasional birthday parties I was allowed to go to, to make sure I didn’t eat more than my allotted tiny piece of cake. For the first few years, I relished the newfound attention, secretly thrilled that I was as precious as Eric the Golden Child. Then the overprotectiveness slowly mutated into oppressive and manipulative territory, and now, I’d give anything for them to regress to their old inattentive selves.

Soft instrumental music was playing as I pushed the heavy frosted-glass door and marched into the office, my face grim and my strides determined.

“Ellie! I haven’t seen you in ages.” Mimi, the longtime receptionist, beamed at me, then faltered when she saw me glowering. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to speak to my mother. Where is she?”

“She’s in a meeting,” Mimi said, puzzled. “Would you like to wait?”

“No.” I pushed the transparent glass door leading to the internal offices, ignoring her panicked shouts, and made a beeline toward my mother’s office. The door was open, so I headed straight for her desk, convinced that I’d find evidence of her bribing Stewart there. Opening her laptop, I entered the password—Eric’s birthday—and did a scan through her emails, files, and folders. Nothing came up, not even when I did a search for Stewart’s name.

I released a frustrated groan. She was 100 percent behind this. Without a doubt. The question was, how could I prove it?

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, and my mother appeared at the door. “Ellie? Mimi called the boardroom and said—” She stopped mid-sentence, frowning at me. “Why are you on my computer?”

“Got fired today, Mom. I’m sure you’ve heard.”

The frown turned deeper. “Don’t be absurd. Of course I haven’t.”

“Let’s not pretend you don’t know what I mean,” I said, saccharine ire dripping from my tone. “We both know you’re smarter than that.”

“You’re not making any sense. Have you been getting enough sleep? Maybe you’ve been overworking yourself.”

I wasn’t even going to dignify that with a reply. If there was an Olympic sport for scheming and shaming, she’d be the all-time gold medal record holder.

Another set of footsteps approached, and Eric appeared behind her. “Ellie?” His eyes went back and forth between our mother and me. “Why are you here? What’s going on?”

“I got fired this morning. The official line was ‘company restructuring.’” I made air quotes with my fingers. “Imagine my surprise when my boss mentioned the brewery, something no one outside of this family knows about. Is this your way of making me accept your job offer, Eric? Because it’s not very subtle.”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Then it’s her. She paid him to fire me.”

Eric sighed, shaking his head at her. “Not again. Tell me you didn’t.”

I jerked my head up. “What do you mean, not again ?”

She shrugged, her face the perfect picture of childlike innocence, while Eric tilted his head, clearly conveying, come on .

“Fine, I paid off your boss, who was more than happy to take the money.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “I got you hired at that place, so I certainly can get you fired.”

The loud thumping of my heart was deafening. “So the only reason I got my job in the first place was because you bribed them ? Why would you do that?”

“Mom, she’s an adult,” Eric said. “You can’t just go around payi—”

“I did, and I’ll do it again if I have to.” She glared at him. “It was for her own good. She was so adamant she didn’t want to work in the family business. Now she can work at your brewery. With the family. With George. Because that’s where she belongs.”

“I’m standing right here .” I raised my voice. “Does it always have to be about the business? Is that all you care about?”

She raised her chin, looking indignant. “The business must come first. It’s the only way we can give you and Eric a comfortable life. And,” she said to Eric, “you know perfectly well why I did what I did. With her condition, I had to make sure she was employed at a place with a safe working environment. Nothing too stressful that can put her in danger.”

“What danger? What does that even mean? I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself, so don’t make this about me.” I slammed the laptop shut.

Guilt roped around my heart as her eyes flared. Perhaps I was being ungrateful, and I was headed straight to the fiery inferno of hell the minute I walked out of this office.

“Ever since you were diagnosed,” my mother advanced on me, her eyeballs almost leaping out of their sockets, as her face twisted in a furious scowl, “we’ve always kept you safe. Made sure you’re well. And this is the thanks we get? Let’s face it, Ellie. You have limitations. And you will never amount to anything without us.”

“Mom,” Eric said, his tone placating, “why don’t we talk about this later?”

She ignored him and jabbed a finger at my chest. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to call George to apologize. Get back together with him and accept his proposal. Then you’ll start at the brewery, effective immediately.”

I raised my chin at her. “What if I said no?”

Her brown eyes, so much like mine, narrowed with rage. “Then I will cut you off.”

