Chapter 172: I Have To Go

NORA’S POV

I woke up at seven in the morning to the scent of fresh cinnamon and dark roast coffee drifting up the stairs.

For the first time in months, I didn’t wake up with a tight knot of panic in my stomach. The dread of overdue notices, the fear of eviction, the threat of an auction... none of it was waiting for me.

I pulled on a warm wool sweater, stepped into my thick socks, and walked down to the kitchen.

Mom was sitting at the small wooden dining table, a mug of black coffee between her hands. Spread out before her was the fresh morning edition of the Oakhaven Herald.

Across the entire front page was a color photo of Mom and me lifting the crystal wheat trophy under a storm of gold confetti at Emerald Pines.

The bold headline read: HOMETOWN HEROES: SUGAR & SPICE TAKES $50,000 TRI-COUNTY CHAMPIONSHIP!

"Look at this, Nora," Mom whispered, her voice trembling with quiet wonder as she ran a finger over the newsprint. "The whole town is reading this right now."

"You earned every word of it, Mom," I said, leaning over her shoulder and kissing her temple.

On the front porch, the mail slot clicked repeatedly as neighbors slipped handwritten congratulatory cards through the door. But as wonderful as the headlines were, Mom and I had one piece of unfinished business to attend to before we could truly celebrate.

At eight-forty-five, after a quick bath and a hearty breakfast, we bundled into our winter coats. Mom tucked the official tournament cashier’s check into her leather handbag, and we walked down the snow-lined sidewalks of Elm Street toward the town square.

At eight-fifty-five, we pushed open the brass doors of Oakhaven First Community Bank.

We were escorted straight to the rear corner office. Behind a massive mahogany desk sat Mr. Caldwell, the senior commercial loan officer. He was a thin, balding man in his late fifties with rimless spectacles and a perpetual scowl.

For the past thirteen months, Caldwell had treated Mom with cold, bureaucratic cruelty, sending weekly registered letters threatening to foreclose on our shop.

Caldwell leaned back in his leather chair, folding his hands over his stomach without bothering to offer us a seat.

"Mrs. Bennett," Caldwell sighed, his voice dripping with condescension. "If you came here today hoping for another thirty-day extension on your mortgage arrears, you are wasting both of our time. The bank’s patience has expired. We already have wealthy commercial investors ready to buy the property in cash by Friday."

My blood flared with anger, but I kept my posture straight and my expression completely calm.

"If you were current and actually read the morning news, Mr. Caldwell," I spoke up, my voice cutting through the quiet office like a blade, "you would know we aren’t here to ask for favors."

Caldwell frowned, his beady eyes darting toward me in irritation. "Excuse me, young lady..."

Mom didn’t let him finish; she unzipped her bag, pulled out the certified cashier’s check from the Tri-County Showcase, and laid it flat in the center of his mahogany desk.

Caldwell glanced down casually, expecting a meager coupon or a partial payment.

Then his eyes locked onto the numbers printed in bold magnetic ink: $50,000.00.

Caldwell froze.

The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a ghost. He pushed his glasses up his nose, his mouth dropping open as he read the certified bank seal and the official tournament routing codes.

"This..." Caldwell stammered, his arrogant sneer completely vanishing. "This is... fifty thousand dollars. Certified."

"Twenty-two thousand to pay off the remaining mortgage principal, the back interest, and the lien release fees in full," Mom said, her voice rich with dignity. "The remaining twenty-eight thousand will be deposited into our operating account."

Caldwell swallowed hard, his throat bobbing nervously. "Yes... of course, Mrs. Bennett. Allow me to... verify the transfer immediately."

He typed frantically on his computer keyboard, his fingers trembling against the plastic keys. The printer behind his desk hummed to life, spitting out the official mortgage satisfaction forms and the original property deed.

Caldwell picked up the red ink stamp. With a loud THUD, he stamped the face of the mortgage note: PAID IN FULL — LIEN RELEASED.

He signed his name on the line and slid the stack of documents across the desk.

"Your mortgage is completely satisfied, Mrs. Bennett," Caldwell said in a small, humbled voice, unable to meet our eyes. "The building is officially yours, free and clear."

Mom took the stamped deed in both hands. She pressed the paper against her chest, closed her eyes, and let out a breathless sob of pure, unadulterated relief.

Dad’s legacy was safe. The bakery was ours forever.

Ten minutes later, we sat in the bank lobby while Mom used her cell phone to call the New England commercial kitchen distributor. With our mortgage cleared, Mom placed the order for the dual-chamber commercial stone-deck hearth oven, locking in delivery for next week.

Leaving Mom to finalize the delivery paperwork, I stepped out through the bank’s double glass doors onto the sunny front steps.

The air was cold, and snow sparkled on the roofs along the street.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Knox.

He answered on the second ring.

"Tell me good news, Bennett," Knox’s deep, gravelly voice rumbled through the speaker, sending a warm rush of comfort straight to my chest.

"The mortgage is dead," I laughed, wiping a happy tear from my cheek. "We just walked out with the stamped deed. Sugar and Spice is officially ours, Knox. Free and clear."

A loud, triumphant chuckle broke through Knox’s line.

"Hell yes," Knox murmured. "Nobody deserves this more than you and your mom, Nora. You fought for every single inch of that shop."

"We placed the order for the stone-deck oven, too," I added, unable to stop smiling. "And we still have enough left over to remodel the display counters and paint the shop before the holidays. Mom is finalizing the delivery dates right now. I’m taking the bus back to Briar tomorrow afternoon."

"Good," Knox said softly, a familiar, possessive warmth slipping into his tone. "Campus feels entirely too quiet without you. I’ll pick you up at the transit..."

Knox abruptly stopped talking.

In the background of his phone, distant shouting echoed, accompanied by frantic, running footsteps on the rubber flooring.

A loud voice, sounded like Bear or one of the assistant coaches, yelled in a rush: "Sheridan! Knox, get down to the front... NOW!"

The rest of the voice was swallowed by the sudden crash of a door swinging open.

The tension radiating through the receiver shifted instantly from warm and relaxed to ice-cold.

"Knox?" I asked, my smile fading as my stomach tightened. "Is everything okay?"

Knox remained silent for two long, agonizing seconds. I could hear his sharp, controlled inhale over the line.

"I have to go, Bennett," Knox said, his voice dropping into a flat, guarded tone I hadn’t heard in weeks. "I’ll call you back."

Before I could say another word, the call disconnected with a sharp click.

I stood on the sunny bank steps with the phone pressed to my ear, listening to the hollow dial tone as a sudden chill crept down my spine.