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He spread them out before them. “It seems she was a bit of a socialite, to the extent that Silver Cove had them,” he said. “There are several references to her attendance at local events, women’s luncheons and that sort of thing. Most interestingly, there’s a mention of a birthday party for a Miss Eliza Wise in which Ada Poulson—to the accompaniment of what is described as a local “colored band”—performed the Charleston on the dance floor. It seems that was new to Silver Cove and proved quite shocking.” Miles smiled, seemingly impressed by the daring young woman he had found in his digital archive.

“Oh, and look at this,” Cam said, suppressing a laugh out of respect for library protocol. “She’s also mentioned in this write-up of a prank that was pulled by some local youths.” Cam pointed to a story about how a goat had been found on the roof of the school. The creature, who had been plucked from the barn of a nearby farm, seemed perfectly comfortable on his perch, but it had taken the teachers and Silver Cove Fire Department several hours to get him down.

“And several mentions of her attending various Ladies’ Auxiliary Club events,” Miles chimed in, pointing to several other pages. “Her wedding announcement. And here’s her obituary.” He pushed a photocopied page across the top of the bookshelf toward Cam and Francine.

We regret to announce that Ada Poulson Merriweather, aged twenty-two, died on November 3, 1928. The late Mrs. Merriweather was a graduate of Silver Cove High School, where she was known as a bright and high-spirited pupil. She was a lifelong member of Silver Cove Presbyterian Church and a devoted member of the Ladies’ Auxiliary Club. She leaves behind her husband, Marshall Merriweather, and is preceded in death by her parents, Edward and Katherine Poulson of Silver Cove.

The bare-bones write-up left Cam feeling empty and even sadder than she had been at learning how young Ada was when she died. There was nothing here about what kind of person Ada had been. What she had been like to talk to. Nothing about her cooking or her whimsical voice and her evident sense of humor. Cam felt that she had gotten to know Ada far better by reading her cookbook. How awful, she thought, that at the end of a person’s life, this was what was left in the world: a dry recitation of facts and dates.

“You’ll probably also want to visit Merriweather House,” the librarian said. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it. That’s where Marshall Merriweather lived—and Ada, too, for a short while. The local historical society has its office there, and they run a small portion of the home as the town museum.”

Neither of the women had ever been. Francine had managed to come down with chicken pox for the field trip her class had taken, and Cam figured Birdie knew better than to bore her granddaughters with dry history.

“Looks like another item for my never-ending to-do list,” Cam said.

She reached into the bag she had been carrying and unwrapped the old cookbook from the clean linen dish towel she had carefully shrouded it in. The pages ruffled gently as she set it in front of the librarian, even though there wasn’t a draft in the room.

“Miles,” she asked, “would you mind taking a look at this? I found this at the jumble sale, and I think it was a cookbook that Ada Merriweather wrote. Does it seem significant to you?”

The librarian looked at the yellow pages like the hungriest man in the world contemplating a steaming apple pie. “Oh my,” he finally uttered, “I’m such a book nerd, and I’ve studied Marshall Merriweather for so long. This is really a find. May I?” he asked, motioning to the book and clearly asking if it was okay for him to handle it.

“Go ahead,” Cam said. “Is there anything you can tell me about it? I have this sense that she meant this for publication. Why else would she have gone to the trouble of these elaborate illustrations?” She pointed to the chapter headings that bore decorative letters, each one an ink-penned capital letter surrounded by sketches of fruits and vegetables.

Miles spent a few minutes paging through the book, handling its pages delicately. “There are other examples of this kind of thing—some women kept detailed records of the recipes they used in their kitchens, often to share with their servants so they could replicate a dish or particular meal. But you’re right, this is different. It does seem prepared for publication. This wasn’t just a personal record.” He pointed to the elaborate sketches that began each section of the cookbook. “Nor was it just a utilitarian catalog. And these descriptions!” He paused and read, laughing out loud at Ada’s prose. “I think you’re right. I think this was something Ada Merriweather meant to share with the world.”

“Thanks, Miles,” Cam said, trying to fit everything they had just learned into some coherent picture in her mind. Had Ada yearned to be a published author like her husband? “That’s really helpful.”

Eventually, the two women left the library, weighed down with the biography, a copy of Stormy, and a sheaf of printouts, thanking Miles as they made their way to the door.

Outside, Francine held out her free hand for the pages Cam was holding. “Hand ’em over,” she said. “You’ve got a lot going on. Why don’t I sift through all this? I’ve got time while I’m hanging around the shop today. Let’s catch up later, and I’ll give you the book-report version.”

Though the feeling of relinquishing control was a tad unfamiliar, if not uncomfortable, Cam felt relieved at Francine’s offer. And she felt like she had made the right call bringing Francine into this bizarre mission she was on.

At least it was another set of hands. She had a fete to plan. A sous chef to locate. And an impossible-to-please celebrity client to please.

“Thanks, Francine,” Cam said, passing off the sheets and the biography. “I’ll keep this.”

Cam held up the paperback copy of Stormy. “Maybe I’ll squeeze in a reread if I can find the time.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ADA

Finally, things have started to get a bit exciting around here, and it’s about time! First, Cam’s cousin Avery showed up late one night from some fabulous trip. And while she is putting on a brave face, I know better. There’s something sad surrounding her, like the gray clouds that sometimes swept into the bay in the mornings and kept the fishermen from their boats. I’m keeping an eye on that one.

And then I went on a grand adventure, or at least what counts as one. Cam took me to a building that was just brimming with books, and more books, and I thought I had died and gone to heaven. (Well, the dying part would be awfully redundant, now, wouldn’t it?) But then we turned a corner, and there was the most hideous sight: a giant portrait of Marshall in what looked like some sort of shrine. And when I heard that he called me an “amiable little companion,” why, I wished I could grab that silly mustache of his and give it a good yank!

As for my hopes for Cam, well, I’m starting to feel just a smidge of optimism that she might be up to this task. I’m also pleased to report that she seems to be making friends, and I’ve noticed that she seems to be taking a bit more care for her appearance, probably for the benefit of that fetching carpenter Ian. I even caught her rouging her lips the other day and cheered her on, although of course she couldn’t hear. All of which I heartily approve of, although I do hope her newfound social life doesn’t prove to be too much of a distraction. After all, we have important work to do.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Cam got back to Birdie’s to find Ian in the kitchen with Avery. The two of them were sitting at the old oak table with mugs of something hot to drink, and Ian was laughing as Cam walked in. A stab of jealousy practically poked her in the ribs. Of course Ian would find Avery far more attractive than she was. I mean, the man had working eyeballs, and that’s all anybody needed to make the distinction between long-limbed Avery with her curtain of silky, chestnut hair and average-everything Cam.

Men loved Avery, they always had. When Avery was growing up, boys had loved her, though they were more likely to express it by riding by Birdie’s house on their bikes and popping wheelies to impress her. It was funny, Cam thought, she had never, not once, felt anything within a mile of jealousy toward Avery. She quickly squashed it. It wasn’t Avery’s fault that she turned guys into real-life versions of those cartoons with bulging, heart-shaped eyes.

“Did you sleep off the jet lag?” Cam asked, determined to master her silly, petty feelings.

“Not really,” Avery answered. “I’m not even sure what time zone I’m in. But the coffee’s helping—and these, too.” She pointed to the plates in front of her and Ian. Cam saw that they were eating the leftovers from a batch of vegan chocolate-pistachio cookies she had been testing for Izzy. “These are insanely good.”