Page 194 of Just One Little Bargain

“Exactly. I’d like recognition for my sacrifice.”

Mom looks up from the melon, then glances around the counter. “Have either of you seen my phone?”

I point toward the windowsill without breaking stride. “Next to the strawberries.”

She gives me a satisfied nod as though this proves the system works perfectly. “Good. I knew I put it somewhere sensible.”

Daisy snorts into her coffee.

I reach the island and lift the lid of the nearest box. Warm butter, cinnamon, and baked fruit rise from inside. There are enough croissants, Danish pastries, and muffins to feed twice the number of guests invited, which means Nora heard small celebration and decided four pastry boxes felt appropriately restrained.

“You went to Honeybee’s already?”

“Mom did,” Daisy says. “I was dragged from my bed against my will and brought here as unpaid labor.”

Mom points the knife vaguely in Daisy’s direction. “You volunteered.”

“At five forty in the morning?”

“You said, and I quote, ‘Fine, whatever, just let me sleep.’ That sounded like consent.”

I take the knife out of her hand before she starts gesturing with it again. “Please never explain consent that way to anyone.”

As we carry breakfast through to the dining room, the guests start waking up. The usual morning spread is set out, with The Honeybee’s pastry boxes left untouched in the kitchen for this afternoon.

Yesterday, I warned everyone about the celebration because I didn’t want anyone paying for a calm weekend only to discover half the town in the garden. I’d promised the noise would stay reasonable, that the party would wrap up well before bedtime, and that they were more than welcome to join us and help themselves to the food later. I expected polite tolerance. Instead, most of them seemed pleased by the idea.

Mrs. Halpern is the first at the table, already dressed for a hike while her husband trails behind her, fastening his watch.

“Congratulations again,” she says as I top up her cup. “We’ll probably stop by for a little while before dinner.”

“We have a reservation at the restaurant in town,” Mr. Halpern adds, pulling out a folded map. “But we’d love to come down and celebrate with you first.”

The warmth in his voice disarms me, and my smile comes easier than expected. “You’re very welcome to.”

Clara and Caden, a couple from Connecticut, linger at the table, discussing whether they should come back early from the lake for the party. Matilda, who is checking out today, asks if Nora’s apple Danish is as good as everyone claims. Daisy launches into an unnecessarily detailed pastry ranking while I put yogurt, granola, fruit, and warm croissants out on the sideboard.

By the time the party gets underway, the garden is packed, forcing me to weave between people to get from the porch to the drinks table without clipping anyone with my shoulder. The October sun is bright but gentle, warming the top of my head while the breeze keeps lifting the hem of my skirt and sending the smell of damp leaves, cider, and whatever Rick put in the smoker across the yard.

Most people have come prepared for Vermont weather anyway, jackets looped over chair backs, sleeves pushed up, scarves abandoned the second the sun came out. Dry leaves scrape across the grass near the fence, and the fairy lights Daisy insisted on stringing overhead catch the sunlight whenever the wind moves them.

People crowd the food tables, shifting platters around as they help themselves while paper napkins lift at the corners in the breeze. Somebody’s moved the cider farther from the edge after Marmalade showed too much interest in the cinnamon sticks.

Maddie has claimed the drinks table. She’s wearing jeans, ankle boots, and a rust-colored sweater with the sleeves shoved to her elbows, her hair clipped back while she works through a row of bottles, sliced fruit, herbs, and little bowls of spices like she’s been hired for the occasion instead of inviting herself into the role. Every few minutes she shoves a fresh glass into my hand and waits for judgment.

“Try this.”

I look down at the cocktail she’s offering me, pale gold with a thin apple slice floating against the side of the glass and cinnamon clinging to the rim. “How many more am I testing?”

“Until I’m satisfied.”

“You said that three drinks ago.”

“That was before I improved it.”

Maddie watches while I take a sip, her eyes narrowing with ridiculous concentration as though my face is about to reveal a laboratory result. The drink is crisp at first, then warmer underneath, with maple and spice settling at the back of my tongue. I swallow and pass it over.

“Well?”