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Cam inwardly groaned. There was nothing wrong with vegan cooking. She loved the bright, vibrant flavors of vegetables as much as anyone. And avoiding factory-farmed meats and other products was way better for the environment. But as a recipe developer, steering clear of animal products was limiting: no cheese, no butter (what would Julia think?), no cream… It was like taking colors away from an artist’s paint box. Still, any direction from Izzy was a good thing.

“I love this,” Cam lied. “Love.”

They talked for a few more minutes with Cam jotting down Izzy’s vegetable likes—cauliflower and mushrooms were yeses, thank goodness—and dislikes. Broccoli and spinach were on the “no” list, though baby spinach was fine. Cam had rolled her eyes again at that last bit. They were basically the same thing. But again, she shrugged off the annoyance, and by the time she got off the phone, she was already dreaming of a mushroom taco dish and a roasted cauliflower drizzled with a tangy sauce of pureed arugula. She could make this work, couldn’t she?

She used her momentary feeling of optimism to leave Russell a voicemail, breezily wishing him happy holidays and assuring him that things with Izzy were going well, really well, and they would talk soon, okaygottagobye! She hung up and felt Parsley looking at her from his doggie bed by the space heater with what she imagined was reproach in his brown eyes.

“It wasn’t exactly a lie,” she said.

Parsley looked unconvinced and went back to napping while Cam surveyed Birdie’s kitchen. Birdie could probably tell you where everything was, but Cam felt it needed more of an organizational system—in case you didn’t know that the vegetable peeler was stashed with the coffee mugs or the oven mitts lived on top of the refrigerator.

Cam grabbed her notebook and laptop and decided to hole up in her attic room to get some work done. She needed to sketch out ideas for vegan recipes for Izzy, and Birdie’s book club was scheduled to meet at the house that afternoon, which meant she would get zero work done if she hung around the kitchen. She grabbed an apple for sustenance and headed for the hills.

An hour later, Cam crumpled up another piece of paper and hurled it at the trash can. The ideas just weren’t coming to her. She felt too self-conscious, doubting every instinct she had. She kept imagining a very disappointed text from Izzy about each dish she thought of, which then led to her imagining a call with a very angry Russell Paxton. She had never made her agent mad before, but she had witnessed him dress people down, and Cam didn’t want to be on the wrong end of that kind of conversation.

The drone of Ian’s tools was like a mosquito in her ear, and she wandered over to the window to watch him work. Lately, she had been thinking more than she should about Ian McCabe. She liked how sure his movements were as he measured lengths of timber, marking them off with a pencil drawn from behind his ear, and then confidently sliced through them with a saw as easily as a knife through butter. She liked how focused he seemed on his work and, she had to admit, the look of his sturdy shoulders as he stretched out his measuring tape.

Cam mentally kicked herself for getting so distracted. What was the point of getting involved with—or even thinking about—Ian McCabe? In less than two weeks, she would be three hundred miles away from the hunky carpenter. From then on, her only contact with him would be writing him checks. As Cam brushed aside any thoughts of him, she could hear the sound of Birdie’s book club members arriving. This was pointless, she thought. She clicked her laptop shut and threw on a sweater.

“C’mon, Parsley,” she called, hoping to avoid having to run the gauntlet of all Birdie’s friends. She would never get out of the house otherwise. Marcus had already made a beeline for her.

“Hello, Camillia,” he said. Of course, she had just been cornered by the man who could probably lay claim to the Guinness World Record for slowest talker on earth. “I undertahhhhnd that you are caaaahtering this year’s holidayyyyy fete—”

“I’m sorry, Marcus,” she cut him off, landing a kiss on his cheek. “I’d love to tell you all about it, but I’m so late.”

“Late for what?” Birdie asked from behind her. “We were hoping you would join us!”

“Uh…” Cam looked around, and her eye caught on a flyer tacked to the refrigerator. “I’m, ah, volunteering. For the holiday white elephant sale.” She stole a closer look at the paper over her grandmother’s shoulder for the details. “We’re… sorting and tagging things. At town hall. So, like I said, I’m late. Gotta run.”

She gave Birdie a kiss, too, and hustled Parsley out into the chilly air. As she walked, she tried to smooth out the jumble of thoughts whirling in her mind. Cam took in the storefronts, all decorated with swags of greenery and festive red bows, the relatively new playground—it boasted a Stormy of Silver Cove theme, of course—and she felt a tug of affection for the little town.

For so long she had thought of it as the place she couldn’t wait to leave. Here she had always felt like she was known as Flora’s daughter, even long after her mother had died. Everyone had known her flighty mother and knew what happened to her. And Cam had always felt that people in Silver Cove felt sorry for her. Poor Flora’s daughter, Cam had imagined them thinking.

