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Cam thought about her cousin’s words. Avery was right. This wasn’t a mandatory assignment. Cam didn’t have to take on Ada’s quest, however desperate the dead woman was. She had enough on her plate, for starters, making sure she could pay for Birdie’s house repairs. And at the moment, getting said repairs done meant getting through catering the fete. And then somehow finishing Izzy’s cookbook. Never mind her own future, which currently Cam couldn’t even begin to fathom. Getting back to Brooklyn, getting back to normal, she supposed.

That was that, she thought, flipping her pillow over and watching the high moon cast its blue-white light through the small panes of wavy glass in the attic window. She would get some sleep, and then in the morning, she would put Ada’s cookbook away, in a locked trunk or something. Birdie probably had one tucked away around the house. Or she could give it away. Then it could be someone else’s problem.

But the prospect of abandoning Ada niggled at her. If she didn’t at least try to figure out what it was that Ada was looking for, there was the possibility of being perpetually haunted by a pretty worked-up ghost. Ada did only appear when Cam cooked from her book, but Cam had the feeling she wouldn’t be able to shake Ada’s presence quite so easily. The woman seemed persistent. And then there was the desperation in Ada’s whisper. Something had brought her back from another realm after a century, to present-day Silver Cove. Ada had a kind of will that Cam couldn’t help but admire.

But there was another reason lurking under those other ones, and as Cam searched her heart for it, it felt as elusive as Ada’s specter, slipping through her fingers, something she couldn’t quite catch. But there it was, Cam realized, just as sleep was threatening to close in on her. The revelation made her sit up. All her life, she had focused on choosing what not to do: She was not going to live like Flora. She was not going to have her heart broken like Birdie. And while all those no’s had gotten her a nice life back in Brooklyn, a comfortable one, it had also given her something she realized she didn’t want: piles upon piles of what-ifs. She had managed to amass an entire GPS system’s worth of roads not taken.

And now, something actually magical was happening to her, and it occurred to Cam that it might just be time to say yes—even if it was to a ghost.

Usually, creating lists put Cam in her happy place. Breaking tasks into manageable chunks or cataloging every last thing she would need at the store was a way of imposing order on the world, and it invariably made Cam feel calm and in control.

And for once, the house was quiet. Avery was napping away the last of her jet lag, and Birdie was getting a haircut. Ian didn’t work on the weekends, so there was no buzz of a power tool. But as she sipped coffee at Birdie’s table the morning after the séance, Cam wasn’t getting her usual Zen vibes. If anything, it was having the opposite effect. Her to-do list was getting unwieldy, and it was the first item on it that had her the most worried: Find a sous chef for Friday’s fete. Today was Saturday, which meant she needed to figure it out, pronto.

It definitely couldn’t be Avery. Her cousin was so helpless in the kitchen that Cam wondered how it was possible that they were related. Not that her assistant needed to be a great chef. She just needed someone who could take direction and stay focused on a task. Avery would probably strike up a deep conversation with the delivery guy while the mirepoix turned black in the pan. Who knows, she might just hop into his van with him and run off on some crazy road trip adventure.

And Francine couldn’t do it. She was in charge of decorating for the event, and she would be busy arranging flowers and place settings. Birdie had said she would ask around and get her some names, which was feeling like Cam’s only hope at the moment.

In a flash of inspiration, she grabbed her phone and dialed Martina. Although she and the cafe owner hadn’t spoken in a while, Cam figured—hoped—that she would probably have an employee or two who might want to earn a few bucks while the business was closed.

“Hi, Martina, it’s Cam Parker,” she said. “From Silver Cove.”

“Cam, I’m so glad to hear from you. I’m sorry we couldn’t connect right away. Things with a newborn are exhausting. It’s funny how you forget that after a few decades. Nap times, feedings, swaddling—always something! Anyway, are you settled in at the cafe kitchen?”

“Yes, I am. It really is a wonderful space,” Cam said sincerely. “So well equipped and clean!”

“Thank you, mija!” Cam could hear pride in the woman’s voice.

“And are you sure you are okay with me not paying any rent?” Cam asked. “I could offer a little.”

