CHAPTER ONE

The last of the summer heat blew out of Saltcliff on the Sea along with the first fall storm blowing in. I’d lain awake the previous night as the wind had buffeted the Eucalyptus and pine trees lining the village streets and left strewn leaves and needles in its wake, and rivulets of rainwater washed it all into piles along Nutmeg, the main street in town. 

This morning, Taco Dog and I emerged for our daily walk into a garden dramatically changed from the one we’d strolled through the night before as we’d walked and then locked up the Saltcliff Inn for the night. Stalks of flowers lay across pathways, petals were scattered around, and greenery was stripped or broken, as if a giant had wandered through on his way to a late-night engagement. 

Taco whined as he nosed around his favorite blooming bush, and then looked up at me. 

“Are you sad that summer’s over, or that your garden is suddenly a disaster?” 

My service dog’s soft eyes held mine for a moment, and then he went back to nosing around. The truth was that my sister’s beautiful garden, which greeted the inn’s visitors as they arrived, had been in decline since her death. Though I was doing my best to take over her inn-keeping duties and to be a reliable and loving guardian to her daughter Diantha, my skill set did not extend to gardening, and the storm had accelerated the decline I’d been aware of for a couple months now. 

“Right,” I said, mostly to myself, since Taco was now pulling at his lead, eager to head out into the village to see if any of his friends were out and about this morning. “I think it’s time to hire a gardener.” 

I’d been running the inn for the better part of six months now and felt like I was getting the hang of it—both in terms of the day to day and in my understanding of the inn’s financial position. We could afford a gardener, and since neither Amal, the manager, or I had any gardening ability, it had officially become a necessity. 

My English chocolate Labrador and I strolled the cobbled streets of Saltcliff, moving slowly past the storybook cottages with their curving rooflines and blooming window boxes. The air felt clean in my lungs, and despite the mess the storm had left, something inside me was eager for cooler days and nights, and all the things that fall would bring. The baking, for one thing, was always more rewarding in cooler seasons. I mentally ticked through my fall recipes as we walked, but when a brightly colored figure appeared ahead, my thoughts were interrupted by Taco’s pull on the leash. 

“Doll, you survived!” Sylvan called down the sidewalk on Nutmeg. 

“We did,” I answered, appreciating my friend’s electric pink rain jacket, which he’d paired with royal blue galoshes and a pair of lime green pants. “How about you?” 

Sylvan leaned in and kissed my cheek as his Basset Hound, Luigi, greeted Taco. Luigi was wearing a set of blue galoshes to match his owner’s, and I suppressed a giggle at the ridiculous sight. Taco glanced up at me as if to thank me for not subjecting him to that particular humiliation.  

“We lived,” Sylvan said, removing his sequined sunglasses, which were shaped like stars. “The yard is a disaster. Branches and leaves everywhere.” 

“The wind was surprisingly strong,” I agreed. 

“Excessive, if you ask me,” Sylvan said, looking annoyed that no one had consulted him about the strength of the wind before unleashing it upon us. 

“What are you up to this week?” I asked, inwardly pleased that my small talk skills had improved enough that this conversation didn’t feel awkward and stilted, as pretty much every chat I’d had in the last forty or so years had. Keeping an inn and raising a tween had done a lot for my comfort level with people in general. 

“Same as you, I’m sure,” Sylvan said, again looking somewhat inconvenienced by whatever was going to be taking his time this week. 

“Same as me?” Was Sylvan going to hire a gardener? I doubted it. 

“The Saltcliff School Festival?” 

Oh, that. I had seen signs. And Diantha had said something about this a day or two ago. And I might have dodged a phone call from Dorothy Withers, a teacher at Diantha’s school who seemed to be involved in pretty much everything. The last time she’d contacted me it was to discuss Diantha’s preference for black clothing and ripped fishnet stockings, and I’d decided that she was someone I didn’t need to jump through hoops to speak to in the future. “Is that coming up soon?” I asked. 

“Three weeks, missy, and I already know that you have a massive role to play this year.” Sylvan waved his glasses and pointed them at me. 

“I do?” 

“Baking, Doll. That paltry PTA cannot continue putting out their measly spread of anemic, flat cookies now that you’re here. And the bake sale is the best part of the festival.” 

