NEVER HIDING IN HOSE AGAIN

By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020

Warning: If you don't like reading transgender or related fiction, then stop reading now.

Author's Note: Belladonna's "Hiding in Hose" (mother seizes corporate control from her son and transforms him into her maid): perhaps it's a dark tale rife with unfairness; alternatively, perhaps it's a moral tale of just desserts. This is my (unauthorized) tribute, Fanfiction, to one of the best FM authors. It is set 15 years after Belladonna's story. Any overlaps in copyright I cede to her.

https://fictionmania.tv/stories/readtextstory.html?storyID=1...

BTW, this will be my last story for a few months.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

RT

7 MAY 2030

The day began as usual.

We got up and prepared to drive the girls to school. I made their lunches and packed their school bags. Marie dressed them and gave them breakfast. I cleaned up their room. Marie wolfed down her fruit salad and finished dressing herself. I put on a jean jacket, headed out to start the car, and crammed Stephanie, Simone, and Sylvie into it.

Triplets. They're eight, adorable, bright, and polite; I'm dreading their growing older. Every day they grow, every day I remind myself that we need a bigger car.

Anyway, Marie locked the front door to our modest 1500 square foot bungalow and got in. I would drop her off at the coffee shop next to her office. Why the manager of a very small investment company had to always walk into her office with a steaming cup of coffee remained a puzzle to me. Whatever: she loves her job which pays our bills and a bit; my income is our gravy.

Back to the story of the day. The girls were dropped off at school ontime. Marie was delivered to her coffee shop on-time. Another successful morning routine accomplished.

So, I drove to and parked in my usual place behind "La Pâtisserie des Réves."

It had been in Marie's family for generations. Her great-grandparents had started a bakery after emigrating from Alsace-Lorraine after the First World War. It was a modest success. Different family members had worked in it over the century. Eventually, Marie's mom and dad owned it. Coincidental with Marie's birth, they converted it into a patisserie.

During the years immediately before I met Marie, Francois, her father, was fretful about the shop. He was a widower by then, his health was failing, and Marie had no interest in taking it over. Marie and I met. I knew little about baking and frack all about pastries. However, I was a keen student. I seized the offered chance to run the patisserie. Francois passed away shortly after instructing me as best he could in the time he had left. I liked him a lot and sobbed at his funeral. The shop had been Marie's for the past 10 years. I effectively ran it and didn't (and still don't) mind answering to my pretty boss/wife!

Anyway, we met, we clicked, and, one year later, we married. I was 30 years old and she was 25. Shortly after, the triplets were born. And now they're eight-years-old.

Today I tell people that I had 'drifted around' for a few years before meeting Marie. In reality, I had taken three years to rebuild myself, having just emerged from an abusive situation.

I'll give you an example of where I mentally was back then. I proposed to Marie; she joked that I have to assume her family name, 'Tremblay'; and I immediately shouted, "Yes!" Thus, I became Gavin Tremblay.

Bryceland, my previous surname, I loathed. Almost everything I had done during the past 13 years was in direct contradiction to Gavin Bryceland's pathetic, miserable, unloved life. I chose to forget the first 27 years of my life and to remember just the past 13: rebuilding myself and then being with Marie.

Anyway I entered the shop through the back door and turned all the lights on. I then turned the ovens on and checked the fridges and freezers. I loved baking; nothing bests the smell of fresh, warm bread to hearten the nose. And I felt challenged by pastries!

Don't even ask me to tell you about the joys and intricacies of pastrymaking. You say 'croissant'; I say 'kipferl'. You say 'Julia Childs'; I say 'Antonin Carême'. Ask me anything you want to know or could think of knowing about gluten networks, roll-in fat, which pastries are best made with brewer's yeast (not many BTW), chilling, rolling, stuffing, the secret to getting refined sugar in icing just right, and so on. My point is that I liked my job and my shop.

I also liked the people who came into the shop. By nine o'clock, the shop was open, and the tables were buzzing with customers. The waitresses, Fiona and Helen, had their hands full. I generally stayed in the kitchen in the back or behind the counter. I enjoyed baking and pastry-making.

Sometime around 1030 a.m., there was a cry for help from the seating area. Ours is a small town. Most everyone knows each other. Holly from Hillside Avenue, stood with her hand over her mouth, shouting and pointing at a body on the floor: "She just grabbed her chest and fell over!" A middle-aged woman whom I did not know was on the floor.

I grabbed our AED and first aid kit and ran to the front. She lay unconscious. I checked her ABCs: none. I told someone to call 911. I went into CPR mode, cut off her shirt and bra, powered up the AED, and attached it. I ensured the area around her was clear. I zapped her. I waited for the results. The AED instructed 'repeat'. I pushed the button again. The AED made a weird, fizzling sound. All its lights went off.

I immediately started doing CPR. Paramedics from a neighboring town eventually showed up, took over, and transported the woman to hospital; she made a full recovery. I was drenched in sweat and exhausted. A policeman congratulated me on my supreme efforts. Others in the shop clapped my back. I was later told that I had performed CPR for 45 minutes! I asked Fiona and Helen to take over and lock up at the end of the day. I went home. As I left the shop, I heard someone shout out that I would be famous, a real page-one hero.

I was just happy to have helped someone in distress.

I gave no thought to being a page-one hero.

14 MAY 2030

The week after that incident was not unusual. Occasionally, an old friend would ask me to get a band-aid for them or to help them cure a runny nose. That was all in good fun over a delicious éclair and cappuccino. Marie and I liked our little town and its people. Business had picked up a tad for a few days but was now back to normal.

The early morning rush was over. Fiona and Helen were about finished clearing and cleaning when two Latina-looking women in corporate pantsuits walked in. I recognized them immediately:

Julieta Navarro and her daughter Adriana Navarro.

They sat at a table.

I unconsciously picked up a six-inch chef's knife and stayed back in the kitchen. My heart started racing. My breathing ran shallow. I was panicking. I forced myself into steadying my heart and breathing. Deep breaths. Scan left. Scan right. Deep breaths. I regained control; I hadn't felt so flustered in a long time! I relaxed my grip on my knife and watched.

I could not hear what was said, but Fiona and Helen spoke to Adriana, who spoke back to them. Julieta glanced toward the kitchen. Then Fiona jerked her head toward the kitchen. I heard Helen say, "He should be in back." Four sets of eyes now looked toward me.

Fiona and Helen had always known me as 'Gavin Tremblay', married, loving husband of Marie Tremblay (who had grown up in this town), father of three, and an easygoing, casual, reliable, all-round good guy.

Julieta had first seen me, then 'Gavin Bryceland', as a young teenage boy, son of a wealthy businessman and that businessman's single-minded, determined wife. Julieta had been our maid during my teenage years and beyond. I had nothing bad to say about her until...