It was only when she’d made her own home in Brooklyn, where no one knew her family and what had happened, that she finally felt that she could put the past behind her, that she could be sure she was her own person. She had worked hard to make a little life for herself in New York, a quiet one with few attachments. Just how she liked it.

But maybe the idea of people knowing your business had its upsides. Cam thought of Birdie, always surrounded by friends, by people who cared for her. People who remembered Eddie. People who remembered Flora. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing.

As she and Parsley turned down Main Street, she paused in front of the town hall. She might as well go in and help out since she had told Birdie she would. Besides, maybe the distraction would do her good. The annual white elephant sale was part of the town’s holiday lineup and served as a fundraiser for the fete.

Inside, it was warm, and Roxy, who wore a pair of light-up Christmas tree earrings, greeted her with a smile. The town mayor had been boasting to everyone that this year’s fete was being catered by a “classically trained French chef,” and Cam was firmly on her good side—at least for now.

“Hello, Chef,” Roxy said, bending to give Parsley a scratch behind an ear. “Have you come by to show me the menu? I’m just dying to hear what fabulous creations you’ve come up with.”

“Almost done,” Cam lied. She hadn’t even started planning. Yet another task she hadn’t managed to complete. She was beginning to feel like she was letting everyone down. “I’ll get it to you ASAP. I’m just here to volunteer for the white elephant. I needed a little break from all the cooking and planning, you know.”

“Of course, of course,” Roxy said. “The creative mind must have its rest! And it’s so good of you to make a show of support for the fete since you’re on the team. Here, sign in on the volunteer sheet and help yourself to cocoa over there, and then you can start with the boxes in the corner. Ginny over there will show you the system for sorting.”

With that, Roxy was off, scarf flapping and clipboard in hand. Cam had to admire the woman’s organizational game, even if she was responsible for Cam getting roped into staying in Silver Cove against her will. She took a paper cup full of instant cocoa and signed her name on the sheet. (Again, Roxy was nothing if not thorough.) Ginny gave her a quick tutorial: open the donated boxes and bags, divide the clothing into categories—women’s tops, men’s jeans, etc.—and fold them on the tables that were marked with signs. Housewares were similarly sorted, and books had a separate table. Cam settled Parsley under a table and surveyed the tower of motley cardboard boxes and bulging bags. Maybe Roxy was right, and this was exactly the kind of mental break she needed to clear her mind.

The next few hours passed quickly, and Cam found herself lost in the tasks of unpacking, categorizing, folding, and arranging. It was strangely soothing and interesting to see the flotsam and jetsam of people’s lives. What had happened to the photos that had once been in the old frames? And why had someone given away a perfectly lovely dress with tags? Maybe it had never fit right. Maybe it was a gift from someone who didn’t know the giftee never wore blue. Cam eyed some of the donated cookware—there was a particularly nice cast-iron pan—but she resolved that she didn’t need to bring anything more home to Birdie’s bursting-at-the-seams kitchen.

After a while, Cam’s stomach rumbled, and she checked the time. Her shift was almost over, and Parsley probably needed a bathroom break. She was reaching for one last bag when an unusual box caught her eye. The heavy cardboard was crumpled, and it was clearly older than the rest of the donations. She lifted the top and peered in. She unfolded a woman’s dress that she immediately could tell was from a different, far earlier era. It was whisper-light silk in a rose-pink color with a skirt that flared out from a dropped waist. Tiny mother-of-pearl buttons decorated the front. There was also an apron made of soft calico that looked like it had been washed a thousand times.

Underneath those, Cam saw what looked like a sheaf of papers. They were yellowed and tied together with fraying twine through two holes that had been punched on the left side. Cam carefully lifted the papers from the box and softly blew the dust off the cover page.

Recipes from the Kitchen (and Imagination) of A. Poulson was handwritten on the cover.

Cam was immediately intrigued. Gingerly, she turned the delicate pages. It was neatly written and organized into chapters, each one starting with a fanciful drawing. There were dishes that Cam knew were outdated, like turtle soup and hot sherry punch. But what really interested her were the captions under the titles of the dishes. Each was whimsical. The hot sherry punch was “To Be Made Only Under Late Harvest Moon” while a lemon cake was “To Make for Your True Love.” The directions for the recipes, too, were like little bits of poetry, so different from Cam’s own straightforward and crystal clear instructions. A beef dish was supposed to be cooked “long enough to wander into the parlor and play Mozart’s ‘Fantasia in D Minor’ several times and stare out the window thinking of happier times.”