“It’s easy for all of you to say,” Dona Marta said. “But you still haven’t seen what they can do! They’re building a greenhouse behind Deals Deals! A greenhouse with every plant possible that will replace my business! Julieta, just you wait until they come for you. When they expand their bakery and you can’t compete with the hundreds of cheap factory-made bread loaves they’ll pump into our neighborhood, you’ll know what I mean! A boycott will do nothing other than anger them. I thought you had a real plan when you invited us tonight.”

It sounded like a threat. Worse. It sounded like a prophecy, and I saw anguish in Grandma’s eyes for the first time in my life.

I think that’s when I first started thinking of Salt as my responsibility, too. Everything I knew was at risk. Everything I loved. My life in the bakery. My neighbors. I didn’t want to lose any of that. I knew I had to do something, I just didn’t know what.

So, when the neighbors were gone, and when Mom and Grandma withdrew back into the kitchen, I tiptoed to the list.

Carefully, dutifully, I put my name down.

Lari Ramires.

8

SATURDAY, APRIL 23

“Salt isn’t for sale,” Mom says emphatically.

“Aren’t you interested in at least hearing our offer?” the man asks, his voice as sticky as honey.

“No, thank you.” Mom slaps his business card on the counter and crosses her arms over her chest. I cross mine, too. “Like I said, Salt isn’t for sale.”

“You see, there are many great spots for a cafe in this neighborhood.” The man looks over his shoulder at the street, like he’s scanning his options, and maybe it’s my imagination, but his eyes linger on Sugar for a second too long. “But I love this building in particular. I’d hate to pass on such a well-established place without even giving it a chance.”

The way he says love sends a chill down my spine, like my home is a prime steak he’s dying to sink his teeth into.

“We’re not for sale,” I reiterate Mom’s words.

His blue eyes slowly turn to me, and I feel goose bumps run up and down my arms.

Mom’s hand is on my shoulder in warning. “Sorry to disappoint, but for the third time, we’re not for sale,” Mom repeats to him, her voice perfectly controlled, but her hand is clammy against my skin.

“Keep my card,” he insists with another toothy smile. “If you change your mind, come by my office. I can’t offer you a lot of time to consider it since we’re negotiating with other places. But, let’s say...give me your answer by the end of May?”

“No, thank you.”