Chapter 3 - The Brass Key
Elena stared at the photograph so long that the sounds of Rosie's faded around her.
Her grandmother stood beneath the old Carter's Bread & Pie sign wearing an apron dusted with flour.
Beside Margaret was a dark-haired woman Elena didn't recognize.
And beside that woman stood Vincent.
Ten years old, perhaps eleven.
Skinny.
Serious.
Already wearing the guarded expression Elena had seen across a restaurant table the night before.
She looked at Rebecca.
“Who is the woman?”
“Vincent's mother.”
Elena looked again.
“Her name?”
“Lucia Hale.”
“Why was she with my grandmother?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“I think Vincent should explain that.”
“Then why did you bring me this?”
“Because there are people who don't want you signing his contract.”
That chilled the conversation immediately.
“Who?”
Rebecca slid the photograph back into the folder.
“One of them is my client.”
“Who is your client?”
“The former owner of the building.”
“You said you represented him.”
“I do.”
“Why does he care what I do after the sale?”
“Because he believes Mr. Hale bought the property for reasons that have nothing to do with business.”
“He clearly did.”
Rebecca's expression remained serious.
“There are old agreements connected to that property.”
“What kind of agreements?”
“Ones dating back to your grandmother.”
Elena didn't like this.
Not at all.
“Tell me.”
“I can't. Not yet.”
“Then you came here to frighten me.”
“I came because you deserve to know that the building isn't as simple as Vincent made it sound.”
She handed Elena a business card.
“Before you sign anything, call me.”
Then Rebecca left.
Tessa immediately rushed over.
“What did she want?”
Elena looked through the window at the disappearing SUV.
“I don't know.”
“That is not a comforting answer.”
“No.”
“Are you signing the lease?”
“I was considering it.”
“And now?”
Elena stared down at the brass key in her palm.
“Now I need to know why Vincent lied.”
“He technically didn't lie.”
“He omitted thirty years.”
“Men do that.”
Elena gave her a look.
“What? It's practically a hobby.”
By evening, Elena had made up her mind.
She texted the number printed on the card Vincent had left with the contract.
We need to talk.
His reply arrived twenty seconds later.
Name the place.
Elena typed:
The bakery. 8 p.m.
At exactly eight, a black sedan stopped outside 2147 West Armitage.
Vincent got out alone.
Elena was waiting beneath the faded awning.
The building looked worse at night.
Dusty windows.
Peeling trim.
An old paper notice taped inside.
The original Carter's sign was still there, though three letters had lost their paint.
Vincent approached.
“You came alone.”
“You asked to talk.”
“I assumed you'd bring security.”
“They're nearby.”
“So technically not alone.”
“Technically.”
Elena pulled out the photograph.
Vincent stopped.
For the first time since she'd met him, true surprise crossed his face.
“Where did you get that?”
“Rebecca Sloan.”
His jaw tightened.
“What did she tell you?”
“That you knew my grandmother.”
Vincent looked at the photograph.
“I did.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I didn't know how.”
“That's not a good answer.”
“No.”
“Try another one.”
Vincent glanced toward the bakery.
“Open the door.”
“What?”
“You have the key.”
Elena looked at the brass key in her hand.
She hadn't entered the building since she was twenty.
Her pulse quickened.
She slid the key into the rear lock.
It resisted.
Then turned.
The door opened with a long wooden creak.
Dust filled the beam from Elena's phone.
Vincent stood behind her.
Neither spoke.
The old kitchen remained.
Bare steel tables.
Empty shelves.
An oven too outdated to pass inspection.
A cracked tile Elena remembered tripping over when she was seven.
She moved deeper inside.
Her throat tightened.
“Why did your mother know my grandmother?”
Vincent finally answered.
“Because my mother worked here.”
Elena turned.
“What?”
“She started when she was seventeen.”
“At Carter's?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Nearly twelve years.”
Elena looked around differently now.
Lucia had stood here.
Perhaps at the same counter.
Perhaps used the same oven.
Vincent continued.
“My father wasn't wealthy then. He wasn't powerful. He was barely around.”
“What did he do?”
“Things I didn't understand as a child.”
“And later?”
Vincent's expression closed.
“Things I understood too well.”
Elena studied him.
“What did my grandmother have to do with it?”
“She helped my mother leave him.”
That landed harder than Elena expected.
“Leave?”
“My father could be…” Vincent searched for a word. “Controlling.”
Elena sensed that word was doing a great deal of work.
“My mother wanted out. She had almost nothing. Your grandmother gave her extra shifts. Let us sleep upstairs when we needed somewhere safe.”
“There was an apartment upstairs.”
“I know.”
Elena's skin prickled.
“You lived here?”
“For six months.”
She stared.
“Here?”
Vincent nodded.
“I did homework at that table.”
He pointed toward a corner.
“I slept upstairs. Your grandmother used to give me cinnamon rolls when she thought my mother wasn't looking.”
Elena almost smiled.
“That sounds like Grandma.”
Vincent walked toward the old counter.
“She saved us.”
“Then why didn't anyone ever tell me?”
“Your grandmother never talked about people's worst days.”
Elena's eyes softened.
That sounded like Margaret too.
“Why buy the building now?”
Vincent looked directly at her.
“Because I owed her.”
“My grandmother is gone.”
“I know.”
“So you decided to repay her through me?”
“Partly.”
“That word again.”
Vincent went still.
Elena stepped closer.
“What aren't you telling me?”
Before he could answer, a loud knock struck the front glass.
Both turned.
A man stood outside.
Sixties.
Gray coat.
Umbrella.
He looked furious.
Vincent's expression transformed instantly.
Whatever softness had been there disappeared.
“Stay here.”
“Who is that?”
“Someone who shouldn't be here.”
Vincent walked toward the front door.
The older man raised his voice through the glass.
“You had no right to buy this place.”
Elena followed despite Vincent's instruction.
“Who is he?”
Vincent didn't answer.
The man looked past him and saw Elena.
His face changed.
Not anger.
Recognition.
He whispered something through the glass.
Elena couldn't hear it.
Vincent could.
His shoulders went rigid.
Elena moved closer.
“What did he say?”
Vincent looked at her.
For several seconds he said nothing.
Then:
“He called you Margaret.”
May you like
And Elena suddenly realized the mysteries buried inside Carter's Bread & Pie had barely begun.
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