Adriana, Julieta's daughter, had first seen me --- rechristened 'Adela' --- as a man dressed in woman's clothing arriving at her poor village in Mexico to hide from supposed kidnappers. She had never known 'Gavin' per se.

Adriana and Julieta had last seen me as 'Adela' --- the poor, stupid, Mexican maid in my mother's mansion --- on the morning of 22 June 2017, just before I escaped from them and from my mother.

The Bryceland family mansion. My birth home. From 2015 to 2017, there I had labored daily without commendation, compensation, or commiseration. My mother had usurped my position as President & CEO of my father's company. She substituted me for her maid, Julieta, who became my mother's executive assistant and family confidant.

Adriana was Julieta's daughter, and once upon a time I had longed to marry her. But she too worked for the dark side of life known as Ms. Candice Bryceland. For two years of my life, I was their stupid pion maid and my tongue was Adriana's nightly toy.

I had been betrayed and abused by these two and by my mother.

"Hey Gav, these ladies would like to talk to you," Helen said.

I considered several options and settled on the most direct. I very slowly walked out of the kitchen, holding the chef's knife lazily in my right hand and a floury rolling pin in my left. My face was saturnine.

-----000-----

Adriana smiled hopefully at me. Julieta smiled cheerfully at me. They remained seated. The arrogance: they could not even have stood up to say 'hi'.

Fiona quietly asked me what I was doing with the knife and rolling pin. Her face showed a bit of curiosity.

I smiled at her and replied, "I'm going to sit with these two women for a while." Helen and Fiona smiled back and walked away. "Please don't disturb us," I politely added.

I sat at the table facing Julieta and Adriana and the street. The sun shone brightly. The window glistened with the condensation of fresh baking.

Adriana looked good; she always had. There were more lines on her face than on mine even though she was a just few years younger than me. Julieta hardly looked like she had ever been a maid. Rather, she presented the image of a successful but tired, middle-aged upper executive. She must be close to 60 by now. Both of them were utterly overdressed for my shop and my town.

Patience, I reminded myself. I slowly placed the rolling pin and knife on the table, spread my arms wide, and in a bored voice asked, "What's up?"

Julieta eagerly began by saying, "Gavin, it is so good to..."

I slowly motioned with my hand for her to be quiet. "It's 'Mr. Tremblay' to you. And you too," I flatly said turning to Adriana. Her face went stone. I looked back at Julieta.

Julieta winced and then continued, "Okay, Mr. er... Tremblay, please accept my assurances that I am, sorry, we are very glad to see you. It's been a long time since I last saw you. You look fantastic," she gushed and waved her hand from my head to my toes.

Fantastic? The last time she saw me I was her fat, dumpy looking, drearily dressed, depressed Mexican maid. And now, I am lean and muscular, clear-eyed, and mentally vigorous; my forearms can knead the hardest of dough and my mind can create the most mouth-savouring éclair. Handsome, sure; "fantastic," excessive.

I again spread my arms wide, and unenthusiastically asked, "What do you want?"

They nervously glanced at each other and then Adriana said, "Gavin, your mother would like to see you. To talk to you. The heart attack story in the paper! She believed you were dead! I think she would like you to come home. In fact, we would like you to come home. Me too! All of us would like to see you at home." She clasped her hands by her chest when she finished. She smiled professionally.

I said nothing to her. 'Gavin'? She had never known me --- nor even seen me --- as Gavin. She had only known me as Adela, her daily maid and nightly tongue. Her toy.

I turned and pointed my right index finger at Julieta and slowly unfolded my arms in my 'what's up?' motion. Julieta's expression changed subtly to an apprehensive one.

"Gavin, it's true," Julieta began. "She has missed you so much since you ran away. When she saw the article in the paper about the man doing CPR, the picture, oh my, she almost fainted and then started screaming and crying with joy. I was so happy to see your picture too! During the past week, we've been through many a tearful night together, the three of us." Adriana nodded.

"Surely your current maid brought the three of you some 3-ply Kleenex tissue to blow your delicate noses as you cried?" I asked with faux concern while looking at the table. Adriana stared at me, her face a Sphinx. Julieta simply nodded her head.

A great deal of anger and resentment surged through my soul. However, I breathed deeply and calmed myself. I put a winning smile on my face.

"I told you, both of you, to call me 'Mr. Tremblay'. You did not. You have not seen me in, what, 15 years and you just can't respect my simplest request." I stood up. "Today's little chat about whatever is over. If you," and I pointed only at Julieta, "would like to talk to me, then you will find a way to be here at precisely 4 pm on Friday the 17th."

I got up and calmly left. The last I saw of Julieta and Adriana that day were their astonished faces as I walked back into the kitchen. I asked Helen to watch the shop. I put the rolling pin and knife down, took off my apron, and headed out the back door. I drove home and had a shower.

Then I sat on the back steps and watched some clouds float by. I smoked and reflected. After three cigarettes, I felt sufficiently buzzed to return to the shop. Julieta and Adriana were not there.

Warily, Helen described to me how business had been during my absence. She asked whether I was alright, and I responded 'yes'. Fiona related to me that the two women did not stay long after I had left. They had inquired about me; both Helen and Fiona avoided providing details to them.

Julieta had left Fiona a small envelope to deliver to me. I took it and thanked her for it. I found a lighter and burnt the envelope, unopened, by the kitchen sink.

"They said the note in it was important and that they would be around Friday as you asked," Fiona said as she watched the last of the white paper burn, turn grey, and then turn black. "They seem insistent upon talking to you."

I smiled at Fiona and thanked her for her telling me this. I said I was going home and asked them to lock up. Helen wished me a goodnight sleep. Fiona wished me pleasant dreams. I thought I would have neither.

At home, I first began to prepare dinner, then went to pick up the girls, supervised their homework, got them ready for early karate, dropped them off, continued to prepare dinner, started the laundry, picked the girls up again, dropped off Stan's circular saw, and got home 15 minutes before Marie did.

The girls clambered all over her, overjoyed to see her. I was glad to see her too, but the mental toll of the day was heavy on me. I forced a smile, and Marie seemed to accept it.

"After they go to bed," I said pointing at the kids, "I need to talk to you."

17 MAY 2030

The day began as most do in our home. Girls ready, breakfast eaten, beds quickly made, car crammed, coffee obtained, and, finally, I parked behind the patisserie.

I had been busy the previous two days. I consulted two different lawyers I knew. In short, I arranged to prevent or at least to mitigate the risks and effects of another bogus kidnapping. My mother and Julieta had tried it once and had dangled the threat over my head for a couple of years. They might try it or some other malicious scheme again.

