Chapter 5: Cold Water

"No," I said.

Harlan Rutledge looked at the envelope in his hand, then at me.

"You haven't thought about it."

"I thought about it for the whole time you were taking your coat off."

"Two million is a great deal of flour, Mrs. Rutledge."

"It's two million dollars for lying about a photograph. I took that photograph. I know what day it was."

He set the envelope on a shelf between a crate of eggs and a block of butter.

He did it carefully, so it wouldn't touch anything.

"Then I'll tell you what a no costs," he said. "My other son keeps his equipment on land my firm leases to him. The lease is up in January."

"You'd evict your own son to win an argument with a baker?"

"I would do a great many things for this family's name."

"Sam doesn't want your name."

"Sam doesn't want a lot of things, and he still eats."

He walked out past the butter racks and through the shop, leaving the freezer door open.

The cold came out around my ankles.

I stood there for a moment, waiting for my hands to stop shaking.

Then I took the envelope off the shelf, walked into the kitchen and dropped it into the bin by the dish pit.

Sam was standing at the oven with his back to me.

"You heard," I said.

"Most of it."

"He's going to take your yard."

"He's been trying to take it for eight years." He turned around. "It's a gravel lot and three trailers, Willa. I'll live."

"Where will your crew park?"

"I don't know yet."

"That isn't a plan."

"No," he said. "It isn't."

His voice was easy, but his shoulders were not.

I looked away and went back to work.

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