“The whole town gets involved in the school bake sale?” I was surprised the average villager would care much about a bake sale put on by a local school. 

“Maybe not when it started, but the bake sale began morphing into a full-blown festival a few years back, and now the whole town takes part. It’s like a street fair that happens all over town—people put out booths and we block Nutmeg to cars so everyone can stroll. And at the end of it all, most people end up at the schoolyard for the bake sale for snacks and refreshments and the cake walk. I heard they’re getting a Ferris wheel and bringing in that Neil Diamond cover band to play this year.” Sylvan looked more excited than I would have predicted about this last part. 

“Oh,” I said, not having realized the extent of the festivities. “I guess I’d imagined just a little school thing.” 

He shook his head. “People come into Saltcliff from all over the peninsula for the festival. It’s the real deal, Doll.” 

My friend had taken to calling me “Doll” almost as soon as we’d met, and I did my best to push down the knee-jerk reaction I’d always had to anyone shortening my name. I knew it came from a good place when Sylvan did it. 

“I guess maybe I should call Mrs. Withers back,” I said, thinking aloud. 

Sylvan made a face. “Unfortunately, she holds all the strings. She’s been organizing the whole thing for a decade. No one can pry it out of her talons, I’m afraid.” He lifted a hand in front of his face and made it into a claw, making a horrible face as he clutched at air. “The old witch.” 

“What do you do at the festival?” I asked.

Sylvan looked surprised at the question, dropping his Mrs. Withers act to shake his head lightly. “We attend, Doll,” he said lightly. “Luigi and I dress in our finest and grace the festival with our presence. Isn’t that enough?” This was delivered cheekily, and I smiled at Sylvan’s ability to be completely over the top and yet still warm and relatable. 

“I’m sure it is,” I told him, patting his arm. 

“Well, this dog won’t walk himself, unfortunately.” Sylvan slid his sunglasses back on before leaning in to kiss my cheek again. “Ta!” 

“Ta,” I said back, feeling immediately silly. I was not a woman who said “ta.” 

“It sounds like we have some things to figure out,” I told Taco, turning us back toward the inn. I needed to see if baking was the reason Mrs. Withers had phoned. That, I decided, could be fun. I’d been looking for a way to get a bit more involved at Diantha’s school, anyway. 

* * *

Taco and I stepped back through the front door the inn to find several guests serving themselves the breakfast I’d laid out before my walk, with Amal looking on from the reception desk. 

“Morning,” she said, offering me a wide smile. 

“Good morning.” I hung up the leash and checked in with a few of our guests to see that everyone had what they needed, and then joined her at the desk. “How are you?” Amal remained a bit of a mystery to me. She had been part of the package when I’d taken over the inn after my sister’s sudden death, and if not for her, I’d have had no idea what I was doing most of the time. She was also the steady hand of continuity my niece had needed through the difficult time after her mother had passed. 

Amal was tall, elegant, and beautiful—all things I definitely was not with my mousy brown waves and glasses. She was also graceful and mysterious, a woman I still felt I barely knew, despite having been in Saltcliff with her for nearly six months now. 

“How was the walk?” she asked now, scrolling through upcoming reservations at my side. 

“Good, if you don’t count the tree limbs and leaves everywhere. That was quite a storm,” I said. 

She glanced at me. “It was. Scary?” Her dark eyes were concerned. 

It struck me as odd for a moment that she thought I might be afraid of storms, though I knew many people did harbor irrational fears related to all kinds of external things. My phobias, however, were largely limited to the confounding workings of other people. 

“Not especially,” I said. “There were plenty of big storms out east. I’m used to it.” 

“And Taco?” 

“He doesn’t mind much as long as there’s dinner on time and someone to scratch behind his ears now and then.” 

Amal laughed at that, and a warm glow lit inside me. Our relationship was comforting and easy. I might not have known Amal well, but I treasured her, nonetheless. The fact that she had been close with my sister in the years when I was not added to my warmth for her.

I was about to ask something in return about how Amal’s little cottage had fared in the bad weather, but the apartment door that separated my house from the main floor of the inn swung open, and my niece appeared. 

