Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

DOM

FRIDAY, MAY 20, 6 P.M.

As I leave my brother to take his shot and follow our mother, I can think of many things I'd rather do than declutter an office that looks like a tornado hit it. But watching my brother crash and burn again isn't one of them. It's not that I don't think Xander can do it. I believe in him. Xander's the one who needs to be convinced. He doesn't believe he can do it. Neither does our mother.

Mom unlocks her office door. "I hope he doesn't fire the entire kitchen staff."

"He's got this, Mom."

Her frown turns into an amused smirk and her eyes sparkle. "You're a good brother, Dom," she says, leading me into the cramped room.

"And an even better son. Jesus, Mom. When's the last time you went through this stuff?" I'm going for the laugh, but the light in her eyes dims.

Her chin goes up. "I can do this by myself."

"Okay, sure. I'll check on you in a few"—I glance at the watch that is not on my wrist because no one wears a watch these days —"hundred years. Will you want your meals brought in? Or is fasting included in this self-sacrifice?"

She laughs and slaps my arm playfully. That's the reaction I was going for. "Let's get to work. Lord knows you can't miss a meal."

"Nothing wrong with loving food, Mom." I pat my flat stomach. I also love going to the gym.

My family is dramatic in a woe-is-me kind of way. That's not my style. I'm more likely to find the humor in something than the drama. That's not the only difference between me and the rest of my family. It's hard to believe I have any Italian blood in me. I'd think I was adopted, except my brother and I were born on the same day at the same time from the same person. Hard to dispute those facts.

Maybe this was God's plan. I'm obviously here to keep these two from drowning in their woes.

We sort through the desk first. These are the most pressing things. We use my system of organization. My mother's idea of piling it out of the way didn't work because everything fell over and we had to start again. Did I say it would take her one hundred years on her own? I meant two hundred.

My mother isn't a hoarder. There's no clutter in the house. Or her car. But for some reason, her office is a disaster. Although, we do have a housekeeper at home. No one's allowed in Mom's office here at the restaurant, so that might be it.

This room is always dark. Is it the gray paint and dark carpet? The closed blinds? Or Mom's mood the minute she steps through the door? "We should paint."

My mother arches a brow. "We barely have time for this."

"You could hire someone, Mom. Brighten the place up."

She's already shaking her head, so I move on to the filing cabinet. The work is tedious and my suggestion of playing music is met with a heavy sigh. Like I said. Dramatic.

Or is it so she can hear if something goes wrong in the kitchen?

A shoe box at the back of the bottom drawer catches my attention. There's no dust on the box, which seems strange. I had assumed Mom hadn't gone through this cabinet in a while. I stand and stretch—my muscles are cramping—and then sit so the box is hidden from my mother's view. In it are folded letters—which I don't open—and a small notebook with sketches—which I do. A picture falls out, but I ignore it for now. The notebook is filled with drawings and scribbled plans. The pencil markings are smudged, but I bring the notebook closer and turn it this way and that. The drawings are of a restaurant or maybe a bakery. But not Vinni's. Maybe the prototype?

The other notebook pages are filled with handwritten notes and even a budget. I recognize my mother's handwriting. It's neat and exact. But another messy scrawl that I've never seen before is interspersed throughout. One page contains a timeline of sorts with headings and a numbered goal. Build Capital- 5 years. Open- 6 years. I skim to the bottom. Travel- 25 years.

"Leave the bottom drawer. I can go through that one myself." The thud of her chair hitting the bookcase is my only warning.

I slip the notebook back into the box and hold up a stack of invoices. "Okay. But why do you have these? They're all on the computer, Mom. You don't need paper copies." Over my shoulder I see her slump forward in her chair. I hate seeing her so defeated. It's completely unlike the powerhouse woman who raised my brother and me while building a successful business.

No more dawdling. The sooner we get this cleaned up, the sooner Mom can do what she's always wanted. Travel the world. Explore the places she's only dreamed about. Italy and Ireland are at the top of that list. I slip the notebook back into the box, intending to return it all to Mom's hiding place, when I notice the picture from the notebook on the floor. Two women side by side. A detailed illustration of a baby in utero behind them. Are they in a doctor's office? One of the women is my mom. The lady next to her has red hair and fair skin. They are both very pregnant.

I swallow the emotion in my throat, unsure why this picture is affecting me. Should I ask Mom about it? About the woman? And if I do, will she brush it off and take the photo? I can't take that chance.

"Did you find something?"

The room is hot, and even my deodorant isn't helping. "No." I return the box to the cabinet and hide the picture under my leg.

Knock . Knock . Knock . Then Paxton's voice. "Sophia?"

Did Xander mess up already? It's barely been an hour. This might be a new record for him.

Mom calls for him to come in and stands.

"We have a problem."

She sighs. "Did anyone quit?"

"Not yet. I begged Jeremy to stay."

"Do I even want to know what happened?"

He studies the wall behind her and shakes his head. "Another fire not handled well."

"Jesus. How many times do we have to do this?" She rubs her forehead. "Let me guess. Xander did not react well."

"No. He did not."

As they talk, I grab the notebook I brought with me to take notes on how to better organize the office and slip the picture inside.

"Where is he now?"

"The usual."

