3. Olivia
Chapter 3
Olivia
“Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.” Brother John’s voice droned on from behind the pulpit as I fought back tears. I couldn’t believe this was happening, that my grandmother was truly gone.
I rubbed at the spot in the center of my chest that began to ache the day I’d got the call from my mother telling me that Nan had passed in her sleep. Every time I thought about her, heard her name, or a well-meaning neighbor asked how I was holding up, the pain hit me square in the sternum, nearly stealing my breath. It was as though she took a piece of my heart when she'd passed, leaving me with a phantom pain that would never go away.
My mother reached over and clasped my free hand as she made a show of dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. I didn’t doubt she was heartbroken, but everything was about appearances with her. When she’d come home from college pregnant with me and only half her business degree completed, she had everyone convinced my father had passed away. According to my grandmother, she'd barely left the house, and when she did, she wore black and hardly spoke to anyone. Everyone thought she was in mourning when really, she didn’t want to be seen with a baby bump and a bare ring finger.
The rumor mill went wild, and she did nothing to curb the outlandish theories the townsfolk concocted once they'd realized she was pregnant. Some believed my father was a soldier who’d died in combat. Others guessed he was in a tragic accident, but everyone was too polite to ask. It wouldn’t have been proper. And my mother used that deeply ingrained Southern etiquette to her advantage. Even into my childhood she made comments about how he never got the chance to hold me. What she’d failed to mention was that he’d never wanted me.
I'd learned the hard way when she had a few too many gin martinis one night and confessed that she had an affair with her econ professor. He was married with children and didn’t want the stain of a pregnant mistress and student on his reputation. He’d demanded she get rid of me, but she’d refused. Instead, she came home with her tail tucked between her legs and never contacted him again. His wife, though? She got an “anonymous” letter detailing the circumstances of their affair.
My mother eventually completed her degree—a stipulation set forth by my grandfather for her to take over some of the family business—and became quite successful. She took an already thriving business and expanded it into a new and more profitable venture. She liked to point out that she made something of herself despite being a single mom when all I could manage was becoming a lowly pastry chef, something that had been a bone of contention between us when I decided to go to culinary school instead of following in her footsteps. It hurt knowing she was ashamed of me, but I should’ve been used to it. She’d been ashamed of me all my life considering the circumstances surrounding my conception. Even though no one but my grandparents knew the truth, my existence was still a stain on her soul. She’d never come out and said it, but I saw the regretful way she looked at me at times, burden and unwanted responsibility in her eyes. It was always there, from as early as I could remember. It was never more present than after the accident when she had to face the scorn of our town. Lyle was Magnolia Grove’s golden boy. He rose from nothing to become the top high school football player in the state. He was supposed to put our town on the map, and to them, I’d stolen that dream from him.
I knew deep down the accident wasn’t my fault, but it did little to assuage my guilt, especially when most of the town blamed me for ruining the Crawfords’ lives. Lyle had been their greatest hope, a way to make a name for their family, and those dreams were dashed in an instant.
So I ran. I packed my bags, left for school, and didn’t return for nearly two years. My grandmother asked me when I was coming home every time we spoke. I always told her “soon,” but that was a lie. I couldn’t face the town or my mother’s disappointment. So I stayed away. I didn’t return until my mother married her second husband four years ago. To my surprise, nobody treated me with scorn. Sure, there were a few weary glances cast my way, but most of Magnolia Grove had welcomed me home. It made it easier to come home for holidays and special occasions.
And then I ran into Landon.
It was the day before Thanksgiving, and I’d gone to the market to find fresh cranberries for my grandmother. She preferred to make them from scratch, so I'd scoured the produce aisle until I found the last remaining bag. When I reached for it, a muscled arm shot out and snatched the bag from the shelf before my fingers could make contact. My eyes slowly raked up a thickly veined hand and tatted forearm, across a set of broad, sculpted shoulders, a chest adorned with dog tags, and landed on the most menacing set of ice blue eyes I’d ever seen. I sucked in a sharp breath as Landon’s furious gaze met mine. He was home and by the looks of it, he wasn’t happy to see that I was too.
