around the room with a deep smile spreading across his face. “Picture it,” he said. And he proceeded to describe in minute detail every invisible item he could see in the space, from the wall decorations to the window treatments, from the espresso machine to the whipped cream dispenser. He was still talking exultantly about the bakery of his dreams when I interrupted.
“You bought your bakery?”
He nodded and smiled like he’d swallowed the sun. “Signed the papers this morning,” he said with so much excitement that his voice and eyes danced. “I start renovations next week.”
“You bought your bakery!” I threw myself at his neck with so much force that he teetered, and then we both did a ridiculous hopping routine that had us turning in circles in the middle of the echo-chamber room, waving our arms above our heads, and whooping like drunk cheerleaders.
When I’d whooped myself hoarse and hopped myself breathless, I plopped down in the middle of the floor, mindless of the dust and dirt, and looked around at the vision Trey had described. I could see it all, every hue and nuance of the dream he had bought with dogged pursuit and relentless dedication. He sat down next to me and leaned back on his hands, taking in the half-finished space with the eye of an artist.
“You think it’ll fly?” he asked.
“With you as the chef? You bet your booty.”
He exhaled loudly. “Tell me I’m not an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot.”
“It’s financial suicide opening this kind of thing, Shell. Even with Mom’s money. I mean, the guy who had it before me only got halfway through the renovations before he threw in the towel.”
“But you’ve worked it all out, right?”
“Down to the last penny. With a bit of a cushion in case of emergency.”
“Then you’re not an idiot.”
“I’m calling it L’Envie.”
“So it’s a Chinese bakery?”
His head dropped back and he stared at the ceiling with his usual my-sister-the-moron expression. “That’s French, Shelby.”
I smirked. “I know.” I looked out the plastic-covered front window at the cars going by and savored the moment. “So what now?”
“We paint the walls, and the tile guys come next week to finish this up.” He motioned at the front part of the room, where the beige tile ended and rough cement extended to the door. “Kitchen gets installed after that. Then I have the inspectors come in to make sure it’s up to snuff, design flyers, put ads in the paper, maybe hire some help, organize a grand opening . . .”
“So you’re going to be busy, in other words.”
“For the foreseeable future.”
I nodded and inhaled the brightness of his dream. “It’s going to be fabulous, Trey.”
“I’m thinking of maybe serving meals, too. Maybe one meal a day—single-item menu.”
“As long as the single item is calorie-loaded and mushroom-free, I’ll be your designated taster.”
I giggled at his goofy, happy grin and lay back on the dusty floor, bending my knees and getting comfy while the grime of construction got into my hair. There wasn’t much to look at from that position. Then again, there wasn’t much to look at from any position yet. He joined me in the dust and let out a happy sigh.
“I like the postmodern light fixtures,” I said.
“Yeah? The French are big into the tangled-wire look.”
“And the ripped plastic on the windows is a really fancy touch.”
“Thanks. I ripped it myself.”
“This is your dream, Trey.”
“Yup.”
“You made it happen.”
“I did.”
“God’s not spitting anymore.”
“He never did.”
I turned my head to look at him. “You used to think he did.”
“We were only kidding.”
“Yeah, but remember after you killed the bird? When you went downstairs and started throwing things around in your room? You kept yelling at the ceiling, ‘Stop spitting on me, you . . .’ And then you used a word I won’t repeat because I don’t want to damage your fancy new bakery with a lightning bolt from heaven.”
Trey chuckled and breathed deeply. “I remember,” he said. “But I think I knew even then—way down—that God hadn’t spit on us. Dad had.”
“Literally and figuratively.”
“But not God. God does things like this instead,” he said, basking in the accomplishment and miracle of L’Envie.
“Took a while.”
“Well, he kinda wanted me to be part of the process, and I spent a few years getting over the Dad factor, so . . .”
Something bittersweet breathed across my mind, but since I didn’t recognize it, I let it glide on by. Trey must have sensed it too. He captured it before it passed.