Wedding Girl by Stacey Ballis

MarySue Adams gets to reap the benefits of Anneke’s gifts in her home and that Dexter and Cookie get to reap the benefits in their restaurant, and that I will now never again be able to afford to work with her.
    I keep hate-reading the article, learning about how much MarySue has fallen in love with Chicago, that she has some fun new treats that will be Chicago themed, and that she is delighted to announce that she will be breaking ground soon in one of Chicago’s most historic and storied old neighborhoods.
    Less than four blocks from Langer’s.
    My eyes fly open, my stomach turns itself into a pretzel, and I’m suddenly powerfully awake.
    â€œShit,” I say as Bubbles comes over and slides a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of me and puts down a large mug of steaming coffee, light and sweet.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œA nightmare.” I show her the front page of the section.
    â€œOy, that woman. She gives me the creepy-crawlies. I always feel like she is peering into my soul through the television. Her teeth look like she wants to eat me. And I don’t think anything I’ve seen her cook has ever appeared appetizing.”
    â€œShe’s bringing her bakery here.”
    â€œTo Chicago?”
    â€œTo the old Woolworth’s space on Milwaukee.”
    â€œOver
there
?” Bubbles says, gesturing to the backyard and beyond, where the long-empty building has been awaiting development, less than a half mile from where we sit.
    â€œYeah.”
    The realization of what that will mean flashes across her face, and she flops into the chair opposite me, hand over her mouth. “Poor Herman.”
    â€œExactly.”
    I hand her the article and eat my eggs and toast, which are at once delicious and suddenly leaden. By the time I’m finished with my breakfast, she is finished with the article.
    â€œVey iz mir.”
    â€œExactly. I think I’d better go in early today. I don’t know if he’s heard yet, but if he hasn’t, it should probably come from me.”
    â€œGood girl.”
    I drop my dish in the dishwasher and head upstairs to get dressed. As I pull on my work clothes, I think about poor Herman and what this will mean, and then about myself. Last night’s email means I’m no closer to the type of employment that I really need, and while Langer’s isn’t my dream job, it is a job, and a pleasant one at that. What if Herman just throws his hands up and closes quickly? I’ll be totally back to square one. I shake this off, knowing that Herman’s best bet is probably to just try and sell his place as fast as he can before Cake Goddess opens so that he doesn’t face the humiliation of being put out of business. I would hate to see him suffer that, especially after so many years.
    I grab my bag and zip down the stairs, yelling my good-bye to Bubbles, and head for the bakery hoping upon hope that Herman already knows and I’m just there for comfort, and that I don’t have to be the one to tell the sweetest old man in the world that his business has one year left at best and whatever nest egg he was aiming to get out of it has likely fallen right into the toilet.

    When I push open the door at Langer’s, slowly to prevent the bells from ringing out, the first thing I hear is Herman on the phone.
    â€œI can’t worry about some other bakery.” Herman’s voice, coming out of the kitchen, sounds weary.
    There is a pause.
    â€œThey do what they do; I do what I do. It’s not the same.”
    Another pause.
    â€œThey may in fact do it bigger. But not better.”
    When I walk into the kitchen, Herman catches my eye and winks at me, gesturing to the pitcher of coffee, and I go to pour myself a cup.
    â€œYou may think that better doesn’t matter today, but I disagree. Bigger and cheaper and with more variety, with their big-time celebrity-chef owner. That doesn’t mean anything to