Page 7 of Four Steps to the Perfect Fake Date

People walked with their friends, children, and partners, stopping at booths, laughing, talking. The noise echoed all around, giving the whole market a pleasant hum. A busker strummed his guitar on a small stage in the front of the gym and tapped his microphone.

Daphne’s shoulders relaxed. Fernley wasn’t so bad. The sameness was comforting, and the changes she saw in people’s faces and families made her realize that life had moved on here while she was gone, just as her own life had. Maybe she’d be able to find a place here, for however long she’d stay.

She slipped her jar of homemade rhubarb jam into her shoulder bag and hurried to catch up to her grandmother’s group. They’d joined the line for the bakery booth, peering over people’s shoulders to see what was left in the display cases. Daphne spied a fresh tray of sticky buns, so she was hopeful she’d get one by the time they got to the front.

“Long time no see!” the older woman behind the folding white table laden with baked goods exclaimed when she saw Daphne. “I heard you were back in town.”

There was a short pause, and Daphne imagined the smiling baker was thinking about all the other things she’d heard about Daphne’s less-than-triumphant return. Broken engagement, lost job, lost home, escort home from a certain scowling sheriff ...

“Hi, Adelaide,” Daphne replied, painting a smile on her face. “Business is booming as usual, I see.”

“We’ve been so fortunate,” she demurred. “What can I get for you?”

“Caramel sticky bun,” she said, then perused the selection of bread. “Don’t tell my dad, but I’ll get one of your multigrain loaves as well.”

“Claude still making bread, is he?”

“Nearly every day.”

“Maybe one day I’ll coax him to come work for me.”

Daphne grinned, sincerely this time. “I don’t think he’d want to give up his independence, even for the promise of unlimited baked goods.”

“Your grandmother, then. Have you gone near an oven lately, Mabel?”

“You know I haven’t,” Mabel answered with a grimace. “Not since ninety-two.”

“Shame,” Adelaide replied, wrapping up Daphne’s goods. “You had talent.”

Daphne tapped her card on the reader and glanced at her grandmother. “You used to bake? How did I not know this?”

“Sore subject,” Harry grumbled. “I’d let it be if I were you, girl.”

“She was my prime competition,” Adelaide said, handing two brown paper bags over. “Her losing that pot was one of the only reasons I was able to get this little business started.”

“It wasn’t lost,” Grandma Mabel said, getting heated. Her cheeks flushed red. “It wasstolen.”

Adelaide was already greeting the next customer, so Daphne shuffled out of the way. She glanced at her grandmother, searching the older woman’s shuttered expression. “A stolen pot?”

Harry and Greta exchanged a long look. Greta was the one who patted Daphne’s arm. “A cast-iron Dutch oven. Perfectly seasoned. You threw a handful of flour in there with a bit of water, bit of yeast, and poof! Perfect bread.”

“There was a bit more to it than that,” Mabel mumbled. “It was my mother’s pot. She used it exclusively for bread. It was stolen at a potluck by a two-bit hussy who denied any wrongdoing, like the lying cheat she was.”

“You know who took it?” Daphne asked, eyes wide.

“We all know who took it! Stole it right out of the cupboard while everyone was outside,” Harry said, stamping her cane on the wooden floor. “But she denied it, and that was that. The police didn’t bother with an old cooking pot.”

Daphne glanced at Grandma Mabel. “Who stole it?”

The old woman’s teeth gritted as she met Daphne’s gaze. “Brenda Sallow.” She snarled and stomped away from the baker’s tent, the rest of the group following.

They wandered down the aisle as Daphne tore off a piece of cinnamon-swirled, caramel-drenched heaven. She chewed and frowned. “Brenda Sallow,” she repeated. “Who’s that?”

“An arrogant, self-serving hag who always thought she was better’n she was,” Grandma Mabel shot back, venom lacing her words.

“May she rest in peace,” Harry added solemnly.

“Apple didn’t fall far from the tree,” Greta said as the four of them stopped to admire some handmade jewelry. “Eileen wasn’t much better than her mother. And look what she made of herself.”

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