That’s it. That was the last straw. As she glared at me, the past few days came flashing back, like a series of terrible movie clips you didn’t really want to watch but had to because somebody threatened you with bodily harm: the public proposal from a man I wasn’t even in love with; Stewart firing me; and the sad, nasty realization that I was, and always had been, a puppet to my controlling mother, who pulled the strings to suffocate my life.

Using my health as her excuse.

Naomi was wrong. The line between looking after me and micromanaging my life wasn’t super thin and blurry.

It was nonexistent.

“Go ahead. Cut me off. Maybe it’s time to test my so-called limitations.” The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop myself. “See if I can survive without the family in my life.”

“Ellie,” Eric turned his world-class negotiation skills on me, “let’s not overreact. I understand you’re upset, but so is Mom. Why don’t you go home, and we can talk once you’ve all calmed down?”

The thing about Eric is, he never subscribed to my manipulative- parent hypothesis. Sure, he conceded that they could be a bit much, but he always reminded me how they had sacrificed a lot for us over the years. How hard they’d worked for our family. Call me cynical, or him na?ve, but he was a staunch believer that they always had our best interests at heart.

Whichever it was, I wasn’t sticking around to find out.

“Not overreacting.” I started toward the door. “Just doing what’s right.”

Mom placed her hands on her hips. “If you go through that door, you’re dead to us.”

I ignored her and walked out of the room.

“You hear me, Ellie?” She was yelling so loud, the staff outside her office were craning their necks to see what was going on. “I don’t want to see your face ever again!”

Yeesh. She could now add “melodramatic” to her storied parenting career.

“Hey.” Eric followed me out. “Where are you going? Don’t rush into something you’ll regret later. We can talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Be reasonable, Ellie. What are you going to do?”

I had no idea, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. “I’ll keep you posted.”

And with that, I pushed the front door open and left my family.

The minute I got home, I stalked to the kitchen and pulled out my mixer, some mixing bowls, and a cupcake pan. Then I dumped the bag of low-carb flour, cocoa, baking powder, and the carton of eggs on the counter, before flicking the oven switch to preheat. I needed to regroup and figure out my next move, and I did it best while beating some eggs and butter to gether. Baking had always helped me to relax and unwind, a safe space where I could just be .

I’d started experimenting in the kitchen a year post-diagnosis, because I was getting tired of my mother limiting what I could or couldn’t eat. She had even gone as far as banning everything remotely sweet at our house; although she knew perfectly well that I could have anything I wanted, as long as I took the correct amount of insulin for it. My ten-year-old self had reasoned that maybe my mother wouldn’t be so strict if I learned to make things with as little carbohydrates as possible. I’d borrowed recipe books from the library, spent endless hours watching the Food Network, then started with the easier stuff—brownies, chocolate chip cookies, blueberry muffins. Naomi was my number one victim taste tester, and although she never complained, I knew the first year was painful for her. I tried different types of natural sweeteners and sugar substitutes, while slowly improving (to Naomi’s relief) and graduating from chocolate chip cookies to chocolate croissants, brownies to macarons, and muffins to kue lapis legit, a traditional—and very time-consuming—Indonesian type of layer cake.

Today I was trying a sugar-free salted caramel cupcake recipe that had been living rent-free in my mind for the past week. My hand worked rhythmically, whisking the flour and the baking powder together, while my mind began to plan.

Eric had made an excellent point about not rushing into something I might regret. For all my displays of bravado earlier, I didn’t know what to do. I was jobless, the reluctant star of an embarrassing, viral YouTube video, and the black sheep of the family.

What a superb way to kick off the new year.

But things would never change as long as I lived in the same city as my family. I had to get away as far as humanly possible. The ramifications of that might one day come back to bite me in the ass, but right now I was too fed up to care.

I turned the mixer on and slowly poured the eggs and melted butter in. It’s time , a small voice piped up at the back of my brain. Dust off that plan. There’s nothing, and no one, to stop you from going ahead now.

Turning off the mixer, I poured the batter into the cupcake pan and shoved it into the oven. I glanced at the messy countertop as the sweet scent of caramel infused my apartment, and just like that, I knew what I had to do. Naomi was right—it was time to finally put those baking classes to good use. It might be an enormous gamble, but I had no job, and anything was better than living under my mother’s manipulative thumb. I was finally going to take the plunge; expensive education be damned.

