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Charlie sits silent for a few minutes, then turns to me again. “Chief Wilmot should bring you on as a detective rather than me. Is there anything you can’t do?”

The note of admiration in his voice sets off a cadre of butterflies in my stomach. Thinking of myself as a detective makes me laugh. “I can’t bake. I just killed a cake.”

He opens his mouth to possibly protest, but I cut him off, suddenly feeling buoyant and brave and a little determined. “No, I did. It was a disaster.”

“Can’t have been. Sugar makes everything good. My mum used to make a sticky toffee pudding that could bring you to tears.” The corners of his lips curl down rather than up. “I forgot about that. She used to make it for every birthday, but I don’t think she’s made it in years.” He shakes himself free of the memory. “A detective then, it is.”

“Oh no. I suspect your work is a lot like baking. Too many rules. As I said, I like the story and putting the details together. I simply see them. I’ll leave the facts and actually proving it was Mr. Lombard to the real detectives.” I nudge him with my shoulder just as he did to me last Thursday evening. “To you.”

“It’s a good story, though, and it’s a good way to think about it.” Charlie playfully bumps me back. “And if you bake another cake, you can sign me up to taste test it for you.”

“Never. I like you too much for that.” I gasp. My words float between us, and it’s far too late to snatch them back.

His lips part as if he’s about to say something, but I cut him off again. “I’ve got to go. I’m late for work.” I pop up and dash several steps away before I turn back. “Tell me how it works out, will you?”

Charlie grins at me. It fills his eyes, and I find it hard to look away. “I will. And thanks.”

I nod and realize I’m standing like a fool staring at him in the middle of High Street. I lift a hand, wave, and rush off to work—with a plan to call upon Mrs. Beurton and beg for baking lessons as soon as possible.

Chapter 7

Tuesday, 10 January 1950

This morning a stack of Woman’s Weekly magazines sits on the counter, taunting me with a luscious winter-red lipstick and a teaser on how to bake a “showstopper” dessert. As much as I want the lipstick, it’s the dessert that has me reaching for the top copy and turning to page 46.

Of course I end up stopping and perusing each page along the way. After all, one gets the best tips and tricks from magazines. From Good Housekeeping I learned, and was able to tell Mrs. Taylor, who lives on a tight widow’s pension, that tooth powder will clean her brass as effectively as a jar of Caraway’s Metal Polish for about a quarter of the price. Home Notes taught me, and I passed that tidbit along to Mrs. Southerland, that the aluminum silicate in silver polish draws out water like a dream, removing those nasty water stains her mother-in-law left behind on her dining table. And the one I love best came from Woman’s World. A teaspoon of cornstarch in your vinegar cleans your windows beautifully, with far less scrubbing and no streaks—and for pennies to the pound when stacked up to that new aerosol spray that’s advertised everywhere.

But as simple, easy, and executable as all those tips are, the showstopper dessert recipe on page 46 is almost indecipherable to me. What does “cream butter” mean? Isn’t it simply butter? Am I to add cream? How does one “stiffen egg whites”? What even is a “crumb,” and how on earth do you “check it”? Just as in every other recipe, there are words and phrases I’m simply supposed to know. But I don’t. And how can I unless someone teaches me?

Before I can stop myself I call to Mr. Hastings that I need to run a short errand, grab my coat, and rush out the store’s front door. The little brass bell on its bright-blue string cheers me on, and I stride down High Street three blocks until I’m a few houses away from The Firs, the Beurtons’ home. I stop and see a woman on the front walk. I recognize her dark bobbed hair immediately. Her hair is even darker than my own, almost a midnight black. I run a hand down my long hair, which never holds its own curl, much less the ones I attempt to create with rollers. Should I cut mine too? Peggy’s bob is adorable, and Mrs. Beurton looks so lively with her shorter hair. What if—

Focus, Gemma.

Mrs. Beurton swings her bicycle round and sets it against the house with an easy motion. She strides up to the front door and pushes straight through.

I vacillate for a moment in an odd step forward, step back, spin, spin again motion and lose my nerve. This is a stupid idea. I’m not a nincompoop. I can figure out a recipe if I try hard enough. I take two steps, fully determined to return to work, but find myself stopping once again.

It’s no good. It’s more than just a cake or learning to bake. It’s what comes next. That delight in Peggy’s eyes when I presented her with that coconut confection. The hug Mr. Hastings gave me before he tasted my shortbread. The warmth I felt eating the almond biscuits our neighbor used to bake when I was very young. The light in Charlie’s eyes when he asked if there was anything I can’t do. That’s what I’m after. And scattered thoughts and sugar will not defeat me.

I turn once more and this time march full steam ahead those few houses down and turn onto the Beurtons’ front walk. I swing open their gate, step up to the door, lift the brass knocker on the black-painted front door, then let it drop with a resounding thunk. I lift it again for good measure, sort of my own weak battle cry, and am about to let it drop once more when the door opens. The surprise of it brings me falling forward.

Mrs. Beurton glances from me to the knocker, which I am still holding, then back to me again.

“Excuse me.” I right myself and step away. “That was an accident. Wonderful knocker.”

“Yes.” She laughs softly. “It works very well.”

“Yes . . . Of course . . .” I stall as my planned introduction flies from my brain.

“May I help you?” She raises an expectant brow.

“I’m Gemma Brown. I work for Mr. Hastings at the general store. We met several weeks ago. You came in with your son.” I rush, stall, then trail on as my words puddle stupidly between us. “I’m not coming from the store. I mean, I know you don’t shop there. I mean, not often. I haven’t seen you since that day—” I swallow. “It’s about baking.”

Her mouth curls up and her eyes dance with both interest and mirth. She is clearly amused by my fumbling but is too polite to laugh outright. I take that as a good sign and, again, try to swallow the lump in my throat and get the words out.

When I say nothing, because I can’t quite yet, she breaks into a smile so broad it stretches across her face and shows all her teeth. It’s not a ladylike, polite turn of the lips. It’s a true warm and vivacious grin.

“About baking.” She repeats my words, but not in a question. It’s more a statement of fact that now lies between us. She opens the door wide. “Well, Gemma Brown from Hastings General Store, why don’t you come in and tell me about it.”