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“He needs us to haul away all the pots and pans this afternoon, and then we remove the brick wall separating my office from the workspace. The plan is to save the old bricks and then sell them. Jean Paul says people pay for old brick.”

It was a simple and straightforward plan.

Simple. I hate it when someone makes a simple plan. In my book, it’s the equivalent of thumbing your nose at the Fates.

“Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it,” Rachel said.

“First, we sell. This morning, business as usual, then we close at noon to clear out the kitchen. Then we tackle the rest.” We moved down the back staircase toward the kitchen.

The building stood three stories tall, not including the basement, where the baking was done.

The shop took up the first floor, Rachel and her two daughters lived on the second floor, and the attic was all mine.

There were times when the girls were running and playing on the stairs, so that the noise grew annoying, but I reminded myself this was how people lived one hundred years ago—several generations under one roof.

My dad had bought the building next door thirty years ago, when the city had fallen by the wayside and land was cheap.

His friends thought he was crazy. They had been encouraging him to leave Alexandria, and he’d invested in more property.

But Dad wasn’t a quitter, and about that time he and a handful of folks pushed for a new plan for Alexandria.

It didn’t happen overnight, but these days the city enjoyed a steady stream of tourism.

More For Sale signs had popped up on some of the retail shops, and last week there’d been a bankruptcy sale, but the city seemed to be holding its own.

And if the bakery could get back up and running, we’d do the same.

The sound of Jean Paul’s hammer striking brick reverberated up from the basement.

Rachel cringed. “He said he’d wait until we closed at noon.”

Hammer hit brick. I winced. “Maybe he’s testing the wall. Preliminary whacks.”

Her lips flattening, she shook her head. “He drives me crazy.”

My stomach tightened. “The man is a master. He could bake wonderful bread out of the flour he sweeps up off the floor.”

“But he doesn’t stick to bread. He’s telling me what pastries I should bake.”

Rachel had had issues with him last week over the menu.

She’d already given up menu items her late husband had put in place, and Jean Paul now wanted more gone.

I agreed with Jean Paul but had yet to tackle the newest menu cuts with Rachel.

The renovation had bought me some time, but the battle would tee up again when we reopened.

We found Jean Paul, a tall wiry man with slicked-back dark hair, cigarette dangling from his mouth, poised over the basement brick oven. He had a chisel and hammer in hand, and he seemed to be studying the best angle of attack.

“Jean Paul, the city inspector will not let us alter the oven. If we do, then he’ll make us remove it.”

Jean Paul’s gaze remained on the oven. “I’m taking out a brick or two.”

“The deal was no bricks.”

“That’s why I started early. I’ve never known an inspector to rise early, and by the time ours does, the repairs will be made and no one will be the wiser.”

The smell of cigarette smoke and the coffee sent my stomach into somersaults, forcing me to brace. “Jean Paul, no cigarettes in the kitchen.”

He raised his gaze, one eye squinting as the smoke trailed past. “It’s not a kitchen today.”

“It’s still a kitchen for a few more hours.

Put it out!” My stomach tumbled as I moved to the large stainless steel refrigerator and pulled an ice-cold ginger ale from the back.

I popped the top and sipped carefully. The cool liquid soothed my throat, and for the moment my stomach handled it.

Yesterday, I’d drunk the soda too fast, and it had come up within a matter of minutes.

My stomach didn’t love the first tentative sips but had also not rejected them.

Maybe my stomach’s acceptance of the ginger ale was a sign. Maybe this was indeed the flu and my panicked trip to the drugstore last night was all for nothing.

Please, oh, please, oh, please.

Rachel poured herself a cup of coffee and eyed me over the rim. “So, what’s going on with you? You have too much to drink last night?”

I pressed the cold can to my head. “Yeah, too much to drink. I’ll be fine.”

She sipped, studied, and looked ready to comment when Jean Paul struck his hammer into the motor. The strike was hard and loud and made us both jump.

“How many more bricks?” I shouted.

“Six, maybe ten, no more than twenty.”

“Twenty bricks.” I pressed the cold can to my cheek. “That will ruin the oven.”

He shook his head. “This is for me to worry about. You two must get ready for the day.”

A heavy weight pressed on me, and for a moment unbearable worry tightened around me. The old oven had served this bakery so well for seventy years, and he was dismantling it bit by bit. “Don’t screw up my oven.”

He grunted, raised his hammer to a stone, and then seemed to think better of it before moving to another section.

Since the spring, I’d had a lifetime’s worth of change.

This might not be my dream life, but it was my life.

I wanted this renovation done as fast as possible so that everything would settle.

I wanted the bakery to keep growing and improving.

I wanted numbers once red to stay black, and pink to remain white.

Gordon to keep on loving me. I didn’t want more change. Want.

Wanting could be as bad as planning. Both invited trouble.