Chapter 10 – The Table Her Mother Left Behind

I read Caroline’s message twice.

Then I looked at the blue folder Victoria had left on the dining-room sideboard.

Something about the word everything bothered me.

The removal company had been hired to clear a building for renovation. There should have been an inventory.

I opened the folder.

There it was.

Three pages listing every piece of equipment scheduled for removal.

Two commercial ovens.

A stainless-steel refrigerator.

Three metal shelving units.

And an old wooden worktable.

Beside the worktable, someone had written:

No commercial value. Dispose.

I stared at the words.

Caroline had told me about that table earlier, while she’d been decorating the birthday cake.

It was the one her mother had used when she was growing up.

The one Caroline had insisted on bringing into her new bakery, despite its scratched surface and uneven legs.

I picked up my phone.

Caroline, I found the removal inventory. Please don’t leave the bakery. I’m bringing it.

She answered almost immediately.

Thank you, Rachel.

Twenty minutes later, I walked into Sunday Table Bakery.

The front windows were dusty.

A hand-painted wooden sign leaned against the wall, waiting to be installed.

Inside, the little shop smelled of fresh plaster, sawdust, and the faint sweetness of vanilla.

Caroline stood in the empty kitchen.

Dominic was beside her, his black suit jacket folded over a chair.

He’d rolled up his sleeves.

I noticed a streak of dust on one of his tattooed hands.

It was an odd sight.

The man whose name made half of Chicago nervous was examining an electrical outlet.

Caroline turned when she saw me.

“Rachel.”

I held up the folder.

“I found the inventory.”

She came toward me.

We spread the pages across the front counter.

Dominic examined the list.

“The ovens were transferred to commercial storage.”

Caroline breathed out.

“Okay.”

“The refrigerator, too.”

“Good.”

He turned the page.

Then stopped.

“What is it?” she asked.

He pointed to the worktable.

Caroline read the notation.

Her face drained.

“Dispose?”

I nodded.

“I’m sorry.”

She stared at the paper.

“That table belonged to my mother.”

Dominic looked around the empty kitchen.

“I remember it.”

Caroline turned toward him.

“You do?”

“Your mother used it for the Christmas cookie boxes. Every December, she’d have trays stacked all over that thing.”

Caroline smiled faintly.

“You used to complain that there wasn’t room for breakfast.”

“She told me breakfast could wait until January.”

Caroline laughed.

Then her eyes filled.

“I brought it here because I thought she’d like seeing it in a real bakery.”

Dominic looked at the empty space where the table had stood.

“Of course she would.”

Caroline lowered herself onto a chair.

For a moment, she seemed younger than twenty-one.

“I know it’s just a table.”

Dominic shook his head.

“No, it isn’t.”

He knelt beside the empty space and examined the floor.

“There was a brass screw in one of the legs.”

Caroline looked up.

“What?”

“I fixed it when you were little. Your mother said the table wobbled every time she rolled pastry.”

He smiled at the memory.

“I couldn’t find a matching screw, so I used one from an old cabinet.”

Caroline covered her mouth.

“I remember that.”

Dominic sat back on his heels.

“Your mother said my repair looked terrible.”

“She said it would hold.”

He nodded.

“It did.”

I looked down at the inventory.

The table had been marked for disposal rather than storage.

The company had treated it as worthless.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

At the bottom of the page was a scheduled disposal date.

Saturday morning.

Seven o’clock.

Less than eight hours away.

“Mr. Moretti,” I said, “we need to deal with this first.”

Dominic stood.

He read the date.

Then he looked at Caroline.

“We’ll go to the storage facility in the morning.”

She shook her head.

“What if it’s already gone?”

“Then we’ll find out where it went.”

“And if they destroyed it?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

That, more than any promise, made me trust him.

Finally, he said, “Then I’ll be very sorry I didn’t protect it. But I won’t pretend I can replace it.”

Caroline wiped her cheeks.

“Okay.”

We spent the next hour documenting the missing equipment.

Dominic checked the inventory against Caroline’s purchase receipts.

I photographed the empty kitchen and the remaining electrical connections.

Caroline found her original lease in a folder beneath the counter.

She spread it beside the invoices.

“I want everything in writing,” she said.

Dominic nodded.

“Good.”

“No favors. No special arrangements.”

“Agreed.”

“And if your company owes me money because they damaged my equipment, I want them to pay it like they’d pay any other tenant.”

He looked at her.

“That’s exactly what should happen.”

Caroline studied him.

“You’re really going to let me handle this?”

“I’ll help you with anything you ask.”

He paused.

“But I won’t take over your business.”

She smiled a little.

“That might be harder for you than you think.”

“Almost certainly.”

For the first time, I believed they might find their way back to each other.

Not because the truth had fixed everything.

But because they were finally learning how to disagree without walking away.

Before we left, Caroline picked up the little wooden sign.

SUNDAY TABLE BAKERY.

Underneath, in smaller letters, she’d painted:

Something good is always worth sharing.

Dominic touched the edge of it.

“Your mother used to say that.”

Caroline nodded.

“Every time I complained about giving away the last cookie.”

He smiled.

“She gave away a lot of last cookies.”

Caroline looked around the bare kitchen.

“I don’t know if I’ll be ready to open next month.”

Dominic didn’t promise her that everything would work out.

Instead, he took out the inventory.

“Let’s find your table first.”

We were gathering the papers when I noticed one final line beneath the disposal entry.

The old worktable hadn’t been sent to the same storage warehouse as the ovens.

It had been assigned to a salvage contractor.

And beside its description was a handwritten instruction.

Do not hold. Destroy at opening.

I showed Dominic.

He read it without speaking.

Then Caroline asked the question none of us wanted to answer.

“Dad, what if we’re already too late?”

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