I also gave some thought to what Julieta and Adriana had said. 'Come home'. 'We miss you'. 'We thought you were dead'. I smoked several cigs while reflecting upon their words. The lens through which I viewed of our shared past was thoroughly tinted by betrayal; those three harridans had betrayed me. It's hard to dislodge such a strong opinion that's been shaped and designed to fit a particular vision of how one's life has unfolded.

They hadn't seemed overjoyed to see me. Their 'miss you' line rang hollow. Ditto with the 'thought you were dead' line, which, frankly, seemed tinged with regret that I was not in fact dead. And 'come home'? That mansion long ceased to be home. I filed their insincerity away in my memory.

And I had weighed the singular question re why, if she really missed me all so much, did Ms. Candice Bryceland send her two lackeys instead of coming personally.

I shuttered the shop at 3:30 pm and wished Helen and Fiona a great weekend as they left. I put a note on the front door: "4 pm meeting around back." I went out through the backdoor, locked it, and placed another note on it: "Back in 10 min." I drove away.

I returned from a time-killing stroll in the park at 4:30 pm and smiled as I saw their Mercedes parked in the only available spot: next to the almost full garbage dumpster. A nice stench on a nice day for two rancid women.

I invited Julieta in through the kitchen. Adriana followed her but I stopped her outside and said offhandedly, "You're not invited. I invited Julieta to come, not you. Remember my directions from last Tuesday."

"Neta?" Adriana asked incredulously in Mexican Spanish.

"Foutes-moi le camp, petit' salope," I murmured in French with a smile. Julieta seemed frustrated but waved Adriana away.

I locked the backdoor behind us, picked up the plate of éclairs I had left in the kitchen, stopped to fill my coffee cup, and went to the seating area. I sat at the same table we had sat at on Tuesday.

-----000-----

"There's just you and me, Julieta. Are you going to sit down?" I asked as I started sipping my coffee and nibbling on a rum-flavoured custard pastry. "Or are you going to talk standing up?" She sat down and faced me.

"Mr. Tremblay," she began, "I apologize for causing you any inconvenience the last..."

I quietly cut her off. "Julieta, before you start, there are some things that you should know." I sipped my coffee and nibbled on the pastry.

"First, I made some deadman's switches. I've left a lengthy telling of my life and of the sins of Ms. Candice Bryceland and her lackeys in several trusted hands. If they don't hear from me each week, then they release the story. To the media. On-line. On all social media. To Bryceland Corp's suppliers etc. It's not flattering to any of you. So, you'd better hope that nothing happens to me." I sipped my coffee and nibbled on the pastry.

"Second, I distrust you, and that putita of yours, and of course Ms. Candice Bryceland. I will listen to you. I will consider whatever you say. But I will not believe anything you say until I independently verify it." I sipped my coffee and nibbled on the pastry.

"Last, I frankly don't know why you are here. I have my own life. None of you are part of it. You and the other two... well, the other two women, you all have your own lives and I am not a part of it. And I'm happy that way. So, once again, why are you here and what do you want?"

I kept my tone dispassionate. I verily believed nothing would come of being angry or bitter at this time. And I was a bit bored. I sipped my coffee and nibbled on the pastry.

-----000-----

Julieta looked sad as she spoke. "Gavin. Sorry. Mr. Tremblay, I understand your concern about another kidnapping. Yes, I admit the one to get you to Mexico was faked to scare you willingly out of the country. There is no need for any such concern now. Please believe me." Her eyes showed honesty. I just stared at her.

Julieta sighed, realizing that she had failed to persuade me, and then continued. "Did you read the note in the envelope?" she asked. I answered that I had burnt the envelope without having opened it.

She looked at me desperately: "But it was from your mother and she asked me to..."

I waved to interrupt her. "I have no mother. The mother that raised me, the mother whom I loved and adored, that mother died when she faked an attempt to kidnap me. And took my company. And reduced me to be a servant. Thereafter, there was a woman who insisted upon my calling her 'Ms. Candice Bryceland'. But that woman was not and is not my mother."

If there was a lack of care in my voice, then it was because I really didn't care. I sipped my coffee and nibbled on the pastry.

-----000-----

Julieta sat back, took a moment, and then seemed to reconsider her strategy.

"Mr. Tremblay," she began, "let me tell you then about my life." And she proceeded to do so. Much of it I recalled. Growing up in Mexico with Ana and Fernando. Her rape and giving birth to Adriana. Leaving for the States for a cleaning job. Dreaming of a better life. Fun times in the Bryceland household. Fun times sometimes with me, before I inherited dad's company. She reminisced in a soft and motherly tone, one I remembered well (and had liked) from my teenage years. I had always liked that Julieta.

"But things changed when your father died." She remarked that she had always seen my sense of entitlement, my knowing anticipation of an inevitable silver spoon. Spoilt rotten and morally lacking, she added softly.

"You never knew a day's hard work and yet expected to gracefully slide into control of a large international corporation worth billions and employing thousands across the globe." She looked longingly at my coffee as she spoke. "That's what I saw. I do not speak for Candice.... Sorry, I do not speak for Ms. Bryceland in this, but I know that she too was troubled by your lack of responsibility."

Julieta pursed her lips and whispered, "And all that time I had a brilliant daughter who did not have a chance to succeed in this world." She looked at me resentfully, as though I had forced her to confront a shameful act in her past.

"When Candice asked me to help her somehow, it was I who suggested that you learn the value and dignity in the simplest and most menial of jobs. Yes, I proposed Adela to her. And, yes, I also suggested Adriana to her. All of us thought that you would learn from the maid challenge and then appreciate dearly what had been given to you on a silver plate. We thought it would be a learning experience, not a life sentence." She gave me a look of sympathy and said, "But you did not learn. You lost yourself."

Her gaze and face turned hard.

"I took pride and pleasure from advancing from maid to your mother's executive assistant. I worked very hard to succeed there! I earned it all. But you!" she said in disgust and stopped talking. I could see that she was getting mad.

"Do you really think that we were happy watching you fail? Do you!!!???" She pointed her finger at me and said, "I told you when we first got to Mexico that you would not be Adela for long. Yet how could I have known that you would not learn? That you would simply collapse? If we had really wanted you to become a maid forever or to permanently destroy Gavin, then why not give you hormones and implants and scrape bone off your face and castrate you and then leave you in Mexico without any ID? Jodete cabrón! All you had to do was to grow up! To understand what hard work is. To sympathize with Adela's life and to value Gavin's!"

She drew her breath and slowed down. She fidgeted in her chair and asked for some coffee. I pointed to the carafe and mugs nearby. She bit her lip and got up to serve herself. I was never going to serve her ever again.