“Morning,” she said sleepily in the direction of the desk where Amal and I still stood. She didn’t look at either of us, instead proceeding with her morning routine, which usually involved greeting Taco with lavish affection and sometimes rolling around with him until he was uncontrollably excited and needed another walk and Diantha was covered with fur. 

“Try not to get Taco worked up, please,” I said. “I need to chat with you before school.” 

Diantha looked at me now, her brown eyes widening as she turned to glance over her shoulder. 

When I’d first met my niece, she’d worn excessive amounts of dark makeup, especially around her eyes. Amal had suggested that it might be her form of mourning her mother, and I’d done my best to disregard the makeup. It had very little to do with the person beneath it, after all. Over the past few months, Diantha had used less makeup, and had grown out the unnaturally dark color her hair had been dyed so that it was a very pretty chestnut brown, which glinted with highlights beneath the soft lobby lighting. 

“Am I in trouble?” Diantha asked, rising to face me. 

“What? No,” I said quickly. 

“I thought she was in trouble too, by the way you said that,” Amal said, laughing. 

“Oh. Sorry.” I’d gotten better at the casual interactions required daily between us all, but inflection and nuance were still not my strong suits. And sarcasm was still a mystery entirely. My twin sister had been the relator between us, and even though I’d spent many years living in the world on my own, my skills hadn’t improved much.

“No, no trouble,” I assured them both. I followed Diantha to the side table, where she began loading a plate with blueberry muffins. “Eat some eggs and fruit too, please.” 

She glanced at me and rolled her eyes, an expression that was clear enough to need no translation at all. Despite the heavy sigh, she took several strawberries and blueberries and a scoop of scrambled eggs. 

As she sat, I poured myself another cup of coffee and sat next to her, greeting the couple at the far end of the dining table as I did so. It was the Khouris, a friendly, quiet couple from the desert down south. He was in the military, I thought, and she was some kind of marketing contractor. They came to Saltcliff regularly to escape the heat and wind, from what they’d told me. 

“Mrs. Withers called me,” I began, and Diantha suddenly dropped her head to the table next to her plate with another sigh. Twelve-year olds, it turned out, were very dramatic. “Not about you, per se,” I continued, and Diantha lifted her head. 

“That old grump hates everyone, Aunt Dolly. Whatever she said, you have to keep that in mind.” 

“Well, I didn’t answer when she called,” I admitted. “But I suspect it’s about the bake sale.” 

Diantha’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh, well, yeah. That makes sense. Ever since you sent those cookies to school with me for Mr. Bentley after his dog died, everyone talks about them.” 

Mr. Bentley was the principal at the Saltcliff School, and if there was any human emotion I did relate easily to, it was the love of a dog. I couldn’t imagine losing Taco. 

“Plus,” my niece went on, pushing a piece of muffin past her lips even as they were trying to form words, “oo atta epp ow aa best ner tow.” 

I waited, tilting my head to one side. “Swallow,” I suggested. 

Diantha did so, patting her mouth with a napkin. “Sorry. Those are really good.” She pointed at the muffin. “I said you’re kind of well known around town since all the guests talk about your baking when they go out.”

Ah. That, I knew, was true. In fact, Valerie Killeen from Beachside Bakery had told me recently that she was glad I wasn’t selling my baked goods because she feared I’d put her out of business. 

Baking had always been a comfort to me, something I turned to when the world outside the kitchen didn’t make a lot of sense. The mathematical simplicity of measuring and mixing didn’t require interpretation and there was no risk of humiliation if I got something wrong. Very different from the world of people—for me, at least. 

“Well, I just wanted to be sure it would be okay with you if I offered my help,” I said. “I don’t want to step on your toes.” 

Diantha’s eyes held mine for a long minute, and then she smiled softly. “I’d like that. Thanks for checking with me.” 

I kissed her forehead gently, a rather new show of affection for me, but one she seemed to like. “I’ll call her back today then.” 

I got up and began tidying up the breakfast area, and a few minutes later, Diantha was pulling on her backpack and heading out the door. 

“Have a great day, Danny,” I called as the door swung shut behind her.

CHAPTER TWO

That morning Amal and I had several guest rooms to turn over, and then, in the break between check outs and check ins, she suggested we get a quick bite to eat out in town. 