For as long as I could remember, my dream had always been to open a bakery. Not just any bakery, but one that could cater to clientele like myself. A place that offered a wide variety of options for people who wanted healthier, guilt-free alternatives to traditional desserts. I’d been saving up since my first-ever paycheck years ago, done extensive research and put together an equally extensive business plan for it, and created at least fifteen Pinterest boards full of ideas and inspirations for my dream décor. I’d never had the guts to do anything about it, because it had always been too scary, too uncertain, and not worth the hassle of upsetting my parents.

But it was a whole different ball game now.

Grabbing my laptop, I opened the plan I’d prepared a long time ago. I scrolled through it, pausing to read the list of pros and cons I’d put together:

Pro:

Con:

1. I’d be doing something I really loved. Something I was passionate about. And if my business concept worked, then I’d also be helping people live a healthier life (1,000 points).

1. It’d be risky as hell, and the possibility of failure is high. Statistics show that only half of new businesses survive five years or longer, and only one-third are around a decade after launching (minus 1,000 points).

2. I’d have full control over everything. It would mean independence, flexible hours, and no more pressure from my parents to join Pang Food Industries (1,000 points).

2. No steady paycheck—I’d have to rely on my savings for a while, because it could be weeks, months, even years, before the business became profitable (minus 500 points).

The place that I’d had my eye on was on the other side of the country—a beautiful coastal city called Port Benedict, population 29,171, around an hour and a half from Seattle. A recent report in the World Fitness Index listed the place as one of the most health-conscious cities in the United States, stating that over 85 percent of its residents engaged in regular physical activities and were mindful of what they consumed. The healthier lifestyle proved to be attractive to a lot of people, because it was also ranked number seven in the top ten most livable cities in America, while being one of the fastest-growing cities in the country, increasing by a rate that would double the population in eight years.

Which was excellent. More potential customers for my bakery.

I’d also narrowed down my research to a neighborhood that would suit the type of bakery I had in mind. The city was home to a shopping center called Port Benedict Plaza that housed two department stores, seventy-five specialty stores, a food court, two supermarkets, a boutique hotel, and a rooftop entertainment precinct that was home to a multicultural mix of cafés, bars, and restaurants. The location was perfect: the Plaza was within walking distance of downtown Port Benedict and the Waterfront, a bustling tourist strip lined with trendy eateries facing the shores of picturesque Port Benedict Bay. There was only one French patisserie in the shopping center, which meant I’d have very little competition.

The specific area that I’d set my sights on was a strip of shops adjacent to the shopping complex. The rent was much more affordable than what it would cost in the main Plaza building, and the vibe was utterly warm and charming. Google Maps showed that it was flanked by rows of tall trees, with cobblestone pavements and renovated brick buildings, housing some of the most chic shops I’d ever seen. There was an art gallery, an antique shop, and a florist. I could just picture a bakery— my bakery —joining those businesses.

I took a long, deep breath.

It was time to take the plunge.

Jumping on a real estate site, I searched for shops for lease at that row of stores. There were only a few available, and after crossing off the ones that were out of my budget, I was left with two final options.

The first one was a spacious corner shop, currently occupied by a secondhand bookstore. It was newly renovated, and sat next to an organic juice and smoothie bar, so what I had planned should fit right in. But the detailed descriptions said the owner strongly preferred businesses wanting to lease the store for a minimum of five years, which wasn’t ideal. What if my brilliant bakery idea turned out to be a flop?

The second, slightly smaller option, looked much more promising. Not only was the rent lower than the first one, but the shopfront also had a gorgeous glass-panel door and wide bay windows. The store was sandwiched in between an adorable yarn store and an old-timey ice-cream parlor, and the best part was, it would be available in two weeks, which was perfect timing-wise, because it would give me plenty of time to organize the move.

A hopeful flutter went through my stomach. This might actually work.

Before I could change my mind or second-guess anything, I sent off an email to the Realtor to enquire about the property. Feeling optimistic, I opened my list-maker app, my brain racing as I put together a list of things to tackle if I was really doing this: pack up my stuff, find a place to live in Port Benedict, and start short-listing suppliers for the bakery.

The oven dinged, just as I finished typing the last item on the list.

I might be jobless, but things were already looking up.

After all, what better way to kick off the new year than starting over thousands of miles away from your controlling family?