Chapter 7 - The Newport ReckoningFriday morning brought a crisp, clear sky and a black Mercedes limousine that parked directly in front of the bakery’s fire hydrant.
Clara Fairchild stepped out of the rear seat, her posture rigid, her face completely covered by a pair of large dark sunglasses. She carried a thick, manila envelope in her gloved hand, her high heels clicking sharply against the wet pavement as she pushed open the bakery door.
The bell chimed.
Rosalind was behind the counter, filling the display case with fresh tarts. Cassian stood near the coffee station, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes tracking Clara’s movements with the cold efficiency of a judge delivering a sentence.
Clara laid the envelope on the glass counter. “It’s all there, Rose. Fifty thousand dollars, adjusted for sixteen years of inflation. One hundred and eighty-four thousand dollars, drawn from my personal investment account. My husband doesn't know about it. Nobody knows about it.”
Rosalind didn't touch the envelope. She looked at her sister—the girl she had shared a bedroom with, the girl she had protected from their father’s alcohol-fueled rages when they were children. “Do you think this fixes it, Clara? Do you think a check makes up for the nights I spent wondering what was wrong with me? For the years I spent watching the clock at four in the morning, waiting for a ghost?”
“I did what I had to do to survive, Rose!” Clara whispered fiercely, her eyes welling with angry, selfish tears behind her glasses. “We were poor! We were nobody on this miserable hill! I wanted to be someone! I wanted a house where the windows didn't rattle when the bus went by!”
“You could have asked me,” Rosalind said, her voice dropping into a soft, sorrowful tone that carried more weight than any shout. “I would have given you the bakery, Clara. I would have worked two jobs to send you to that school in Newport if you had just told me the truth. But you sold my heart to a old man who used it to destroy his own son.”
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Cassian stepped forward, picking up the envelope and handing it to Frank, who had just entered from the alley. “The funds are verified, Clara. Your husband’s credit line at the West End bank remains intact. For now. But your relationship with this family is concluded. If I see your car on Federal Hill again, the interest rates on your mortgage will triple by Monday morning.”
Clara didn't look back. She turned around, her silk coat swishing around her legs as she fled the shop, the brass bell ringing her out into the cold October sun like a final judgment on a sisterhood that had been broken for sixteen years.