“That’s a great idea,” I agreed, latching on Taco’s leash. So far, I hadn’t encountered any legume-laden dishes, which was the whole reason Taco and I had gotten together in the first place, but having him by my side when I tried new foods was always a reassurance. Taco was an allergen dog, but he was also my best friend. I liked having an excuse to take him everywhere, if I was honest about it. 

Together, we walked up Nutmeg, which sloped gently downhill as it traced the path through town to the Pacific Ocean. We walked up the hill, stopping by silent agreement outside Beachcomber Bites, a deli I hadn’t tried yet. 

“Your sister loved this place,” Amal said, as we took our number to a table out front and sat to wait for our sandwiches. 

Every mention of Daisy struck a little tender spot inside me. My twin and I hadn’t really spoken in ten years before she died, and the grief I felt mingled with regret whenever I thought of her. I considered the way I’d essentially stepped into her life after she’d passed. And now I found myself living in her house, raising her daughter, running her inn. If only I could have heard from her what had led her to that decision—to appoint me guardian. 

“It looks incredible,” I said, gazing around at the sandwiches, soups, and salads being enjoyed by other diners. 

Taco sat obediently at my side, also gazing around with drool hanging quietly from his jowls. He was the most selfless Lab in the world, I thought—because he smelled my food for me, but never begged to eat it, as much as he would have loved every last crumb. His incessant drool was the only sign of his interior longing. I rubbed his ears, and swiped his jowls with his service dog bib, earning an adoring amber-eyed gaze. 

“You have the same order,” Amal said quietly. 

“We do?” 

“Daisy always ordered the French dip with a side salad. No chickpeas.” 

I thought about that. “When we were kids, chickpeas were one of the first things I reacted to, and Daisy swore them off in solidarity afterward.” It was odd to think she’d continued to avoid them, even when she was avoiding me. 

Amal nodded. “She talked about you often. Fondly.” 

“I want to believe you. It’s just kind of hard.” 

“She was complicated.” 

I sighed. “We all are, though, aren’t we?” 

“It is not an excuse. I tried so many times to get her to reach out to you.” Amal’s voice trailed off, her eyes growing sad and misty. 

I shook my head. “I didn’t make an effort either, though.” 

“She never held that against you. She just…she worried. And then she’d let it go so long, she said, that it seemed impossible.” 

“Amal, how long did you know Daisy?” 

“We met just after she bought the inn. She was planting the beginnings of that garden out front, and I was walking by. I stopped to say hello…” Amal met my eyes briefly, and then dropped hers again. “Dahlia,” she began. “There’s something—” 

“I think I already know,” I told her. I’d been thinking a lot about the things Amal had said about my sister, about the way she spoke of her. She loved her, I had no question in my mind about that. But suspected it was slightly more than that. 

“You do?” 

“Were you and Daisy… together?” I asked, uncertainty suddenly swamping me. I wasn’t a terrific judge of the relationships people shared. Had I jumped to a terribly wrong conclusion? 

Amal hesitated, meeting my eyes again as if expecting some kind of judgment. Then she nodded. “We were in love. She was my person.” 

“And you were hers,” I finished for her, my heart twisting in sympathetic understanding of what Amal had lost when Daisy died. 

“I was hers,” she agreed. She looked up at me again. “Does it bother you? Knowing that?” 

“No,” I answered without hesitation. “I’m glad she had someone to care for her. And that you did too.” 

Our sandwiches arrived then, and the motion created by the setting down of plates seemed to sweep away the sadness lingering over the table. I lowered my plate for Taco to investigate, and when he laid down beneath my chair with a groan, I set it back on the table and joined Amal in enjoying lunch. 

We were just cleaning things up when Amal waved at someone approaching. 

A small, round-cheeked woman paused next to our table, smiling at us both. “Hello ladies,” she said. “Good to see you, Amal. Sorry to interrupt your lunch.”

“Oh no, we were just finishing up. Betty, this is Dahlia Vale, Daisy’s sister and Danny’s guardian. Dahlia, Betty Bennett. She runs the PTA at the Saltcliff School.” 

