Chapter 10 - The Unopened Tin
Three months later. September on Lincoln Avenue.
The autumn air had returned, crisp and fragrant with the scent of fallen leaves and fresh cinnamon.
Our second annual "Dorothy Day" celebration was coming to a close. Over eight hundred customers had visited the shop throughout the afternoon, every penny of the proceeds dedicated to the Dorothy Bennett Culinary Scholarship for Working Mothers at the Chicago City Colleges.
The shop was locked for the night.
Sophie and I were sitting at the small marble table near the window, sharing a single slice of strawberry cake, our feet propped on chairs, our aprons dusted with powdered sugar.
David had left an hour earlier after helping Marcus pack away the extra folding tables, kissing my cheek by the doorway with a promise to meet us for Sunday breakfast in Milwaukee.
The front mail slot clicked.
A heavy, flat cardboard delivery envelope slid through the brass opening, landing with a soft slap on the welcome mat.
Sophie stood up, her bare feet silent on the oak floorboards, and picked it up.
“It’s from a probate firm in Atlanta, Mom,” Sophie said, her brow furrowing as she looked at the return address. “Addressed to you. Certified delivery.”
I frowned, taking the envelope from her hands.
I broke the tear-strip and pulled out a legal document along with a small, flat metal key wrapped in green jeweler’s tissue.
Attached was a letter from a legal firm in Fulton County, Georgia:
Dear Mrs. Whitmore,
We represent the estate of the late Vanessa Collins, who passed away on August twenty-eighth following an automobile accident outside Savannah.
Under the terms of her holographic will executed thirty days prior to her death, Miss Collins instructed that the enclosed key and safety deposit authorization be delivered directly to Annie Whitmore.
Miss Collins left explicit instructions that the contents of Safe Deposit Box Number 214 at the First Commercial Bank of Atlanta contain materials that do not belong to her estate, but to the Bennett family.
The room went completely, terrifyingly silent.
Sophie sat down beside me, her eyes wide, staring at the small metal key resting on the table.
“Vanessa... is dead?” Sophie whispered.
“Yes,” I breathed, staring down at the legal notice, a chill creeping through the warm kitchen.
I reached out and peeled back the green tissue paper.
The key was small, brass, notched with intricate, antique teeth. Taped to the back of the key was a tiny strip of yellow lined paper, covered in Vanessa’s sharp, hurried handwriting:
Andrew wasn't the first one to find your mother’s recipes, Annie.
Check the deposit box.
Ask yourself why Dorothy never spoke about her sister in Paris.
And ask yourself who really built the first bakery in 1948.
May you like
Sophie and I looked at each other across the small marble table.
Outside, the autumn wind whipped a shower of golden maple leaves against the glass, rustling the heavy curtains, while between us on the polished wood lay the brass key to a door we had never known existed—and a family secret that was only just beginning to unfold.