"Gavin, I gave up on you at the first dinner you served by yourself. Remember? To disguise you, I put brown contacts in your eyes. I saw in your eyes the deepest relief that no guest would recognize you as Gavin. And they did not. And you were happy then as Adela."

She wiped a few tears from her eyes. "I am sorry that I gave up on you. Please believe me that Adela was not intended to live shortly past Mexico. You were supposed to become a new Gavin, a nicer one, a more responsible one. But you gave up on yourself too."

I stood up and returned my éclair plate to the counter. I refilled my coffee. I wanted to smoke. In defiance of local ordinances, I lit one up in my shop. I looked at the time: six-fifteen. I was glad to have told Marie that I would be late today.

It was a smooth drag. I admitted to myself that I had never really considered the matter from Julieta's perspective, or at least the one she had just presented to me.

With similar honesty, I reminded myself that I had been a pathetic schmuck for much of my early life. I had partied too much and worked too little. Wine, women, and song were staples in my diet in those earlier days. Once dad passed away, I had been a bit too hands-off in handling the corporation. To be truthful, I now recognized that it may well have failed if it had been left in my hands. Thousands of employees' lives may have been ruined; I thought of Fiona and Helen to personalize it.

I turned to face Julieta. Her smile was gone, her eyes were teary, and her makeup was streaking her face. I thought her emotions were genuine.

"Okay, Julieta. First, I told you to call me 'Mr. Tremblay." You failed again at that. So, we're going to wrap up our little talk here now. Second, I have listened to you and will think about what you've said. Third, I still have no idea as to why 'you', Julieta, are here. If Ms. Candice Bryceland wants to talk to me, then she can get herself out here at my convenience. Next Friday, the 24th, here, at 7:00 pm." Julieta seemed flustered as I shooed her out the front door.

I added, "Tell that little thief that she can come in the front door."

Julieta seemed indignant at that. "Why do you call her a thief? She never stole anything from you!"

Julieta's brazen lie in defence of Ms. Candice Bryceland was drowned out by my lowering the shutters. I went home, mowed the lawn, played with the girls, and, last, discussed the afternoon's meeting with Marie.

24 MAY 2030

If all went well, the girls would pass their tests at the dojo today and would be granted their 4th Kyu. Although I was the primary instructor at the school (I'm a Nidan), the Association's protocol barred me from participating in and being present during their testing. Frankly, I would probably be more nervous than they would be and might throw them off were I there. So, Marie would be there and would 'capture the moment on film'.

The prospect of meeting Ms. Candice Bryceland tempered my happiness for the girls. I can't recall how many smokes I went through earlier during the week or how many stars I idly saw as I mentally rehearsed late at night the innumerable ways in which this meeting could unfold.

Earlier in the week, I did something that I had never done; I checked out the corporation's website, various business media sites, and the SEC's web resources. For the first time in 13 years, I wanted to learn about Bryceland Corporation again.

There she was on the corporate leadership biography page: Ms. Candice Bryceland, President & CEO. I had never even searched for her on-line: apathy. I had not seen her face in 13 years. She had gotten older; we all do. The picture displayed a 65-year old woman whose face demanded respect and revealed weathered burdens. The smile was plastic and the hair too blonde for her age. In contrast was a jolting memory that flashed through my mind: a young mother, a young son, a green park, a sunny day, a freshly painted swing; happier times long ago.

Long ago.

I laughed when I read her biography; it stated that she had one son, 'Gavin Bryceland'. I laughed harder when I read the short biography page about me, Ms. Candice Bryceland's predecessor. According to it, I had decided to explore the world and to participate in various environmental initiatives here and there. This pretense astonished me. I would have been proud to be called a baker. Instead, for what I could only conceive was for ostentatious purposes, this contrivance of being an international tree-hugger; it underlined to me precisely how little she knew of me.

Yes, I did review the biography of Adriana Navarro. It consisted of a series of checklist jobs all on an upward trajectory: marketing, public affairs, international development, and now chief operating officer. Yes, she was being groomed for the top. There was no mention of her marital status. I hope she dies a spinster.

The corporation itself had prospered under Ms. Candice Bryceland's hand. Over the past 15 years, profits had increased at least 10% each year, revenues continued to accelerate, there had been some minor acquisitions that strengthened the corporation's vertical integration. It would be hard to deny that Ms. Candice Bryceland was a remarkably successful businesswoman in her own right.

I wondered whether I could have led the company to similar success and concluded that I probably could not have. But that didn't mean I would have led it to ruin.

The stunner came late one night on the SEC website. Under the tab labelled "Ownership," I was listed (rather, 'Gavin Bryceland' was listed) as the largest single shareholder, holding 30% of all shares. Ms. Candice Bryceland held 21%, the second largest shareholder.

I realized that I was a billionaire. 'Still' a billionaire. All the shares dad gave me under his Will were still mine! Ms. Candice Bryceland had never taken my shares away from me!

However, she had taken me away from my shares. Julieta was narrowly correct; Ms. Candice Bryceland had not stolen anything. Rather, it was the malicious exercise of a power of attorney given to her (foolishly, in retrospect) by me. With me-Adela-the-maid out of the way, her authority to act for me could not be questioned. And 51% of the shares gave her complete control: President & CEO.

These and similar revelations, thoughts, and possibilities trotted through my mind during the week.

-----000-----

At precisely 6:59 pm, there was a knock on the front door. I saw her, Ms. Candice Bryceland, for the first time in person in 13 years. She was looking into the darkened shop. I lit the candle on the small table where I sat and stared at her. After a few moments, she opened the door and walked in.

She looked anxious and teary-eyed. She briskly walked over to me, stood over me a second, and then leaned over to hug me. I felt her warm breath on my head, the moist kisses on my temples, forehead, and cheeks, was pulled into to her chest by her encircling arms. My hands rested on my thighs. I didn't respond to her touch.

I would be lying if I said that I was not touched by her obvious emotion. But I also had some demons to excise from me --- or to unleash upon her --- and so remained saturnine and immovable. After a few minutes, I looked up at her and blandly said:

"Have a seat, Candice."

I motioned to the chair opposite mine. She sat down and undid her outer coat. She was as well-dressed as ever. My hands still had flour dust on them. I was still wearing my baking jeans (they stank), my baking Tshirt (it definitely stank), and my baker's apron (a dusty mess): that is who I am. I sipped my coffee and nibbled on a raspberry fusion éclair. I love raspberries.

Candice's eyes feasted on me. She exhaled deeply. "Gavin, I'm so happy to see you! I just..." I immediately interrupted her with a swift wave of my hand.

