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“Hey, Paige,” she called to her assistant, who was lining Martina’s large aluminum trays with sweet potato biscuits slightly bigger than the size of silver dollars. Inside, a small fold of country ham was nestled along with a drizzle of Dijon mustard mixed with spiced-fig jam. “I have something for you.” Cam went back to the spot by the back door where her bag hung and pulled out a plastic-wrapped bundle.

“Here,” she said, handing it to Paige.

“A present?” Paige asked. “For me?”

“Just look.”

Paige pulled apart the cover to find two pristine white chef’s jackets. Cam had ordered them online, not that she could afford much of anything at the moment, but they had been cheap, and Cam had figured they would give her sous chef a little boost—and heck, maybe her, too.

“Fire,” Paige said as she ditched the spare apron of Martina’s—this one read No Bitchin’ in My Kitchen—and pulled her spiffy new coat on. Cam followed suit.

“I have to call you ‘Chef’ now that we look like real professionals!” Paige said as she finished buttoning it and looked at the two of them in their matching jackets.

Cam just laughed. “Okay, we went over the drill: trays go on the cart; cart goes to the hall. Then we unload and hustle back here to prep and reload for the main course. Rinse and repeat for dessert. Got it?”

“Let’s do this,” Paige replied.

The first course went seamlessly. Just as Paige and Cam arranged the light bites onto the silver catering platters, with Cam tucking garnishes of red berries around them, guests began trickling in. She could hear the oohs as people got their first look at Francine’s decorations and made their way to the bar. Cam and Paige scooted back out onto the street with the wheeled cart.

“One down, two to go,” Paige said.

“More like one-half down,” Cam said. “The main course is the biggie.”

Back at the cafe, Cam swiftly sliced the roast beef, breathing a sigh of relief—the large sides of meat were perfectly done with rosy strips for those who liked it rarer and barely pink ones for those who preferred more well-done. Paige tossed the salad with the vinaigrette as Cam looked on. They loaded the cart again, this time more heavily. Room-temperature dishes like the quinoa on the lower racks, hot ones, including the beef, went on the upper ones. Cam zipped up the insulated cover.

Back out on the chilly street, they rolled the cart along, crossing over from the sidewalk and heading for the greenery-draped front door. Cam was facing forward to better steer it, while Paige walked backward. And no sooner had they eased the cart down the sidewalk’s curb cut-out than Cam recalled Martina’s words of advice. She had done everything the practiced cook had told her to do. She had worn her most comfortable pair of clogs. She had politely rebuffed Roxy’s suggestion, made late last night, to switch the sauce from horseradish to blue cheese. But she had forgotten the last morsel of Martina’s wisdom: the pothole.

The thought skidded through Cam’s mind just as Paige pulled the carrier toward the hall, and suddenly Cam felt like she was watching the scene unfold before her in slow motion, the way people sometimes described watching a car wreck, later, when they were being interviewed by the local news.

The front left wheel of the cart hit the dip in the pavement and crashed downward with a sickening thud. The right front wheel kicked upward, and Cam could feel the entire side of the cart torque in her hands. She tried to shift it back upright, but her angle wouldn’t let her. She looked in a panic at Paige, whose eyes widened as she, too, tried to right the ship. Before the two of them could do anything, the force of gravity took over, and the entire cart lurched sideways. Cam could see the trays of food—the delicious dishes that she had spent the week lovingly preparing—straining at the side of the insulated cover. Cam’s stomach dropped as she imagined—no, knew—what would happen: The sauces would slosh around, the salads would spill. The beef would tumble out onto the pavement. The entire dinner would be ruined.

Her mind flashed. Could she possibly order pizza for the entire town? Would Roxy, in a fit of rage, revoke the building permit for Birdie’s house? Could she just slink out of town and leave the whole stinking mess on Main Street, hotfoot it back to Brooklyn, and pretend the whole thing had never happened?

But then something amazing took place. In her peripheral vision, Cam sensed a flutter. As she turned to see the source of the movement, a great gust of air suddenly kicked up from down the street and whooshed past them. As it did, it righted the cart, which landed back on its four legs with a gentle clatter. And then the air was still again.

Both women gripped the legs of the cart and looked at each other in shock and relief.

“Fuck!” Paige finally exclaimed. “That was a close call. Damn, we got lucky.”

Just then, Cam noticed that the street felt warmer than it had and then quickly cooled off again. The sudden wind squall that had mysteriously blown through Silver Cove was no northeasterly breeze. And luck, Cam knew, had nothing at all to do with it.

“Thanks, Ada,” she whispered, casting her eyes around in search of any sign of the ghost. How had she gotten there? Cam wasn’t sure. She was just glad that she had.

“What did you say?” Paige asked.

“Nothing,” Cam said quickly. “Let’s get dinner on—carefully.”

The rest of the dinner went by without a hitch. Cam and Paige spread out the main course on the buffet table, and the guests descended on it like a flock of seagulls to a bag of chips. Back at the cafe, Cam piped rosettes of honeyed goat cheese onto the apple galettes as Paige lifted the trays of miniature cranberry-orange zest tartlets onto the cart. They made their way—ever so cautiously—back to the hall, giving the cursed pothole a wide berth.

When they arrived back inside, Cam took a minute to observe. She spotted Birdie and Avery among the candlelit crowd, sitting next to Marcus, who appeared to be telling a very amusing story. She was glad to see her cousin smiling. She saw Ian and Davis, too. The freckle-faced boy’s hair was combed neatly, and he was wearing what looked like his Sunday best. Cam tried not to let her gaze linger on her carpenter, but she couldn’t help but notice that he was wearing a navy-blue blazer that made his shoulders seem broader than ever.

Francine caught her eye and gave her a perky wave. She was sitting next to a guy who Cam assumed was her husband. His arm rested on her shoulders, and he was looking at her like he thought he was the luckiest guy in the room. Roxy, positioned (of course) at the head of one of the long tables, was pink-cheeked and generally looked delighted.

Whew, Cam thought. She stayed where she was for a moment, enjoying seeing the pleasure on the townspeople’s faces. Some were still nibbling on second helpings, and others leaned back in their chairs with looks of contentment, their napkins tossed on the table. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood, although that might have had as much to do with the wine as it did the meal. Tiny’s pours did not live up to the bartender’s name either.

“Everything okay?” Paige asked, joining her.

“Yeah,” Cam said softly. “Just take a second and soak this in, Paige. This right here is the very best part of cooking, when something you made with your own hands has this almost magical power to make people happy. I mean, look at that,” she said, nodding in the direction of Ginny, the woman who had helped organize the jumble sale, who was giggling with the man sitting next to her. “I think Ginny’s finally going to get up the courage to ask Bill out tonight. And I don’t think Roxy has yelled at anyone all night.”