I stared at him, unblinking.
“Billie was so excited about participating,” he continued.
I looked down at Billie, who had dressed one of the lizards in a doll’s sock. That child was traitorously adorable, and I didn’t stand a chance of saying no when she was involved, my own self-preservation be damned.
Conrad leaned one hip against the counter. “Would you maybe make something with her for the auction table?”
I narrowed my eyes slightly. “You’re weaponizing your children.”
“I’m leveraging my available resources.”
“This is very unethical of you, Mr. Lawrence.” I used his surname for emphasis.
“Effective though, yes?”
I sighed. I had survived several cholera outbreaks, two world wars, and disco, only to be defeated by a handsome single father asking politely for baked goods.
“Fine,” I said.
Billie launched upward from the floor. “We will win the sugar festival! We will win the sugar festival!” She twirled around as if she had consumed all the available sugar in the county.
“It’s not a competition,” Bianca said automatically.
“It absolutely is,” CJ replied. He turned to me and lowered his voice. “The PTA moms like to win.”
I smiled and began pulling ingredients from the pantry. “Then win, we shall.”
The next afternoon, I arrived at the bake sale dressed as I always was during daylight hours: black dress, black gloves, black hat. I even added a black apron I’d paid extra to have delivered overnight in hopes of intimidating the other moms.
Billie marched beside me in combat boots and a black cardigan. She had insisted we needed “matching witch energy.”
Balanced carefully in our arms were trays of heart-shaped pastries glazed dark red and filled with raspberry cream compote that oozed dramatically when cut into, squeezed, or bitten. I had warned Billie that the effect might upset suburban mothers. That had only increased her enthusiasm.
“Do they look scary enough?” she asked as we approached the school gymnasium.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Excellent.”
The PTA bake sale occupied the gym with all the aggressive cheerfulness unique to organized parent fundraising. Folding tables lined the walls beneath handmade banners while clusters of mothers arranged cupcakes in orderly lines.
Everything smelled over-the-top sweet.
I set down the trays carefully. In my humble opinion, the pastries were beautiful. The glossy red glaze was smooth with nary a crack. Delicate veins were painted with raspberry syrup—a detail I was particularly proud of. Then, of course, there was the dark chocolate edging and the cream filling.
The silence around our table spread gradually. Conversations lowered, and eyes kept drifting sideways.
Billie sighed happily beside me. “The hearts look prettyanddiseased.”
“Thank you.”
CJ settled near the corner with his notebook and began writing, while Bianca opened a book the size of a very large dictionary. Neither appeared concerned in the slightest. I admired that about them.
The first PTA mother approached cautiously and with obvious skepticism when she saw more than a few children had sampled from our table. She had blonde highlights, wore expensive athleisure, and sported a pinched grimace that seemed permanent. I was sure she was a person who alphabetized her overly expensive supplements.
“What exactly are these?” she asked with a slight lip snarl.
“Raspberry cream pastries,” I replied pleasantly.