“Please! I own the building outright, and I wasn’t expecting to make any money while I was gone, so there’s no need. Besides, I almost feel like I’m on vacation, not having to cater the fete. I do it almost every year, so I know how big a job it is. I felt bad leaving Roxy and everyone in a lurch, so you’re giving me the gift of a clear conscience.”

Cam didn’t know Martina well. When she was growing up, the cafe had a different owner. Martina had bought it about ten years ago and had kept most of the menu that Cam remembered.

“I wanted to ask you—is there someone you could recommend who could be a… helper?” Cam asked. She had almost said sous chef before catching herself. She didn’t want Martina to think she was putting on airs. This was Silver Cove, not Manhattan. “I’ll need someone to help me prep two days before and the day of,” she said. “Do you have any employees who might be willing to do it? The town is paying, so I could offer regular hourly wages.”

Martina offered to text her the names and numbers of her two employees, Samantha and Lauren.

“I don’t know what their holiday plans are, but they’re both hard workers, and they know their way around the kitchen,” she said. “I’ll warn you, Lauren will talk your ear off, and Samantha will always want to play the worst country music. If it’s about a truck, she loves it!”

Cam thanked Martina profusely. “You’ve already helped me out so much,” Cam added. She could live with a chatty assistant or twangy truck songs for a couple of days if it meant making it through the town’s big event unscathed. “But are there any tips you can give me for catering the fete? Any advice?”

Martina laughed. “Wear comfortable shoes,” she said. “And don’t let Roxy knock you off your game with any last-minute requests. Oh, and if you’re using the catering cart to move the platters from the cafe to the hall, watch out for potholes. Ask me how I learned that one! I’ve never eaten your food, but Birdie tells me you’re a great cook, and that woman tells it like it is. You’re going to be fine!”

Cam wasn’t a hundred percent convinced of that as she and Martina said their goodbyes. She immediately texted Martina’s two employees and mentally lit a candle on the altar of Julia Child.

By midafternoon, from her perch on one of Birdie’s armchairs, Cam had drawn up battle plans for prepping for the fete, creating a detailed timeline for each day. She would need to drive to Virginia Beach for shopping, for sure. Certain things could be made ahead: the vinaigrette for the brussels sprout salad, the horseradish sauce for the beef, and the cheddar-flecked dough for the cheese straws.

Some dishes had components that could be ready in advance, too. The miniature biscuits for the appetizer course could be made the day before. She would be chopping squash for hours. And on Monday, she would collect the catering equipment at the town hall. She made a note to make sure that no dishes or glasses had been broken.

The hours before the event, though, was where the real choreography would happen. She noted what had to go into the oven and when and at what temperature—and precisely, to the minute, when each dish had to come out. Cam thought back to her days cooking in restaurants, how much she had loved that feeling of the whole kitchen brigade clicking along together, full of purpose, their hands a blur of knives and whisks. A big, complicated order might push them into the weeds—that was restaurant slang for oh shit, things are about to go sideways—but she’d found if she just planted her feet, pushed a little harder, and chopped a little faster, things would soon be back on track.

And then there was that moment when a dish was finished and garnished, and you just knew it was perfect. The meat was the right temperature, and the sauce had been reduced to exactly the right consistency, and you could just imagine the person who ordered it taking their first bite and smiling at their dining companions, reaching for another sip of wine.

Of course, not every meal could be happy. She’d heard plenty of stories from the front-of-house staff about spouses screaming at each other over even the most perfect of bouillabaisse. There had been ugly-crying, wineglass-throwing breakups that no risotto could ever head off, no matter how silky the rice was.

But Cam firmly believed that beautiful, delicious food had the power to bring joy to people. She felt that way about her cookbooks, too… Meredith’s cookbooks, that was. Showing people—especially people who didn’t think they could cook—how to make something lovely for themselves and their friends and family was just about the best feeling.

Cam suddenly realized that all the food introspection had made her hungry. She closed her notebook and leaned over to administer a good behind-the-ear scratch to Parsley, who was curled up by her feet.