Chapter 10

What in the hell am I doing?

I ask myself the question repeatedly on the drive over. I wish the drive were longer so that I could put this off as long as possible, but on the other hand, it might be better to get it over with. Either way, the thirty-minute drive to Dad’s house goes by before I know it.

I say ‘Dad’s house’ but really, I mean Priscilla’s house. She’s the one who picked it out, who ‘convinced’ Dad that it was just the house to have even if it was too much money for our family, and who decorated every room.

Still, I grew up here for so many years, I even have a room on the far end of the hall on the second floor, overlooking the front yard. Not the gorgeous garden in the back yard, of course. Sabrina got that one because it had the view and the bigger closet.

But this house has never been home to me.

Once upon a time, I’d hoped that Dad would come to his senses and see what a bitch Priscilla is and how shitty Sabrina treats me.

But he was always so busy with his work, mostly to pay for Priscilla’s lifestyle. So before too long, the pecking order was established. Priscilla was the queen of the household, Sabrina the pampered princess, and I ranked somewhere . . . lower.

I feel like in a lot of ways, Dad just didn’t know what to do with a daughter. The little time we had, just the two of us, certainly was more tomboyish than anything else. So he left me to my own devices with Priscilla, hoping for and only seeing the best.

To her credit, Priscilla was good. I can see that now in hindsight. Her criticisms were always couched in a way to make it seem like she was helping me . . .

“Oh, dear, your hair is so unfortunate. Those curls are just as unruly as you are, poor girl. Let me fix it.”

And then she’d yank and pull, ripping my hair from the root and scraping my scalp with the cheap plastic brush she kept just for me, until it was smoothed into a bun so tight it gave me headaches. She’d spray it with hairspray, making sure to get it in my eyes so they burned and watered. I learned not to jump or cry out because then she’d slap her hand on my shoulder, her nails digging in as she ordered me, “Sit still and quit squawking like a crybaby.”

Dad never seemed to notice, the few times he was around. If anything, he’d simply smile and tell me my hair looked nice when Priscilla prompted him, proving once again that she had him fooled. Or he’d say that he was glad I was growing up into a young lady, like jeans and T-shirts were somehow the devil’s garments.

Over the years, Sabrina couldn’t help but learn at her mother’s side. Her snide remarks and blatant role as the favorite made me an unwanted guest in my own home.

I pull into the driveway, looking at the house. It’s not the nice, comfortable family home I’d lived in when my mom was still alive so long ago, though I only remember it from looking at pictures so many times.

Then, Dad was a man who made a six-figure salary and lived a five-figure lifestyle. Now, he’s worked his way to a seven-figure paycheck but lives like it’s eight.

This monster of a house is one sign of that, pretty unless you grew up here. Six bedrooms and seven baths, a pool out back surrounded by flowers and statues. The brand-new BMW sitting out front is another sign of Dad’s indulgences, this year’s model because Priscilla gets a new one every year on her birthday. Black every time, just like her soul.

Sighing, I get out of my car, the very sensible eight-year-old Volkswagen that Dad got me as a high school graduation gift. It’s been a damn good car, and I have zero need for anything newer, and Dad quit offering when I refused after college. With Priscilla taking advantage of his money, I refuse to do the same.

I ring the bell and a second later, it opens. Dad looks like he’s just come home from work, which is likely the case. His suit and tie are still pristine, though I’m sure he’s spent the day at the office. “Charlotte, come in.”

Uh-oh, the Disappointed Dad routine has already begun.

I close the door behind me, following him into the living room and sitting down like he does. I look around at the latest décor. It’s straight out of ELLE Décor, probably last month’s issue, so it must be Priscilla’s latest update.

The chair beneath me is uncomfortable, but even worse is the discomfort between me and the man I still hold out hope for. Hope that he’ll hug me, apologize for the suffering I’ve been put through, and hand me a Mr. Pibb once again.

Instead, he draws out the moment until I start fidgeting. “Where are Priscilla and Sabrina?” It’s a rookie question, and I know it’ll only highlight the gaping distance between Dad and me, but the desire to know if I’m going to get taken out from behind is hard to resist.

“Out. I wanted this to be just us.” Like the silly little girl I still am inside, that hope starts to blossom. But it’s quickly squashed when he looks at me harshly. “How could you do that to your sister?”

“Sabrina isn’t my sister, just like Priscilla isn’t my mother. We’ve had this conversation,” I say, disappointment making me roll my eyes. I’m sure to him I seem petulant and immature, but really, it’s a conglomeration of frustration over the fact that he never sees the truth.

“We have. So let’s have a different one.” His tone is distant, professional, as if I’m an employee in his company, not his daughter. “Priscilla has worked very hard to cultivate a relationship with the Jacobses. And to present Sabrina as a good match for Lance Jacobs. I am embarrassed that you would interfere, slotting yourself into a position created for your sister. Your behavior at the gala was grossly unacceptable.”

“My behavior?” I sputter. “You think my behavior was unacceptable? But Priscilla conspiring with Mrs. Jacobs to marry off their children, with zero regard for whether Lance is actually interested in Sabrina, is perfectly fine? Like we’re in medieval times, marrying for land boundaries. If you’ll remember, I was nothing but polite when I met them. Lance followed me, at the gala and at the bakery.”

Shit. I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t want them to know that Lance is hanging around and helping me at the bakery. It feels like it’s private, between me and him. Maybe Dad won’t notice? I cross my fingers and toes, praying that he’s too riled up at my hinting at the horror of an arranged marriage in this day and age.

