12. Tristan #2
Tristan unknotted his tie, pulling the dark fabric free from his collar and dropping it onto the coat. Unbuttoning his cuffs next, he flipped the crisp cotton over itself and pushed the sleeves up past his elbows, baring his forearms to the cold air.
He reached for his wrist. His fingers found the clasp of his platinum watch. The metal unhooked with a dull snap. He dragged the heavy piece of jewelry off his skin and shoved it deep into the pocket of his trousers. The metal settled against his thigh, hidden from view.
“I’ll scrub the floors,” Tristan offered, his voice lacking any of its usual boardroom command. “I’ll haul the trash. Whatever buys me the right to stay inside this building.”
Hazel narrowed her eyes. She scrutinized his leather shoes and his desperate expression.
“I am not leaving without my wife,” Tristan said, planting his hands on his hips. “Give me a job to do. I don’t care how grueling it is, just put me to work.”
Hazel lowered the pin an inch. She eyed his bare wrists and the discarded pile of high-end tailoring resting on the chair. The locals in the queue stared in silence, watching the former CEO of Hawthorne Holdings beg for a spot at the bottom of the payroll.
“You want to sweat?” Hazel asked. “Fine. Get in the back and start scraping the burnt grease traps.”
She pointed the tip of the rolling pin toward the metal kitchen doors.
“But if you say a single word to Marianne, I am throwing you out onto the street myself.”
Tristan looked past the baker. Marianne kept her back turned, organizing the pastry boxes without sparing him a single glance. He accepted the terms. He abandoned his expensive armor on the wooden chair and marched straight through the swinging doors toward the dish pit.
Tristan stepped into the cramped back kitchen.
The air back here was thick with the blistering, dry heat radiating from the open ovens.
He ignored the temperature change and marched directly to the deep industrial sink tucked in the corner.
The massive basin was filled with murky, scalding dishwater.
A stack of crusted cast-iron grease traps sat submerged in the gray suds.
The sour, rancid odor of old fry-oil clung to the iron, turning his stomach.
“Just get the grease off,” Tristan muttered to the basin.
He plunged his bare hands directly into the blistering heat.
The soapy water leached the moisture from his skin, turning his knuckles a dull red.
He grabbed a wire brush from the rack and dragged one of the traps out of the suds.
Resting the trap against the edge of the sink, he leaned his body weight over the metal.
He worked the wire brush over the iron. The metal bristles tore across the crusted carbon with a grating screech. Twenty-four hours ago, he had ordered the liquidation of a rival corporate empire. Right now, the peak of his existence was this boiling, grease-choked sink.
His forearms burned from the endless scrubbing. After several minutes of grueling labor, Tristan dropped the scrubbed trap onto a rubber drying mat. He let the brush slip from his grip and fall into the suds. He stepped away from the sink and walked over to the swinging metal doors.
Tristan leaned his shoulder against the doorframe.
He peered through the scratched window, looking out into the storefront.
Marianne stood behind the front register.
She handed a white paper bag to a local patron, offering the man a bright, genuine smile.
It was a soft, unguarded expression that transformed her face.
He stared through the glass. She withheld that exact smile from him at the counter. She looked at him with empty detachment, actively treating him like a stranger, yet she freely gave her warmth to random locals buying morning coffee. He gripped the metal doorframe.
“I will spend every single day making sure you know you picked the right man,” his own voice echoed in his memory, reciting the vows he had made at the altar. “You have my word, Marianne.”
“I don’t care about the money or the family, Tristan,” her voice answered in his memory, clear and devoted. “It’s just you and me. I’m with you to the end.”
Pushing off the metal doorframe, Tristan turned his back on the window and marched straight back to the dish pit. He plunged his hands into the gray suds, retrieving the wire brush and hauling another trap out of the water. He gripped the plastic handle until the hard edge bit into his palm.
“I broke the promise,” Tristan said to the empty kitchen. “But I am not leaving this town until I fix it.”
He drove the wire bristles back into the crusted iron, bearing down on the handle as the scalding water chewed at his skin.
Tristan ground the wire brush into the cast-iron grate, fighting the relentless ache in his arms. The physical strain offered no distraction from the suffocating humidity of the back room. Behind him, the doors burst open. A draft of cooler air rushed into the sweltering dish pit.
Hazel marched into the tight space, wielding a towering stack of charred aluminum baking sheets against her chest. White flour puffed off her overalls with every step. She did not slow down or offer a warning. She dumped the stack into the basin. The gray suds exploded outward.
A wave of murky, grease-choked water splashed over the rim of the industrial sink, soaking the front of his dress shirt.
He flinched as the hot liquid bled instantly through the shirt to his chest. He stopped scrubbing and stared down at the ruined garment.
The sour reek of old fry-oil clung to his ruined shirt.
Hazel ignored the mess, pointing a blunt finger at the cast-iron trap resting on the rubber drying mat.
“There is still carbon baked into that corner, suit,” Hazel said. “Scrape it down to the bare iron, or it goes right back in the water.”
Tristan gripped the edge of the wet metal basin.
The familiar boardroom arrogance surfaced.
I could buy this block tomorrow morning.
I could bulldoze this bakery, liquidate the property, and throw you out on the freezing street with a single phone call.
The power dynamic was absurd. He commanded a multi-billion-dollar holding company, yet he stood here taking orders from a local baker.