“Hello!” Betty said, more loudly than I thought was necessary. “I’ve been meaning to come meet you, Dahlia. Mr. Bentley has glowing things to say about you. And about your cookies.” 

“Er… Nice to meet you,” I said, and reached my hand out awkwardly, realizing too late that this might not be a hand-shaking kind of hello. 

Betty gazed at my hand, and then reached her own out and took it, shaking my fingers nervously before giggling. “Anyway,” she said, as if to brush the strange handshake away. “I’m glad to run into you. Mrs. Withers suggested you might be just the person to head up the organization of this year’s bake sale.” 

“Oh,” I said, surprised. “I’d planned to contribute, but organize it?” 

Betty waited, her wide-eyed expression never faltering. 

“I, uh. I suppose, maybe…” I was looking for a way out of the responsibility, but Betty did not appear prepared to offer one. 

“Sure,” I said finally, and my acceptance seemed to reactivate Betty’s ability to speak. 

“Wonderful! I’ll tell Dorothy right away, and we’ll be in touch! Hope you’re up to it, it’s going to be our biggest yet. And Dorothy Withers is quite specific about how she likes things done. Thank you, Dahlia!” Betty turned partway through this excited speech and began walking away, giving me little chance to respond. 

“She’s a master, isn’t she?” Amal asked when Betty was gone. 

I shook my head, feeling like I’d just been run over by a PTA bus. “A master?” 

“At getting people to accept jobs they have no intention of accepting.” 

“She is, I suppose,” I agreed, wondering what had just happened. “She just… she just stood there, and I talked myself into it.” 

Amal smiled, nodding slowly. “It’s pretty impressive.” At my concerned expression, she added. “Don’t worry, Danny and I will help.” 

“Okay,” I said slowly, worried I may have accidentally taken on too much. 

* * *

After lunch, we strolled a little bit, with the intention of stopping by the Mutt Modiste to see how the sales of Danny’s crocheted dog scarves were going. I’d promised to teach her to crochet the dog sweaters I’d been making for years, but we hadn’t quite gotten to that level of expertise yet, and Danny had been so excited, she’d talked Tabitha, the owner, into selling scarves. 

“Hello there, Taco Dog,” Tabitha called from behind the counter to the side of the little shop as we walked in. I’d noticed that she greeted the dogs as if they were the customers, saying hello to the people only if she had time. “Hi,” she waved to Amal and I. 

“Hi Tabitha,” I said, approaching. “We just wanted to see how the scarves are selling.” 

Tabitha made a face. “No one wants a dog scarf,” she said. “But I couldn’t tell Danny that.” 

I understood. I couldn’t see a situation where I might put a scarf around Taco’s neck either. 

“That’s too bad,” I said. “It’ll make her sad to hear it.” 

“Don’t tell her that,” Tabitha said quickly. “I’ll buy them, and she doesn’t need to know.” With that, she pressed a button, opening the register on the counter, and began counting out bills. 

“That doesn’t seem right,” I said, and Amal joined me at the counter. 

“It doesn’t,” she agreed. “Tabitha? I think Danny will understand. It’s a lesson—supply and demand, understanding the customer.” 

Tabitha paused in her counting and tilted her head. “She’s just a kid. And she just lost her…” she trailed off, looking sadly between us. 

“Maybe there is something else she can create that will sell better,” I suggested. “Something that would be fairly simple?” 

Tabitha put a blue-painted fingernail to her lips. “You know, a couple people have mistaken the scarves for leashes at first. They seemed excited about colorful woven leashes.” 

I turned and picked up one of Danny’s scarves. “I think that’s possible. If she could do them narrower, with strong colorful twine, maybe?” 

“That might work,” Tabitha agreed. “But we’d need a clip at one end, and a handle at the other.” 

I replaced the scarf. “I think we can manage that,” I said. “But maybe it would work best if you suggested it to her? This is her venture, and I’d like her to feel in control of it.” 

“Oh,” Tabitha said, looking unsure. 

“Just tell her what you told us,” Amal suggested. “That customers are really looking for leashes, and that you think these could be very successful with a few modifications.” 

“I’ll help her figure out the details,” I said. 

“Okay,” Tabitha agreed. “She won’t be upset?” 

