Irvin had renovated that garage for me six years earlier, as an anniversary gift. A contractor had done the work. We had both believed every piece of paperwork was taken care of.
“I thought it was done,” Irvin said, holding the letter, his face pale. “Claire, I swear to you, I thought it was done.”
“I know,” I said. “I know you did.”
And that was what made it so much worse.
Vanessa hadn’t invented a problem. She had gone looking for one, and she had found a real one.
I had a three-tier wedding cake for sixty guests due in nine days. After that, a corporate order for two hundred decorated cookies. The ingredients were already sitting on my shelves. The deposits had already been spent on supplies and a new mixer attachment I’d been saving for since last winter.
And my ovens, the ones I’d scrubbed and babied for six years, were suddenly useless.
