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“So you’re in?” Cam asked. “Izzy will pay you, generously, and she wants to have a talk first about her ‘aesthetic.’ Fair warning: she’s very into vibes.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I lived in L.A.,” Francine assured her. “I can vibe all day long.”

Meanwhile, Birdie was fending off inquiries from various Silver Cove gossips who wanted to know what was up with the Mercedes sedan with tinted windows and out-of-state plates that was parked outside her house. They had all managed to keep Izzy’s presence under wraps so far, mostly by keeping Marcus Bloodsworth, the town’s one-man version of Deuxmoi, from finding out. “Just a friend of Cam’s from New York stopping by for a visit,” Birdie had told the would-be snoops. Hopefully that would stave off the gawkers.

The last thing Cam needed was for Silver Cove to catch on to what they were up to.

Cam and Izzy spent the next day going through the menu about a million times, rehearsing each step. The trick, Cam had realized after watching Izzy flounder in the kitchen, was to pre-prep as much as possible, though still leave a few razzle-dazzle steps for Izzy to complete for the cameras. And she streamlined the dishes. The appetizer would be gorgonzola-stuffed olives wrapped in thin slices of prosciutto and run under a broiler until the meat was crisp and the cheese soft. All Izzy had to do was assemble the little packages, place them on a sheet tray, and pop them in the oven. The main course would be the pesto pasta and a side of roasted zucchini, which she was pretty sure Izzy could get through after their lessons—and Cam would keep an eye on the timing to make sure she didn’t end up incinerating them again. A no-cook dessert of affogato—gelato topped with espresso and espresso liquor—would finish off the meal. Cam could make the coffee ahead of time and have Birdie’s old moka pot perched on the burner, and Izzy could just combine the ingredients for the camera.

Cam could stuff the olives, lay out the prosciutto, roast the peppers, and otherwise prepare the ingredients. She could reset, off-camera, after each course. Izzy would just stick to the script and show off a few moves.

It just might work, Cam thought. It had to.

The two of them were taking a break—Cam to polish the recipes to give to People magazine to run with the video and Izzy to make phone calls in the cafe’s dining room, probably to one of her stylists—when Francine arrived, laden with bags.

Cam grabbed one off her friend’s arm and hoisted it onto the stainless steel countertop. “The cavalry has arrived,” Cam said, peering into the packages to see piles of towels and stacks of platters. She was confident in Francine’s powers but, still, the idea that the utilitarian space could be camera-ready with only a few props seemed unlikely.

“We’re going for a ’70s bohemian meets earthy Tuscan theme,” Francine said, offering Cam a quick hug before digging into her bags and unloading colorful dishes and small wooden bowls.

“We?” Cam asked.

“Izzy and I texted a ton of images back and forth last night,” Francine said. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this. You just take care of what’s going on these gorgeous plates.” Hearing Izzy’s voice from the dining room, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “How’s it going? Really?”

“I don’t know,” Cam answered, in a similarly hushed tone. “Maybe not a complete disaster, if Izzy can just get a few things down pat? I’ve had to, ah, adjust. Listen, do you mind if I run out and grab a few things at the market while you start setting up? Tell Izzy when she’s done with her calls that I’ll be right back.”

“Sure thing,” Francine said, and turned back to her stash.

Cam was relieved to have a few minutes to herself while she shopped, throwing extras of all the ingredients into her cart. As she navigated around the produce aisle, she thought about Sergio back in Brooklyn, and it felt as though she were looking back at someone else’s life. Had that really been her? His shop and her apartment seemed like a million miles away from Silver Cove. And that woman she had been back then—which had really only been a few weeks ago—she was so closed off, so meek. Whoever that person was, Cam thought as she surveyed the pile of groceries and felt the phone in her pocket buzzing with texts, her life had at least been less complicated.

And speaking of complicated… As Cam rounded a corner on the way to the checkout, she spotted Ian at the end of the aisle, and it was too late to make a U-turn. He had already seen her, and he offered her his usual easy smile. Despite her misgivings about the carpenter, Cam felt herself grinning back as she approached. Even though she had been avoiding him since the fete, she was instinctively glad to see him. Something about Ian had the power to turn her into a goofy teenager even in the middle of the baking aisle.

“How’s preparation for the shoot coming along?” he asked. “Birdie told me about it. But don’t worry, I’m not going to sell you out to the paparazzi.”

“Thanks,” Cam said with exaggerated relief. “I’m trying to keep it under wraps, but you know Silver Cove. The only thing we like better than our holiday festivities is gossip. But so far, so good.” She noticed with surprise that she had used the collective “we” in describing the denizens of Silver Cove. Apparently, she had started to feel more at home here than she realized.

“Actually, you are just the person I need right now,” he said, and Cam felt a flutter in her chest.

He held out two boxes. “Which of these should I get if a recipe calls for brown sugar?” he asked. “Paige and I are making dark chocolate almond cookies tonight for Davis’s school bake sale. Usually, I’m more of a Toll-House-package-recipe guy, but Paige insisted on something fancier. Working with you has really inspired her. She’s very gourmet these days. And actually has a lot less attitude.”

“That’s really great,” Cam said. “About Paige. She’s going to be a good cook, and she’s already a pretty great kid. If the recipe doesn’t specify, I’d go with the dark brown. It’ll give the cookies a really nice caramel kind of flavor.”

Ian flipped the box Cam pointed to into his basket. “That’s exactly the kind of expertise I was looking for,” he said. “Thanks. Well, I better finish my shopping and drop these off at home so that I can get back to the jobsite. You know, my boss can be a real pain.”

And there was that smile again, the one that put crinkles in the corners of his eyes and made Cam feel like she might melt faster than a chocolate chip in a hot oven. Damnit. “Sure,” she said weakly. “See you around.”

As she moved through the checkout line, Cam let herself envision what it would be like if she joined Ian and his family in their cookie-making project that night. She pictured them all in Ian’s kitchen, measuring out the ingredients and stirring everything together, with Ian cracking dad jokes and her and Paige laughing along.

She was jogged out of her fantasy by a phone call. She pressed the phone to her ear without even checking to see who was calling. “Hello?”

“Mac, it’s me.” The sound of Miles’s voice instantly brought up mental images of sweater vests.

“Hey, Miles, what’s new?” Cam asked. “Look, I’m a little busy at the moment…”

Miles was obviously excited to deliver his news because he continued as if Cam hadn’t said anything. “I heard back from my friend in the library sciences program,” he blurted. “She’s a rare books specialist with Sotheby’s now. She can check to see if there’s anything similar in the writing style of the cookbook and Stormy that might confirm they were written by the same person, which might indicate that Ada was the author. But she says that’s a pretty big undertaking and might not be conclusive anyway. She said what would really prove that Ada wrote Stormy is an early draft or notes that would prove her authorship.”

Cam felt a wave of disappointment wash over her. They didn’t have anything remotely like that, and from what the docent had said at Merriweather House, it was unlikely that any of Ada’s effects had survived.

“Thanks for checking anyway,” Cam said as she attempted to place her groceries on the conveyor belt one-handed. “I better go.”