Amal shook her head. “I don’t think so. Not if you offer an opportunity along with the bad news.” 

“We can send her by later this week,” I said, and Tabitha agreed. 

As Amal and I strode back toward the inn, a cool breeze blew through town, bringing a distinctly autumnal scent with it. “You did well there,” Amal said. 

“I did?” 

She nodded. “I’m not a parent, but I think your instincts are good. That Danny will benefit from handling her own affairs this way.” 

“I hope so,” I said. “I have no idea what I’m doing, if you want the truth.” 

“I suspect many biological parents feel that way too,” Amal said. 

I wondered if that was true. No one got a manual when they had a baby, I supposed. And we probably learned mostly from how we’d been parented ourselves. 

Luckily, Grandmother was a stickler for treating children like small humans rather than coddling them like incapable babies. She’d always spoken to Daisy and me in a regular tone, often using words we had to stretch to comprehend. But to my young mind, that had felt like trust and confidence—she didn’t limit us or our worlds. Instead, she’d guided us calmly into her world of adults and responsibility, so that we were ready when she left us. 

It was what I was sure my sister had been doing for her own daughter, and something I’d try to take over gracefully. 

As Amal, Taco, and I arrived back at the inn, we entered the garden gate to find a familiar figure lounging on the bench to one side. 

“I’ll see you inside,” Amal said, giving my arm a squeeze as she headed under the curved archway into the inn. 

Owen Sanderson stood as he spotted me with Taco, a wide smile displaying the dimples on either side of his handsome face. His aviator shades blocked his emerald green eyes, but I’d seen them paired with that smile enough to know they were sparkling. 

“Hey Dahlia,” he said, the smile never faltering. 

“Hello Owen.” I stood a few feet from him, still not quite sure how to handle the warmth that flooded me every time I was the subject of his attention. “Is there some official police business I can help with?” 

He laughed, and removed his shades, and I almost wished he hadn’t. Owen in aviator shades was handsome. Owen with those bright green eyes fixed on me was incapacitating. “Yes, actually.” 

A little part of me deflated. Of course this was an official visit. Owen was the police detective in Saltcliff, and we’d worked together on a recent murder case—unofficially, of course. Still, some little bit inside me must have hoped this was a personal call. I had a gigantic crush on the detective, but I found it nearly impossible to understand how to navigate it. 

Taco pulled the leash forward and stuffed his head against Owen’s thigh. Taco did not suffer from social awkwardness. 

“How can I help?” I managed. 

“I was hoping you would agree to have dinner Saturday night. In an official dinner-having capacity, of course.” As he spoke, he walked slowly down one of the garden paths, and I walked with him, Taco sniffing eagerly around us. 

Owen’s words caught me off guard. How would dinner qualify as police business? “I, uh… is this part of a case?” 

“Nope. But policemen have to eat, so that’s official police business. And I’d like to take you out.” 

“Like…” I stammered, unable to articulate my thoughts. 

“Like a date,” Owen confirmed. “I am asking you out on an official date.” The green eyes gleamed hopefully, and Owen looked the tiniest bit uncertain, the big shoulders sagging just a fraction of an inch as he waited for me to answer. 

“Oh,” I said, surprise and shock making me unable to reply appropriately. 

“Oh?” Owen’s shoulders fell just a bit more. 

“I. Um. Saturday?” 

“Saturday. It’s the day after tomorrow. Is that okay? Do you have plans?”

“No plans, no.” Accept, Dahlia. What was wrong with me?

“So, is that a…” 

“I would like to go on a date with you to dinner Saturday night,” I blurted. 

Smooth. Very smooth. 

Owen’s shoulders pulled back again, making him look every bit the strong, capable detective I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since we’d first met. “Great.” He patted Taco’s head. “Think Taco wants to come?” 

I hesitated. Taco always went with me to restaurants just in case there were legumes in something I was served. But I hadn’t taken him on a date since I’d gotten him. Mostly because I hadn’t been on a date in the past four years. Dating was not part of my usual retinue of activities. 

“He usually eats out with me.” 

“Well, then, he’s invited too.” 

“Okay,” I said. Would it be odd to bring one’s dog on a date? I would ask Amal. 

