Page 6 of Four Steps to the Perfect Fake Date

Shock shot down Daphne’s spine like a jet of ice water. “How did you know that?”

Ellie laughed at Daphne’s outraged expression. “You were spotted on the way home.”

“By who?”

“I never reveal my sources.”

“This island is a fishbowl.”

“That it is,” Grandma Mabel cut in. “What happened? Did you get a ticket?”

“Got away with a warning,” Daphne replied. “Blown taillight. I bought one at the auto shop this morning. Was hoping Dad would help me fix it.”

“Course I will,” Claude said as he bustled to the table with toast, butter, and fresh fruit. “We can do it after we eat.”

“And then you can drive me to the Winter Market,” Grandma Mabel announced.

Daphne glanced at the gray drizzle outside. “In this weather?”

“What are you talking about? It’s a gorgeous day out there. Everyone will be out.”

And everyone was. Daphne parked on the street across from the elementary school, staring at the droves of raincoat-wearing people milling around the school’s parking lot. The doors to the gymnasium were thrown open, and a few tents had been set up outside. The Fernley Island Winter Market ran from November through March and was wellattended every week. Anyone could apply for a booth as long as they were selling handcrafted goods.

Mabel was out of the car in a shot, her umbrella spread open above her head as she beamed at Daphne. “There’s a new coffee truck this year. Harry just texted me that their coffee is disgusting. I can’t wait to try it.”

Snorting, Daphne locked her car and followed, the hood of her jacket blocking the worst of the rain. It wasn’t pelting down, but it was a steady kind of mist that soaked right through to the bone. They jaywalked across the street and entered the market’s bustle.

Noise spilled from the open doors of the gymnasium, inside of which most of the booths were located. Outside were a few food stalls releasing steam into the rainy atmosphere, with people milling around holding warm drinks as they chatted, impervious to the bad weather. The coffee truck was near the entrance and the line wasn’t too long, so Daphne and her grandmother joined it and shuffled forward.

“Why do you want to try the coffee if you know it’s bad?”

“Harry could be wrong,” Grandma Mabel pointed out.

“She could be right.”

Grandma Mabel laughed. “Only one way to find out. Hello, dear,” she called out to the teenage girl inside the truck. “One black coffee for me and—” She glanced at Daphne.

“Regular latte, please.”

They paid and waited for their drinks, and Harry—full name Harriet—toddled up to them with a steaming paper cup in her hands. She was a few inches shorter than Grandma Mabel, with her gray hair wrapped in a plastic rain hood. She leaned on a butterfly-patterned cane and was accompanied by the third friend in Mabel’s trio, Greta.

“Swill,” Harry pronounced, lifting the drink. “They should get Vicky’s back. She knew how to make coffee properly.”

“You said Vicky’s coffee tasted like dog’s breath,” Greta noted.

“It did, but it was still better than this.”

Daphne heard her grandmother’s name called out by the teenager in the truck and went and grabbed their drinks. She took a sip and coughed. “It’s not the best,” she conceded.

Harry grunted in the affirmative while Grandma Mabel took her own sip. Her face was blank for a moment, and then she said “Disgusting” before breaking into a broad smile. “The worst I’ve ever had.”

The three ladies nodded and tasted their drinks again, grimacing to each other in the aftermath.

“Does the bakery still do those caramel sticky buns?” Daphne asked, glancing toward the gym doors. She could see two aisles of booths set up inside, with droves of people milling about.

“Usually sell out within an hour or two,” Mabel answered, nodding. “Let’s go see if we got here early enough.”

The Winter Market was another one of those strange déjà vu experiences for Daphne. Everything was the same but slightly different. Every second vendor was a familiar face, except some of them had more gray hairs and kids running around their booths these days. The kindly old man who made the best rhubarb jam Daphne had ever tasted smiled as she stopped by for a sample. She pulled out her wallet to buy a jar. The hot sauce table was as popular as ever. The woman who wove her own wool rugs was busy chatting with the man who made unbelievable wood-turned vases, their wares displayed for all the passersby to admire.

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