Miriam had a lot of feelings about Noelle standing up for her, trusting her with the business, and advocating for her to have so much responsibility. She was going to think about those feelings later, when Hannah wasn’t around, because they were confusing and overwhelming—and also pretty horny. Right now, she was going to try to figure out what the hell was happening with her cousin.

She sat down at one of the tables and pulled out the chair next to her. Hannah reluctantly sunk into it.

“Nan, I thought you were glad to have me here. I don’t want to keep stepping on your toes, but I don’t understand why delegating some of this responsibility is pushing your buttons,” Miriam asked. “Things were fine between us when we were brainstorming.”

“Because that was theoretical, and this is execution,” Hannah explained, crossing her arms around herself protectively. “I’m in charge of execution. I have to be, because it keeps me moving. I learned how to take care of this place without you because I had to. You weren’t here when Cass was dying, when I walked away from the love of my life and it almost killed me.”

Oh, no. This wasn’t just about Hannah panicking when she wasn’t in charge of things, this was so much bigger.

“I got good at doing everything myself. This is mine. I gave up everything for it, and if I’m good at it, then it was worth it.” Her voice broke on the end. “If you don’t need me, why am I here?”

“Instead of with Blue?” Miriam asked quietly.

Hannah nodded through sobs, and Miriam wrapped her up in her arms.

“Noelle’s not wrong, I don’t need a second full-time position. But I also really hate not being in control,” Hannah said, finally pulling away. “I’ll think about it.” She got up and walked away, and Noelle, who had been listening silently, followed. Noelle nodded at Miriam as if to convey that she would make sure Hannah was okay.

Miriam sat in the empty dining room, playing with the shitty old napkin holders, until Mrs. Matthews entered.

“Come help me make challah,” Mrs. Matthews called to Miriam. “No one is any use to me with baking. You’d think a braid was an alien object.”

Miriam knew a con when she saw one, but she walked into the kitchen anyway, rolling up her sleeves and washing her hands.

“You know my challah is middling,” Miriam reminded her.

Mrs. Matthews shook her head in dramatic disappointment. “I was hoping you might have improved your game, all those years living in the South, without access to quality bread.”

“There’s been a settled Jewish community in Charleston since the 1740s,” Miriam teased. “I’m making do okay.”