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Noëlle groans in sympathy. “Oh no. Is it Marlene’s candles?”

“How do you know?”

“Because Ellen Caldwell told her hairdresser, who told my sister-in-law, who came in here yesterday, that she’s absolutely certain Marlene’s candles would have a spot, even though I know for a fact you haven’t approved a single new vendor yet. What can I get you, honey?”

“Large latte. And a cranberry scone for Emmett, or he’s going to start blackmailing me.”

“Coming right up. And here, try this one.” She slides a small cookie across the counter. “Fresh out of the oven.”

I pick it up. It’s still slightly warm, autumn-orange, dusted with something that smells like brown sugar and cardamom. I take a bite.

“Oh.”

“Right?”

“Noëlle, this is the best thing ever.”

“I know.”

“What is this?”

“Pumpkin spice with candied ginger with cardamom dust.” She’s beaming. “That one’s on the menu starting Monday.”

I finish the cookie in two more bites. “You could franchise these and retire early.”

“I don’t want to retire. I want people to drive here for them.” She wipes her hands on her apron. “That’s just the appetizer. I’ve got a whole lineup I’m testing this year. Cranberry-white-chocolate-orange, a cornbread cookie that sounds insane, but I promise it works. A pecan pie thing that’s basically a small pie disguised as a cookie. But I’ve saved the best for last.” Her eyes glint. “I’m putting one flavor on hold until Thanksgiving week. Building anticipation.”

“Is it pumpkin spice? Because I don’t know how you can improve on perfection.”

“Nope. Keep going. It’s a staple Thanksgiving flavor.”

“Please tell me they’re not sweet potato and marshmallow.”

She clutches her apron and gasps. “What kind of monster do you think I am?”

“You’d be amazed what people put in cookies these days, Noëlle.”

She leans onto the counter and says in a conspiratorial whisper. “They’re savory sweet potato, sage, brown butter, and a little maple in a rosemary shortbread base.”

“That sounds incredible.”

“You have to wait until the market to try it. I’m building anticipation.”

“Noëlle, I’m the events coordinator. I’m allowed to sample. It’s a professional obligation.”

“Nice try.”

Someone behind me chuckles. I turn to find Marge from the antique store in line behind me, bundled in her enormous purple coat, along with Mr. Barlow from the hardware store.

“Morning, Mrs. Harding, Mr. Barlow.”

“Griffin.” Marge pats my arm. “How’s Bastian?”

“He was good the last I spoke to him.”

Mr. Barlow grunts, which from him is the equivalent of an emotional speech. “He should just come back for good.”

“Excuse me?”