“Speaking of the bakery, I still do not understand what prompted you to give up such a promising position for drudgery.”

Well, one crisis averted in favor of another. “Dad, working at Blackwell was never going to be what I thought it was, or the lessons you said I’d learn at a big company. I wasn’t learning anything, and it was...” I freeze, the word ‘dangerous’ on the tip of my tongue. But I can’t tell him about Blackwell’s attempts to hamstring Thomas, can’t tell him about the SUV parked outside even right now because my security followed me here. “It was a dead end.”

“Hmph.”

I punt, changing directions. “I love baking. And Cake Culture has been a roaring success. I’m working hard, but I love it. I’ve learned so much, building something great from the ground up. I thought you’d be proud of me for that.”

“I have always been proud of you, upset at your teen rebellion, occasionally, but proud of your work ethic. This step is too far, though, Charlotte. Working before dawn until late at night, requiring a singular focus. You do always pick the hard way, sometimes just to spite everyone around you.” He sighs, like my bakery has anything to do with him, Priscilla, or Sabrina. “But why struggle when there is an easier path? You could’ve worked your way up at Blackwell, worked for me or one of a dozen companies...”

His voice trails off, and though I know the definition of insanity is to do the same thing and expect a different result, I explain what the bakery means to me again for the hundredth time. “I love it, Dad. It’s my heart and soul, hard work, and creativity in each of those baked goods. I’ve taken the lessons Grandma Winnie taught me, the recipes she shared, and improved upon them. I’m succeeding. Yes, it’s hard and takes more time than exists in a twenty-four-hour day, but I love it.”

I beseech him to understand, pleading with my eyes.

His gaze locks on me, and that stupid hope tries to rise again. His answer is a mixed bag, though. “Fine. If you’re so staunchly sure that this is the path you want to traverse, I’ll support that. Not financially, of course. But you have my blessing.” He pauses long enough for my brain to celebrate his support and scoff at his unneeded blessing to do whatever the hell I want.

“But if you want that, you need to step aside and let others, who choose differently, have a clear path. You will leave Lance to Sabrina. She needs a good man, one who can take her in hand and deal with her high-strung personality. Priscilla has worked hard to make this happen, and you will not interfere.”

“Dad,” I say, my jaw dropping.

He shakes his head definitively. “We are hosting a family dinner with the Jacobses on Sunday. You will attend, you will obviously rebuff any advances from Lance, you will redirect positive attention to Sabrina, and you will be pleasant to Priscilla. She’s been a good mother to you, and as your father, I need this from you.”

His laundry list of to-dos is laughable, but the rest sticks in my craw. A good mother? Priscilla? She turned my family inside out, made my life a living hell, and took my Daddy away from me.

I shake my head, the mirror image of his earlier movement, and his lips quirk. “You are the spitting image of her, you know?”

My heart stops, and for a moment, I think he means Priscilla, which is the worst insult he could ever give me. But he continues and my heart cracks wide open.

“Your mother was a stunner, had me wrapped around her little finger.” He doesn’t often talk about Mom, but the idea that both women in his life have had him at their beck and call is an uncomfortable comparison between the woman I hold in the highest regard and the one I hate with a vehemence bordering on unhealthy.

“She is the reason I succeeded in those early days. I was young, foolish, and slacked off too much, but she would sit me down and make me study. Later, when I had all these pie-in-the-sky dreams, she’d force me to make a step-by-step plan to make them a reality. She taught me how to work hard and see a goal to fruition. My company, my everything” —he looks around the house that Priscilla designed— “it’s all because she loved me and saw something in me. In you, I see both of us. Your mother’s focus and my dreams. Hopefully, the very best of us both.”

He smiles softly, and I see my Daddy for the first time in years. “Thank you. That means a lot to me,” I confess.

He stands up, arms open wide, and I stand up too, never too big for a hug from the man I miss desperately. He feels smaller in my arms than I remember, the giant of a man suddenly more human, more flawed, and I realize that he’s doing the best he can. I might not like it in the least, but he’s choosing his life every day the same way I am. He doesn’t understand my bakery and I don’t understand his wife, but we can still love each other in spite of the differences in opinion.

“Sunday, Charlotte.” His tone broaches no argument.

I nod but push back slightly to meet his eyes. “I’ll come, but Priscilla and Sabrina are wrong in this. Lance isn’t a car they can buy. He’s not a horse they can choose as a stud. He’s a man, one with his own opinions. You’d do well to remember that.”

He presses his lips together, nodding. “As would you. Sabrina is a beautiful young woman whom any man would be fortunate to call his wife. Don’t interfere. Don’t risk yourself when you say your focus is devoted solely on Cake Culture.”

He presses a quick kiss to my forehead like he did when I was little, and I turn to go before the tears burning at the corners of my eyes can spill over.

That he knows the name of my bakery is a small feather in my cap, a sign that maybe he has been listening. But as I get into the car for the drive home, I know I’m going to this dinner, not because I’m doing it for him. And certainly not for Priscilla or Sabrina.

I’m going to dinner because Lance deserves to have someone sitting at that table who’s on his side. I don’t know what we’re doing beyond the fact that he basically makes my ovaries twerk like they’re backup dancers in a Nikki Minaj video, but I know that he shouldn’t get ensnared in Sabrina’s scheming web, even if it is gold-encrusted.

Sunday dinner, it is.