"It's 'Mr. Tremblay' to you," I said in an uncompromising voice. She was taken aback. I stood, walked over to the door, opened it, stared at her, and inexpressively said. "Try again or walk out."

I saw in her face both desperation and a grimacing reluctance to obey. It was a bizarre blend. "Mr. Tremblay, thank you for making the time to meet with me. I'm very glad and happy to be here tonight, Mr. Tremblay," she recommenced. She nervously relaxed as I closed the door and sat down.

I shrugged my shoulders and raised my eyebrows at her: 'what's up?' my body language asked. I sipped my coffee and nibbled on my éclair.

-----000-----

Candice began by telling me how she had missed me the past 13 years. She had had no idea as to where I was, what I was doing, or how I was. She confessed that she often had thought me to be dead. However, she never steeled herself to apply for a presumption of death certificate. She had maintained hope, or faith, that I was alive and might one day return home to her. She wept as she related this to me. She concluded with a pleading tone: "You are my son. I've missed you. We are family. I want us to be together."

I slowly shook my head. "You're not my mother," I gently said and provided her the same explanation that I had previously given to Julieta. Candice's face fell as I spoke. I didn't take any great joy in saying this to her. But I needed to say it because it was the truth. And I felt better having said it. And she deserved to have it said to her.

"Gavin, sorry, Mr. Tremblay, I did not steal the company from you." She stared at me as she carefully said it. I nodded, encouraging her to continue. And she did.

"Do you remember when your father died? I had gone to work with him every day. I knew he wanted you to run the company. When he passed away, I helped you settle into the executive office. I even stood aside once you seemed comfortable in the office." I sipped my coffee and nibbled on my éclair. What she was saying was, so far, true.

"Can you imagine my distress, however, as I witnessed your inaptitude and ineptitude toward that office? You cavorted around on yachts and in fancy cars. You indulged your baser instincts and fantasies. Hookers? Prostitutes? Bunga-bunga parties? Restaurant bills for dozens of guests, strangers all. You were leading an internationally prestigious corporation and imperiling its reputation, the livelihood of thousands of its employees, with your irresponsibility." She wiped her hands on her skirt and continued.

"I reviewed the circumstances and considered how you had been raised. Yes, I reflected upon my role in raising you too. Your father and I are also to blame. We spoilt you. We failed to prepare you for a leading role in the company. You were arrogant toward the staff and spoke to them in the most condescending manner. Nothing was too good for you, but woe be the poor employee who crossed you. You got angered by the trivial and were blind to the important. I accept a lot of blame for this."

I sipped my coffee and nibbled on my éclair. I recognized the person she spoke of. Like I mentioned earlier, the first 27 years of my life were pathetic, miserable, and unloved.

"Yes, I arranged to have you scared out of your wits by a fake kidnapping attempt. I wanted you out of the way so that I could put the company back on its proper footing, steered in its proper direction. You were 25 years old and out of your depth. I was 50 and had the experience and desire to run the company for a short time. But why on earth would you think that I would steal it from you? I never touched your shares." Her eyes showed she was perplexed.

She became excited as she provided a history that I had not previously heard from her. "My thinking was simple and straightforward. I wanted you to learn how life is at the bottom rung of the ladder. Julieta offered me ideas, but the chosen path was mine. I never imagined that you would not resist. You caved and I was astonished, especially when the choice was plain to you: a) that you could be a maid at home and eat after I did; or b) that you could work at the office and eat at the table with me. Learn the nitty-gritty in the bottom ranks as Adela and come back as Gavin in the executive ranks. Or stay a maid. I was stunned beyond comprehension that you would not choose to work at the office. You gave up after only one day! I couldn't explain your self-abasement. I eventually just thought that being Adela was the life that you wanted."

Candice wiped her nose with a silk handkerchief from her purse. "I sincerely thought that being beneath everyone in a maid's job, one of the most antiquated, menial jobs, would give you some perspective, some insight, that could help you get back to and do better at the top."

I sipped my coffee and nibbled on my éclair. She looked at my coffee with envy. The éclair too. I looked back at her blankly, silently encouraging her to keep talking. And she did. Much of what she said, however, did not sit well with me.

Eventually, it seemed timely to ask her some questions.

-----000-----

"You always suggested to me that Adela would cease to exist once the kidnappers were caught. That I could get out of that role once they were caught. Given that there were none that could be caught, then what was your timeline for my being a man again?"

Her jellyfish answer stung. "I admit that I did not have a firm timeline to return you to your position within the executive office. I knew that I would have liked to have seen you as a man again, but there never seemed to be the right time to effect that change." She must have known how weak her answer was for she looked evasively as she said it. I sipped my coffee and nibbled on my éclair.

I carried on: "If I was supposed to run the company again, then why did you groom Adriana to run it? Candice looked at me with an empty face. She didn't answer. She looked tired, old. I felt spritely and positively upbeat; many years of inner resentment were being expunged.

I carried on: "My old bedroom was taken over by Adriana. You've said that I was to become a man again. What did you do with all of my male clothes and when did you do it?" Again, she didn't answer. Futility was etched on her face. Flippancy was carried on my voice.

I carried on: "What long-term consequences to our relationship did you envision when you insisted that I call you 'Ms. Bryceland' everyday and to not refer to you nor to treat you as my mother?" Again, she didn't answer. She wrung her hands. Tears flowed down her cheeks. I sipped my coffee and nibbled on my éclair. This was now cathartic.

I carried on: "Can you recall anytime during my Adela prisoner time that you acted like a mother who loved me, and, if you can, would you please describe the acts you took to underscore that love?" Again, she didn't answer. She was inexpressive.

I carried on: "I want to understand why you and Julieta and that little Malinche would want me to think that I was below everyone else." Again, she didn't answer. Her face said defeat.

I carried on: "How would it be that you introduced your son as your maid yet you introduced Adriana as the daughter that you never had?" Again, she didn't answer.

I finished with a dismissive wave of my hand: "Really, Candice, can you not see how I would not consider you to be my mother?" I sipped my coffee and finished my éclair. I stood and got another one. I sat down.

-----000-----

The éclair was to die for! I truly outdid myself with this one. Candice may have seen my pride cross my face. Perhaps she was proud of me. Perhaps she was dreaming of having just one bite from the éclair. Either way, I didn't care about her. I waved the éclair about and spoke.

"Candice, here's what I think. You wanted to run the company and saw an opportunity to do so after dad died. Given my age and wealth, you saw no reason to have your ambition hindered by family. Just like that lesbian businesswoman dad used to talk about; you know the one; you had her over for dinner that I --- sorry, your maid Adela --- served. Business came first for you. I was in the way. You moved me out of the way. You never gave any serious thought to giving the company back to me. Yours was a tidy plan, until I messed it up by running away."

