Chapter 6 - The Cost of Keeping the Doors Open
The first week on cash-on-delivery terms felt like running a bakery with one hand tied behind my back.
Every sack of flour had to be paid for before it reached our shelves. The butter supplier shortened our credit window. A catering customer delayed a payment because her company had changed accounting systems. None of those people had caused my problem, but their ordinary decisions made it harder to survive.
I met with a business counselor at a local small-business development center. We reviewed actual expenses, likely sales, and whether a limited short-term financing option made sense. I didn't want another debt. I also couldn't keep asking employees to trust a business I was too embarrassed to explain.
I told Jo and the staff the essential truth: the bakery was disputing an unauthorized financing arrangement, legal counsel was involved, and I had a plan to meet payroll while reducing optional expenses. I did not share private details from Rebecca's case or speculate about criminal charges.
Nobody quit.
One of our bakers, Samuel, asked whether he should look for other work. I told him the uncertainty was real and that he should make the decision best for his family. I promised to communicate promptly if our situation changed.
He nodded slowly.
"That's more useful than telling me everything will be fine," he said.
My father helped me negotiate a payment extension on an existing oven repair. Jo found a way to reduce ingredient waste. Mara ran a weekend preorder campaign based on our usual products, not an emotional appeal about my canceled wedding.
We sold out of cinnamon rolls in two hours.
Eli came in at closing with a check for the balance Nathan still owed him.
"He paid me this morning," he said.
I stared at the check.
"That money belongs in an account with a clear source. Don't use it to reimburse me."
"I wasn't offering it," Eli said. "I wanted you to know he's paying some people while asking you to wait."
That detail mattered. Nathan had told me the hotel contract hadn't paid and that he couldn't move any funds. Yet he had managed to send money to Eli, apparently to settle an old personal obligation.
We gave the information to the lawyers and left them to determine what records could be requested. I refused to turn the bakery into a detective agency that treated every small payment as proof of a larger plot.
Rebecca called a week later. Her lender had acknowledged that part of the account activity appeared inconsistent with her authorization and was continuing a formal review. She sounded relieved but not triumphant.
"It's strange," she said. "I wanted one letter saying I was right. Now I just want them to stop using my name."
"I know."
Diane informed me that the lender on my account had opened an internal investigation and suspended collection activity on the disputed portion while it reviewed the authorization issue, subject to the terms of its process and applicable law. She said to keep making undisputed payments and preserve every notice. It was progress, not a final ruling.
That weekend the bakery's landlord offered a one-month deferral on part of the rent after reviewing our records. I signed the agreement and added the deferred balance to a repayment schedule. Accepting help felt different from accepting secrecy. I knew what I owed and why.
I found Eli waiting outside one evening as I locked the door. He asked if I wanted a ride home.
"No," I said. "But you can walk with me to the corner."
We walked past the darkened florist's shop and the bus shelter where Nathan used to meet me after late shifts.
"I kept thinking if I stayed at the church, that would make up for not warning you sooner," Eli said.
"It doesn't."
"I know."
"But you did stay. I remember that."
He looked relieved, and I hated how much I wanted someone to be relieved. The part of me that loved old friendships was still alive beneath the anger.
At the corner he handed me a sealed envelope.
"Nathan left this at my shop. I didn't open it. I thought you should decide whether to read it with Diane."
May you like
It was addressed to me in Nathan's handwriting.
On the back, beneath the flap, he had written: I finally told them what I did.
