“You still don’t bake because of Nathan?”
“He said I was boring.” Bryony couldn’t believe she needed to repeat this to Lillian. “He said I was only good for dessert, and being with me made him fat. He said he wanted someone with an interest in heating up something other than the oven.” Nathan, she discovered, had started seeing the snorkeling instructor before Bryony flew back on her own to Ohio. Love at first sight, he had called it. Bryony called it betrayal, and she was far enough past the acute grief of losing her mother to acknowledge the impact of losing her lover, too.
“Nathan was a jerk,” Lillian said. “Throw him out of your mind, Bry. Get rid of him.”
Perhaps if she had made the decision to kick him out before he left her first, Bryony would be able to do that. Being the one left behind made her a loser.
“Bry?” Lillian asked. “You still there?”
“Yes.”
“Are you pouting?” Lillian asked.
“No,” Bryony answered, but she knew she was.
“Bry,” Lillian said in her Mom voice. “You’ve given up baking, your all-time favorite activity.” Enunciating each syllable, she finished the rebuke with, “Get over him.”
“Easier said than done.” Bryony rested her forehead on the steering wheel.
“Who said life was easy?”
“Who said life had to be this hard?”
“It could get harder,” Lillian said.
“Stop!” Bryony sat up and laughed. “You’re not helping!”
“Just trying to be the voice of reason.”
“Stop being so reasonable. Tell me my father and brother should understand a grown woman does not have to move back in with her father and care for him.”
“They are being wholly insensitive and unkind,” Lillian said.
“Thank you.” Bryony sighed.
“Go home after work and bake something.”
If living a contented life was as simple as the pleasure of making a perfect pie, Bryony’s happiness bank would be bursting with wealth. But life wasn’t that simple. There was no recipe for success and satisfaction. “Love you, Lil,” she said.
“Love you, too, pet.”
Bryony closed her cell phone, tossed it on the passenger seat, and headed back to the office. An apple and a snack pack of almonds in her purse would get her through the rest of the day.
Late in the afternoon, Bryony’s coworker, Paul, popped his head around the corner. “Did you hear?” he asked.
“Hear what?” Bryony’s eyes shifted rapidly as she compared the two screens in front of her.
Lightning flashed outside the window followed by deep, rolling thunder. Spring storms galvanized Bryony, especially during the work day when the bright, productive office softened threatening weather. She hunkered down, scrutinizing the screen, safe in the search for an elusive typo.
“Big news,” Paul said.
“Hmph,” Bryony muttered. Something somewhere in the account on her screen had not been properly transferred to the new software, and it threw off the sum by fifty-three cents. Unacceptable.
“Clyde sold the company.”
Bryony swiveled her chair to face the man leaning into her side of their shared cubicle, his hand resting on top of the divider. “Clyde told me he was thinking of selling,” she said. “He said we’d all like the new buyer. We’ll be fine.”
Clyde Metcalf had started the accounting firm when he returned to Fieldstone fresh from Harvard, two years before Bryony and Paul finished high school. By the time they walked across the stage to receive their diplomas, Clyde had enough work to take on employees. Both Paul and Bryony started working on a Monday, still reeling from a weekend of graduation parties.
“How did you find out?” she asked, trying to soothe him. Paul adjusted at a slow pace. Updated software gave him hives. Bryony hoped a change in leadership would not upset him for too long.
“The new receptionist told me,” Paul said. “She overheard Clyde talking to the new owner as he walked her out the door.”
Bryony scoffed. “The new receptionist doesn’t know her place yet.” She would have a talk with the young woman later, but right now the elusive numbers glitch beckoned. Bryony swiveled back to the screen, determined to find the error before the work day ended.
“Clyde’s a smart guy,” Paul said. In her peripheral vision, Bryony saw him lean in farther. “He’s getting out while he still has the stamina to enjoy retirement. I bet he’ll buy a yacht and sail the Mediterranean.”
“Lucky Clyde.” Bryony scrolled both screens to the next set of numbers.
She knew little about Clyde other than his fairness as a boss. He had trained them from the ground up, paid for their associate degrees, and provided beyond adequate benefits. He kept his personal life private, having established separation of work and home life from the beginning. Bryony had no complaints.
“Lucky us, Bry,” Paul said. “We’ve been here so long we can afford to retire. Aren’t you itching to get out of here?”
“No.” She itched to have Paul vamoose so she could solve the numerical mystery in front of her. As long as the new owner did not cut pay or benefits and allowed Bryony to do her job without micromanaging, she couldn’t care less who stood at the helm. Her direct customers were her main focus.
“I’m ready for something new,” Paul said.