“I-I need those,” I’d stuttered out, pointing to the bag. I didn’t want to let my nan down by coming home empty handed. She loved cranberries. It was her favorite Thanksgiving side dish.
Landon sneered at me, his lip curling in disgust.
“Well, so do I, and I was here first.”
“But they’re my grandmother’s favorite, and I promised her I would bring some home,” I'd said, my gaze full of pleading.
A flicker of something that almost resembled compassion flashed across his face, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by a disdainful twist of his mouth.
“That’s not my problem.”
“Please, Landon,” I'd begged, reaching for him. I’d curled my fingers around his thick forearm, but he'd jerked out of my grasp. He’d leaned in, his voice low and menacing.
“Haven’t you already taken enough from my family?” His question hit me like a punch to the gut. I'd staggered back a step, my arms curling around my stomach as though it could take away the pain. Unable to bear his contempt, I'd retreated, leaving the store with empty hands and a heart full of regret.
My mother stood, pulling me to my feet, and the memories dissolved. It was time to lay my grandmother to rest. The sooner we got this over with, the sooner I could put this town in my rearview mirror. I only had to wait for my car to be fixed, then I could head back to my life in Atlanta.
“Ms. Duprey, Mrs. Wilkenson,” Anthony, my grandmother’s attorney, greeted my mother and me as we stepped into his office.
“Mr. Harrison,” we returned in unison and followed him toward his desk. He slid behind it and smoothed his hands down the lapels of his suit jacket.
“Please, have a seat,” he instructed, pointing to the two chairs opposite him. I lowered myself onto the chair next to my mother, and he sank into his before folding his hands together atop the desk. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he offered with a sad smile. “Odette was a wonderful person and beloved member of our community. She will be greatly missed.”
“Thank you, Anthony,” my mother replied with a sniffle. I couldn’t speak past the emotion clogging my throat, so I simply nodded.
“I realize the timing isn’t ideal for discussing this delicate topic, but Odette was very specific in her wishes,” Anthony began, opening the folder beneath his hands. He began, spewing the usual legal mumbo jumbo, and I zoned out, wishing to escape from this reality in which I found myself. Mentally, I was perfecting my macaron recipe, weighing each ingredient with precision. My focus was shattered when Anthony said my name.
“To Olivia, my most cherished granddaughter, I leave my bakery Sugar & Sage, my home and all its contents, my car…” My mouth fell open as the lawyer continued to list off assets and accounts, some of which I didn’t know existed. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, and my mother’s spine went rigid. She glanced at me from the corner of her eye, and she let out a huff of frustration. Apparently, this was all news to her too.
Uncertainty flooded my veins. This was a lot, far more than I expected. I assumed she would leave everything to my mother besides a few trinkets I’d treasured like her wedding ring and the music box my grandfather had made for her when they were dating. But her home and the business she'd built from the ground up? It was more than I could comprehend. It was more than I could manage from almost four hundred miles away. They would keep me tethered to this place, and perhaps that was her intention all along. How could I return to Atlanta when Nan trusted me to continue her legacy? She’d given me my love of baking and now was using it to keep me in the town I couldn’t get far enough from.
I didn’t know what to do. My grandmother entrusted her business to me, but I couldn’t very well uproot my life in Atlanta to move to my hometown and run a bakery all on my own. I was a pastry chef. Sure, I’d double majored in business and culinary arts, but my heart was always in the cooking. I’d barely passed my business classes. I’d wanted to be in charge of the kitchen, not the books.
Maybe I could have my mom run the business side of things and hire someone to take over the baking. But my mother had no interest in the bakery, never had. I could sell it and cut my losses.
Guilt prickled my skin, and I broke out in a cold sweat as though my grandmother’s voice scolded me from beyond the grave for even considering it. She wouldn’t want me to sell. She wanted the business she was most passionate about to stay in the family. I had no idea what the right answer was, but one thing was for certain. I needed to make a decision soon, or I risked losing everything I’d worked so hard for.