Chapter 13 - The Press Conference
Friday morning, the sidewalk outside the Clark Street bakery was blocked not by television crews chasing a scandal, but by a orderly crowd of local reporters, neighborhood regulars, and food critics waiting for an official announcement.
Audrey stood on the small brick landing outside the front door, wearing her signature dark apron over a simple linen blouse. There were no publicists whispering in her ear. There was no entourage.
Just Micah standing beside her, holding a wooden baker’s paddle, and Arthur Sterling leaning against the brick pillar with a quiet, approving smile.
“Good morning,” Audrey began, her voice carrying easily over the morning traffic on Michigan Avenue. “As of today, Holloway House Hospitality has officially ceased to exist. All seven restaurant locations are transitioning under the new ownership of Opal & Son Culinary Group.”
A reporter from the Chicago Sun-Times raised her hand immediately. “Mrs. Finch, what happens to the existing staff and management teams?”
“Every single line cook, dishwasher, baker, and floor server who kept those kitchens running while corporate was busy playing dress-up has been retained with a twenty percent pay increase and profit-sharing equity,” Audrey answered without hesitation.
A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd.
“And what about Mr. Brett Holloway?” another reporter shouted from the back. “Has he made any statements regarding the corporate restructuring?”
Audrey didn’t blink. She looked straight into the camera lens, her expression completely calm.
“Brett is currently exploring new career opportunities,” she said smoothly. “I hear the mid-tier wine bar market in Lincoln Park is hiring consultants who specialize in liquidation.”
Laughter erupted from the crowd, light and genuine, sweeping away the last remnants of the Blackstone Hotel scandal like dust off a counter.
Micah stepped forward, leaning into the microphone with the same deadpan poise he had used on the red carpet five days earlier.
May you like
“And if anyone’s wondering,” the twelve-year-old added, his voice ringing out across the street, “grandma’s sourdough starter is officially back on the menu. First fifty loaves are free today.”
The applause that followed wasn’t polite or calculated—it was the loud, roaring cheers of a neighborhood welcoming back the person who had always fed them.