I probably sounded detached and uninterested in the story. I kind of felt that way too. A large part of me truly did not care about this history, these stories, from my past. Marie and the girls were my present and future. I shook my head to concentrate.

"Anyway, you essentially had me brainwashed into being a maid for you and a tongue for that little worm Adriana. Your statements that I could return to the company once I was a 'real man', or however you phrased it, were hollow. They were lies. You never wanted me to go back there as a man. You never wanted any possible threat to your chair in the executive office."

Candice was now sobbing. I pointed to the paper napkin dispenser on the table. She took one.

I was relentless. "Now I try to understand what draws you here to this small town today. I think," and I drew this out slowly, "you're here because you are 65 years old and have had some health issues. They're mentioned on-line in the gossip papers. Perhaps mortality is on your mind. Maybe you have a terminal disease and want to ensure a better transfer of your bequests to Adriana. Or to Julieta. Or to the local humane society."

I paused and then blandly stated, "Gavin Tremblay, born Bryceland, expects nothing from you, both in life and in death. And what was in that little envelope you sent me for the first meeting? Was it a 'Dear Gavin, I'm dying, please come home' letter? Did you sign it, 'Hugs & Kisses, Mommy Dearest'? Or was it a 'Dear Adela' letter? 'Please come back, girl; our toilet's dirty'?"

I spoke in the most blasé manner. I felt quite distant from her. Part of me (a large part of me) would not care one iota if she had a terminal disease of some kind. A hint of fondness for a buried memory of whom she once had been held me back from complete apathy.

"I understand that I still own a large number of shares in the company." She solemnly nodded in agreement when I said this. "So, I can select the next CEO and President. I could even make myself that guy. But that was never your plan. Adriana has been your betting horse."

Then I acted as though it had suddenly hit me! I leaned toward her and faked a gasp. "Candice, if you are in fact ill and die, then you can only gift 21% to Adriana and she lacks the legal authority to act for me in respect of my 30%. There would be a risk of corporate instability!" She looked shocked. Was she busted or insulted by the suggestion? I didn't know.

"And perhaps you're here now to muster or corral somehow my votes for her at some point. Or to effect some other dynamic at the company that furthers your interests." I sipped my coffee and nibbled on my éclair. Her sniffling was now distracting.

"For the life of me, I cannot see a circumstance in which a strongwilled woman like you, who has ruthlessly pushed her way to the top of the corporate world, would ever elevate 'family', if you even know what that word implies, over business interests. I certainly wouldn't see that now," I said as I took an envelope from a law office out of my back pocket.

"Candice, here is a letter informing you that any powers of attorney that you may have in respect of me have been cancelled. And if you look up there," I pointed to a shelf above the back counter, "you will see that my delivery of it to you is captured on video and is already clouded elsewhere." I hope the camera caught the priceless look on her face.

-----000-----

Suddenly, pandemonium interrupted us. The front door flew open, and the girls rushed in screaming. They were still in their karategis but now wore orange belts! They had passed! They swirled and twirled about me, and completely ignored Candice. They jumped on me and punched me, grappled me and tugged me.

"They wanted to show their best sensei their new belts!" Marie cheerfully said walking in and turning on the lights. Candice looked at Marie with surprise. Marie's happy expression suddenly changed; she looked grimly at Candice. The girls and I shouted and screamed together. Orange belts today! We laughed and hollered. Candice was bedazzled. Our mini-tornado of celebration came to a stop when Marie started shooing the girls back out to the car.

"C'est elle, ta sorcière?" Marie asked me.

"Meine rabenmutter, schätze," I replied, masking my sneer.

Before Marie could escape, Candice stood, introduced herself to Marie as "Mrs. Gavin Bryceland (Senior)," and offered Marie her hand.

Marie hesitated and glanced at me. I'm sure Candice noticed her aversion. Then Marie shook it, coldly said, "Marie Tremblay. Enchantez," and briskly walked out of the patisserie, turning off the lights.

The candle had a nice orange glow to it. I sipped my coffee. It was cold. I got up and poured a fresh cup. I sat down. I nibbled on my éclair. I looked at Candice. She was not in shock but was overwhelmed. And a bit sad. She stared at me.

After several silent minutes, she asked whether I had taken Marie's surname, or I had first changed mine and then Marie taken mine upon our marriage.

"The former," I said. "Until I married her, I was a Bryceland. All of my identification papers, driver's licence, everything: all of them were in my name. Once off the streets, I could have been located easily; you never did though. Marriage offered a name change opportunity that I seized instantly. I am now very much a Tremblay." She had no reply to that.

She then asked whether the children were biologically mine. "Yes, and Marie's," I answered. "Our triplets: adorable, aren't they? Their names are Suzanne, Simone, and Sylvie. Each is named after one of Marie's mom, grandmother, and great-grandmother; all of them are dead. The kids have grown up with just two loving parents."

I paused.

"They know that they have no aunts, no uncles, no cousins..."

Again I paused. I wanted this next one to sting.

"No grandparents."

Candice looked at me with an empty face. Her eyes were red and glistening.

-----000-----

I decided to change the topic significantly and began to tell her a wee bit about my life story between my escape 13 years ago and meeting Marie.

Adela the brainwashed maid had been wiping Adriana's toilet one morning. There was a particularly tenacious brown streak at the back of the bowl. The toilet brush didn't get it, nor did the bleach-soaked rag. Adela had persisted for several minutes trying to remove the streak by hand. Frustrated, she finally sat on the floor, back against the wall, and stared at the streak. "I'm cleaning baked-on shit off a toilet," Adela thought. And then she began to reflect upon her station in life.

Several minutes and one epiphany later, Adela was dead.

Staring at the streak was a now very self-aware and highly determined Gavin Bryceland who was pissed at my slavery-like conditions and felt deeply betrayed by Candice, Julieta, and Adriana.

So, I took my Gavin identification papers and one small backpack and I left.

I told Candice that I worked in odd jobs and had often slept on the streets. I avoided the very worst pitfalls of living a homeless life. I ate a lot of dog food and kitchen scraps. I wore the same shabby, dirty clothes forever. Candice seemed to weep when I related this to her.

I reminded her that I had gotten fat down in Mexico and that she and her lackeys subsequently had kept me fat up here. I had had rolls of fat all over me. But, I told her, you live on the streets for a bit then you lose the fat fast. With that diet, I started looking like a man again. Candice reached her hand out toward mine, but I avoided hers by quickly nibbling on my éclair.

Living on the streets and doing odd jobs here and there also taught me important life skills, such as 'functional' self-defence, pilfering, conning, breaking and entering, and so on. I told Candice that I was not entirely proud of doing what was necessary in the circumstances to get myself off the streets. But I did get off them. And I became quite strong doing so.

