was approval to use the converted garage itself for commercial activity.
Irvin had renovated it for me years earlier. A contractor had handled the work, and we had both believed the paperwork was complete.
“I thought it was done,” Irvin said, pale as he held the letter. “Claire, I swear.”
My bakery.
“I know.”
That was what made it worse. Vanessa hadn’t invented the problem. She had found a real one.
I had a wedding cake for 60 guests due in nine days and a corporate order for 200 cookies after that. Ingredients were already bought. Deposits had already gone toward supplies and a new mixer attachment.
My ovens were suddenly useless.
Vanessa hadn’t invented the problem.
Vanessa came to our porch that evening carrying a bottle of wine.
“I’ve come to make you an offer,” she said.
Irvin folded his arms. “Get to the point.”
“Tell the neighborhood that