"All right," she says, pressing her fist against her forehead. "Thanks, Paxton."

After he departs, Mom sighs. "We're done for today, Dom. I need to head off any further kitchen disasters. Can you check on your brother?" As she walks around her desk, I scramble to my feet, holding my notebook close to my chest.

"Sure. No problem."

Mom stares past me at the travel poster of Milan, Italy, on her wall. "What am I going to do? I have three months to decide, and your brother—" She stops, clamping her lips together.

But I hear the words she can't say. Xander might not be ready by then. May never be ready.

I squeeze her arm. "Let me take care of this." We both know I don't mean taking over for her. I have zero interest in that. "I have a few ideas."

Although I've never understood her self-imposed deadline of traveling the world at the end of October or the deep sadness she experiences at this time every year, one thing I'm sure of is that Mom needs and deserves a break.

I've been looking at baking competitions to boost Xander's confidence. They have everything he needs: pressure to succeed in the moment. Having to make quick decisions. And relying on someone else. All without Mom and Paxton watching over his shoulder.

I believe in my brother. He can do this. And if he isn't ready in time, this might help convince him to let Paxton take over until he is.

I've checked out several competitions in the area, including the Chicago Bake-Off. But I also found one in Dunklin County, Missouri, a college town near Grandville. The place where Xander and I were born. It wasn't a top contender at the time, but now?

Now, I want to find out everything I can about the woman in this picture.

And why she looks so much like me.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 8 P.M.

Xander is in an area in the back of the restaurant that has a few tables and chairs. More importantly, there's a small tree off to the side and no people. He's slumped in the chair with one hand covering his face and the other holding on to the tree.

I once asked him about that. He said the rough texture of the bark helps ground him. I drag a chair over, the metal scrapping over the stone patio, and he doesn't even look up. "Go away, Dom."

"Not happening." I don't touch him. He's not fond of being touched. "You're not covered in sauce. I'd call that a success."

"Did Jeremy quit?" His voice is low. Defeated. And I hate it.

"Nope. Just complained a lot. So, not much different from usual."

He snorts. I'm not sure I've ever heard my brother full-on laugh, but I'd like to. It's one of my life goals. "I don't need you to cheer me up," he says with a dramatic sigh.

"That's not why I'm here. I want the blow-by-blow. Did Jeremy throw anything? Did Paxton get a hair out of place?" No reaction, but he's no longer clutching the tree, so I take it as a win. "Did Rachel faint? She did that the other day. By the way, she's pregnant and afraid to tell Mom for some reason."

That works. He glances up at me. "Really? How do you know that?"

"People tell me things."

"Right." The resignation is back in his voice, and I'm having none of it.

"Stop. You can do this, Xander. You just need to get out of your own way."

His eyes dart to my face and away. My brother also isn't fond of eye contact, but in that brief second, I see hope. Or at least a desire to hope. "And you have a plan."

I grin. We know each other so well. "Dunklin County is having a bake-off this summer. I think we should enter."

"What? Why?"

The more I think about it, the more excited I get, and I let that bleed through to my words. "This one is a four-day competition and bakers come from all over. It can showcase your abilities. Surviving the pressure without blowing your cool. Teamwork. Getting along with others. Following directions and being a leader."

"What if I can't do all those things?"

"You can, Xander. And I swear it will be easier because you won't be around people you see every day. Mom and Paxton won't be breathing down your neck, waiting for you to fail."

He sits up. Is he warming to the idea? "Isn't there one closer? This is Chicago. Surely there's one here."

He nods. "There is. But baby steps, bro."

"What aren't you telling me?" he asks, crossing his arms.

I've gotten this look many times from my brother over the years. He always knows when I'm lying. Like when I borrowed his Zelda game and blamed it on Paxton. "Grandville is only thirty minutes away."

"So? It's not like we actually lived there."

I pull out my notebook and hold up the picture, hesitating for a second before giving it to him.

In true Xander fashion, he examines it thoroughly. "Callie and Mom?"

"Hold up," I say, excitement building in my chest. "Do you know her?"

"No." He returns the picture to me. "It's written on the back."

My stomach sinks, but I ignore it. On the back, someone has written two first names and a date. Three weeks before we were born.

"This is the reason you want to do this competition?"

"No, idiot. I want to do this for you. Solving a mystery in the process is just a perk."

"I'm not sure…"

"Well, get sure because I'm signing us up. And I'll bring my marker just in case."

He scowls as expected. "I'm not a child, Dom. I don't need you to hold my hand or leave me notes of encouragement."

"First off," I say, gathering my notebook and standing. I'm itching to get us signed up for the competition. "You don't let anyone hold your hand. I've tried over the years. And second, if you'd let me leave you a note, all of this kitchen drama could have been avoided."

He shakes his head and stands. "That's not remotely true."

I shrug. "It's a theory. My theory."

"But it's not evidence-based. Where's your proof?"

I don't list the many times it has worked over the years. That's not the point. "I'm currently gathering my data. I'll let you know the results after we win the Dunklin County Bake-Off."

He scowls again. But he's not slumped in a chair, hanging on to a crabapple tree for dear life.

I accomplished my goal. Get Xander out of his head and focused.

Everyone has been in a slump the last few months. This competition is just what we need to make a fresh start.