"You should update the corporate biography page. 'Ms. Candice Bryceland's son was a homeless, stinky, lice-ridden bum who broke into cars to steal stuff to survive day-to-day, hand-to-mouth, who slept behind garbage dumpsters, and who appreciated a quiet downtown alley when taking a shit'," I proudly said as I nibbled on my éclair.

I told her that I drifted and one day found myself in this modest little town. There was a bright and welcoming patisserie looking for staff. I applied and got the job. Marie's dad taught me a lot in the few months we had together. He passed away, Marie requested that I run the shop, and not shortly afterward we started dating. And I finished by telling Candice that she could guess the rest.

-----000-----

I wanted to smoke. Screw the municipal ordinance. I lit one up.

"Candice, once upon a time, you asked me whether I trusted you. I answered that I trusted you with my life for Christ's sake." I dragged a deep haul; smoking is awesome in situations like this. I turned to look at her.

"That was a mistake. I'll never trust you again, Candice. That's where we are, now, you and me. I don't trust you, don't need you, don't want you, don't think about you, don't dream about you, and somewhat don't care about you. And yet here you are." Damn nice cig.

"You have the business that you wanted and the daughter that you never had but whom you always wanted. The company is doing well. I give credit where credit is due. I doubt that I would have ever steered it toward such success. You, Julieta, Adriana: congratulations. You've really achieved something there. And I am not a part of it. Nor do I want to be. And yet here you are."

She looked at me sadly.

She may have been sad for me. Was it possible that I was so stupid to have overlooked some piece of this jigsaw puzzle and thus her sad gaze was one instigated by some condescending arrogance? Perhaps her victim (me) still didn't recognize his looming death or misfortune?

Or was she sad because I failed to see and appreciate her magnificence? Her success at the highest corporate level. Her success in international trade. Sad because I didn't genuflect to her in awe?

I examined her face closely and failed to detect any hint of the latter. No, hers was another kind of sadness, one that I thought more deserving. It was more likely driven by her growing fear that she could never be part of my life or Marie's. Or our children's.

"Come on, Candice, tell me why you are here and what it is that you want from me."

I asked this in a playful tone, suggesting that her answer (whatever it would be) would be considered insufficient. Or useless.

"My son. I want my son back!"

She shouted it out. There was pain in her voice and anger too. She went on and on about how she regretted treating me the way she did and for having so flagrantly elevated Adriana above me. Eventually, she finished her little speech with a puddle of tears on the table in front of her.

I suddenly got up and went to the door and opened it.

"You're a businesswoman, Candice. And I'm a family man. You're plainly successful at getting whatever it is you want to get. And I have everything I want or need in Marie and the girls. And this little shop," I waved my hand around in a circle.

"What I told Julieta applies to you too. I will consider what you said but I do not believe a word of it right now." I waved my hand toward the door in a shooing motion. She responded, got up, zipped up, and made toward leaving. She was crying.

I used my arm to bar her way out the door.

I looked down at her. There were traces on her face of the mother whom I once loved, whose nurturing voice I had once willingly answered, and whose hands had once caringly petted my head after a hard day at elementary school. As much as I was relishing my apathy, I remembered that --- the corporation aside --- ours was a sorrowful, frayed bond of a mother and her son. What to do?

I made a quick decision and gave her a quick glance as I let her walk out. I flatly said to her, "If you want to talk some more, then be here next week, Friday the 31st at 4 pm sharp. If you're not here, then never come back for I will never talk to you again."

I didn't shove her out the door. But I did close it quickly once she was across the threshold. I locked up super-fast and went out back. I didn't want to consider whether I ought to change my mind and tell her to never come back at all, ever.

I drove home. Marie was waiting for me, and we talked.

31 MAY 2030

I watched Candice exit her limo, the chauffeur holding the door. I could tell that she was used to having someone open doors for her. Her limo had pulled up five minutes early. No corporate pantsuit this time; she wore jeans, a blouse, and a leather jacket. She gracefully stood up, looked left then right, and then up and down, and finally walked toward the shop's door. She hesitated, knocked, and feebly pushed the door open. I watched her gingerly come in.

"The usual seat and table, Candice!" I shouted from the kitchen. The table was ready and empty. It's a deserving dinner discussion whether 'once' is sufficient to constitute 'usual'. She had only been here once before. Should I have said, "same" seat and table? I really have to stop second-guessing myself on such trivial, esoteric points.

Anyway, she sat and took off her jacket and waited for me.

I nodded to Marie who had not ceased staring at Candice. "I love you," I told Marie. She smiled at me, came over, kissed me, and said, "Allons-y." Together, we walked out from the kitchen to the table.

-----000-----

Candice seemed surprised to see Marie here but recovered to greet her: "Good afternoon, Mrs. Tremblay. It is a pleasure to meet you again." Candice looked at me and similarly greeted me. She waited for us to sit. There were only two chairs at the table.

Marie corrected her: "It's Ms. Tremblay, not Mrs." Marie sat. I stood, expressionless. Candice hesitated, and then sat too.

"The usual coffee and my latest creation?" I asked Marie. She smiled and nodded. Candice may have been puzzled because I had not offered her any or because I would not be sitting at the table. Either way, I didn't care.

I locked the front door, put the 'closed' sign up, went back to the kitchen, and returned with Marie's daily indulgence: a quad long shot grande in a venti cup, half-caf, double cupped, no sleeve, salted caramel mocha latte, with two pumps of vanilla substitute, two pumps of hazelnut for toffee nut, half whole milk, half breve, with no whipped cream, two pumps of white chocolate mocha or mocha and substitute, extra hot, extra foam, extra caramel drizzle, extra salt, plus a scoop of vanilla bean powder, with light ice --- and well stirred too!

I also brought her my latest creation: an exquisitely wrought piece of astonishingly edible art, painting in glaçage, the cream filling infused with the taste of coffee and tonka beans, and, oh, I could go on, but I will stay modest. The point is that I brought one to Marie and none to Candice. I went back to the kitchen and started puttering. I listened to them talk.

Candice looked quizzically at Marie. "Is, uh, Mr. Tremblay not joining us?" she asked.

"He will but only after you and I discuss several aspects of your being here. You are a businesswoman. On a more modest scale, so am I." Marie spoke with confidence. Candice at first seemed thrown off by this approach but appeared to accept it after I gave her a fleeting smile.

"I will be direct," Marie began. "You said you wanted Gav to come home. Accordingly, our first existential issue is this; would you not agree with me that Gav is already home? Here. With me. With our beautiful children. With our two small businesses. With our humble house. With our humble car. With our local friends and neighbours. With his instructing karate at the local dojo." Marie leaned back in her chair. She sipped her coffee and nibbled on her éclair.