“I’ll pick you up at six-thirty? We can walk. I thought we’d hit the Captain’s Table.” 

The Captain’s Table was the nicest restaurant in town, since the Cliffside had closed down a few months earlier after the chef’s unfortunate death. 

“Okay,” I agreed. “See you then.” 

Owen winked at me, and then turned on his heel and strode confidently out of the garden. I watched him go, nerves and excitement battling one another for centerstage in my chest. 

I let out the breath I’d been holding and headed inside. I opened my mouth to tell Amal about the date, but she and another woman sat on the couch in front of the fireplace, which glowed with a low fire, and both turned to look at me as I stepped in. 

“Dahlia, this is Dorothy Withers. She’s the English teacher at Saltcliff School and heads up the Saltcliff Festival and Bake Sale each year.” Amal stood and appeared somewhat relieved to wave me into her spot on the couch. 

“Hello,” I said, realizing it was already quite late in the afternoon if school had ended. Diantha would be home soon. I sat in the spot Amal had vacated, pushing my excitement about Owen to one side so I could focus on the stern, stony-faced woman in front of me. 

“Hello, Ms. Vale.” Dorothy Withers stuck out a hand, which I shook, relieved to understand that this was, in fact, a hand-shaking occasion. “I understand you have agreed to head up this year’s bake sale.” 

“I, uh…” How had Betty gotten the news to her so quickly? “Yes.” 

“Wonderful.” Dorothy Withers produced a fat manilla folder from the bag at her side and spread it open on her lap. “Everything you will need to know is in here. We will require at least thirty varieties of baked goods, no more than four fruit pies, and at least fifteen cakes in order for the cake walk to be entertaining. Cookies must have at least two feature ingredients, with the exception of the sugar cookies I, myself, bring each year. Those are indicated here.” She pointed a manicured finger to a spot on the list she’d pulled from the pile of papers. 

“Tables will be spaced around the school soccer field at the optimum distance from one another, which we have determined over the years is three feet, and tablecloths must be cloth, not plastic, and contain no yellow or red, so as not to attract wasps. The school has three booth structures, which you may offer to those with the most appealing items.” 

The door to the inn opened as Dorothy Withers continued explaining the excruciating minutia of the bake sale, and Diantha appeared. She grinned when she saw me, but the smile dropped the second she spotted Mrs. Withers at my side. 

“Diantha,” Mrs. Withers said, looking up. “I meant to speak to you about that skirt today.” 

My niece wore a short purple denim skirt over tattered tights, paired with heavy-soled black boots. I’d grown accustomed to her style, and even kind of liked it now. Her shirt, at least, was colorful, and she’d stopped wearing the dark makeup around her eyes, choosing a pink gloss and a coat of mascara most days instead. 

“It looks nice, doesn’t it?” I suggested, not eager for Diantha to be scolded in her own home. 

“Actually,” Mrs. Withers began, but I cut her off as Diantha’s little face fell. 

“Danny, could you give Taco his dinner early, please? He got rushed through breakfast and he’s desperate.” My very non-desperate dog perked up at the mention of dinner, raising his big head from his paws as he lay at my feet. 

“Sure,” Diantha said, smiling as she looked down at Taco. “Come on, buddy.” Taco leaped to his feet and joined her at the door that separated our apartment from the lobby of the inn. “Nice to see you Mrs. Withers.” With that, Diantha and the dog disappeared through the door. I glanced at Amal, who was typing something at the registration desk, and noticed her subtle smile. 

I was winning at this parenting thing today. 

“Well,” Mrs. Withers said, clearing her throat. “Let’s go over the budget.” 

“Sure,” I agreed, settling in. 

“I want you to know that the accounting this year will be meticulous. I will accept nothing less.” 

“Of course,” I said, feeling pinned under her beady-eyed gaze. Did she think I was going to steal from the school? 

After another hour of Mrs. Withers talking incessantly and pointing to numbers on her many spreadsheets, she rose. “I’ll see you at the school tomorrow at eleven-thirty for the walkthrough, then.” 

“I, uh. Yes. Okay. See you then.” 

And as Mrs. Withers left, I realized I really had become a part of this town. I was needed here in a way I’d never really been needed before. It was a nice feeling.