"Each of those elements are fundamental to our concept of 'family'. Family time. Family business. Family fun. Family. It is why we spend Sunday mornings together on the bed in our pajamas. Family. I will not pry to ask you how you, Candice, spend your Sunday mornings." Marie dabbed her mouth with a napkin.

"But I will insist upon an answer right now to my question: would you not agree with me that Gav is already home here with his family? This is not a primary question, Candice. Rather, it is THE primary question." Marie put her elbows on the table and leaned in toward Candice. Marie's eyes bore into Candice's.

I enjoyed watching my lovely bride metaphorically plunk her German Shepherd paw on top of Candice's Pomeranian head.

Candice returned Marie's stare then glanced over to me. I nodded. "Yes, I agree with you. He is already home with his family," Candice said with resignation.

-----000-----

"I'm glad we agree. In that case, with that common yet fundamental understanding forever established, we can now address lesser matters." Marie smiled brightly at Candice who seemed drawn and fatigued.

"My husband owns 30% of your company. Sorry, 'his' company. You own 21%. Between the two of you, there is majority control. My husband does not want to 'usurp', his word by the way, you as CEO or President. Gav has made it clear to me, in his best vernacular," Marie smirked, "that he'll never step foot in that company ever again. Indeed, when he told me that he owned that 30%, he seemed rather enthusiastic about selling it to Tangmere International at a discount rate. Coupled to their current 10%, his shares would effectively ensure Tangmere's control. You would not be CEO for long, n'est-ce pas?" She sipped her coffee and nibbled on her éclair.

Candice simply nodded.

Marie continued. "Gav is also sensitive to the fact that his grandfather and father built the company. He loved both, as you might recall. There is pride to be taken in ensuring that one's predecessors' efforts have not been wasted. This quietly successful patisserie," she waved her arms around above her head, "exemplifies that." She glanced back at me.

Marie faced Candice again. "Your efforts too, Candice. Gav acknowledges that the company has done well under your leadership, better than it did under his. He also acknowledges that, when he was younger, he may not have been strong enough or bright enough to run the company." Marie almost took a sip of her coffee but instead added, "But that was once upon a time, long ago. And that particular Gavin is dead."

Candice briefly looked at me. Her face was impassive. I looked back at her impassively.

"So, Candice... Sorry, do mind if I call you Candice? Good. Candice, I have a simple business proposition for you. You transfer to each of our children one-third of your shares to the conclusion that you will have none and Suzanne, Simone, and Sylvie will have them all. Gav exercises the authority over the minors' shares. In short, Gav controls 51% of the company." She sipped her coffee and nibbled on her éclair.

I watched Candice closely. Her face was stoic. Marie carried on.

"He will not remove you from your CEO position. To the contrary, given your track record, he wants you to keep running the company." Marie raised her eyebrows in saying this and Candice raised hers back in disbelief.

"He did say," Marie paused with some embarrassment, "that the woman named Adriana would have to explore opportunities elsewhere. She would have one month to move out and go someplace else. Gav is insistent upon that. His diction when he speaks of this woman is quite," she flipped her hand in the air, "colourful. The other woman, the one named Julieta, he says can stay for however long you stay."

"I am insistent upon one thing as well," Marie said with an edge. "At the first mention, hint, reference, allusion, joke, or so on, by anyone, about some slave-maid Adela," Marie shot me a reassuring glance, "you're cut out. Of everything. Forever, Candice. And all his shares go to Tangmere. No one diminishes my husband. Is that clearly understood?" My heart raced as my beautiful wife said those words. Marie sipped her coffee and nibbled on her éclair.

Candice nodded her assent.

Marie cheered: "Gav, this éclair is to die for!" She licked the traces of the cream from her lips and threw her head back in gastronomical joy. "Candice, you really must try one!"

Candice looked at me. The corners of her mouth were turned down sadly. I held up a plate on which was a beautiful avocado filled éclair; the hints of smoked salmon and pickle put this one over the top. Candice nodded slowly 'yes' and ventured a smile.

-----000-----

I walked out from the kitchen bringing an éclair and a coffee. I put them on the table and drew up a chair. I looked at Marie and smiled. She smiled back. I turned toward Candice and smiled. She nervously smiled back and glanced at my pastry. She moved to pick it up, but I waved her hand away. She looked at me puzzled.

I began casually: "Candice, I have a great wife, great kids, a great life. I love what I do here and the life we have here. Our family serenity in this serene family town: this is what will be protected. Ruthlessly protected."

I stared at Candice as I spoke. My voice was firm and confident. I knew who I was, what I could do, and how to enjoy life without Candice Bryceland.

"Bottom-line: you have only two choices. First, you can give up the 21% to the girls, stay on as CEO, and, one day, maybe even in a couple of months, have three charming granddaughters jumping on your bed when they stayover with you some weekend. Calling you 'granny'. You can watch them grow up. And you could have a daughter-in-law who is treasured and loved." I took Marie's hand under the table and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

I took a brief moment before finalizing this offer. "And you could then have a somewhat distant son --- but a son nonetheless --- who calls you 'Mumzie', not 'Candice'." I smiled because Candice wouldn't get the insult. "You would have to work on your relationship with your son, but at least you would have one."

I paused. "A great many stars would have to align for all that to happen. But it could happen."

"Alternatively, second choice, 'Candice', not Mumzie, you can stick with your original plan, keep your shares, get dumped as CEO by Tangmere, and hang around the mansion by yourself, wondering if Adriana or Julieta will change your diapers as you grow older. Then, when you die, a gravestone: 'Candice Bryceland, deceased, no surviving family, but she was a great CEO'." I kept my scorn in check as I said it. I think Marie was a bit embarrassed; but she knew of my settled views on our possible futures.

Candice had a grim look on her face.

I didn't smile. "It's up to you. Here. Today. Now. You can be 'Mumzie' or 'Candice' but not both. And no other choices. No negotiation either. It's your decision. You can taste this to-die-for one-of-a-kind éclair right now. Or never."

I pushed the small plate toward her and then sat back. Marie and I exchanged looks and then we stared at Candice.

Once upon a time, I had wanted to savour some sort of crushing victory over Candice. But would it be worth it now, meaningful now? Probably not. Did I really care now about her all that much anymore? I couldn't shutter my heart completely, however, I had no idea where some relationship with her might lead. I did know I could care less about defeating her.

Marie, Suzanne, Sylvie, and Simone: they defined success for me. I just wanted a simple life with my loving family. And I already had that, no matter what Candice chose to do.

She had made herself that irrelevant to me.

END

By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020