Charlie opened the bakery doors, turning the painted wooden sign they’d had for as long as she could remember to the WELCOME, WE’RE OPEN! side.
Immediately, Sharon Marston stepped through.
“Hello,” she said, in a strange, theatrical voice—almost as if she thought she had an audience. She peered around, then took off her hat and fluffed her hair, pressing her lips together to work in what looked like a fresh coat of lipstick. “How are you today, Cassandra?” she intoned.
Charlie raised an eyebrow. Had she accidentally stepped onto the set of a soap opera? “I’m okay . . . Sharon.”
Sharon was looking at the counter now. Her eyes widened. “Oh my. Is this it?” She fluffed her hair again, did that weird glance around thing, then stepped toward it. “Is this the famous Woodburn starter?”
“Oh shoot, yes. I was feeding it and forgot to put it away.” Charlie went to pick up the large container filled with the starter.
Sharon put a hand on her wrist. “May I see it?”
“Oh-kay.” Charlie pulled back the cheesecloth that covered the bowl and Sharon peered inside. Charlie noticed that it didn’t look quite right. It was supposed to be bubbling—and it wasn’t.
“So you feed it? Kind of like it’s a pet?”
“Yep. Once a day, after baking. Flour and water.” Charlie, confused about why the starter wasn’t bubbling, glanced at the container she had been using to feed the starter earlier and saw that it was labeled icing sugar. She searched her memory: surely she had not used icing sugar to feed the starter? But she couldn’t focus; Sharon was still staring at her, clearly waiting for something.
“As you know, I’m a very responsible pet owner,” Sharon said, inclining her head toward the front window, where her two poodles stood at attention. “Very, very responsible.”
“Sure. So, anyway . . . What can I get for you?”
Sharon gave an exasperated sigh and Charlie felt more confused than ever. “Okay, where is it?” Sharon asked, eyes darting around the bakery.
“Where’s what? Sharon, I just showed you the starter. Is there something else I can do for you today?”
“The camera, Cass! Where is it? Are you broadcasting this out to the town, too, the way you did with poor Brett?”
“What are you . . . oh.” The Live.Li stream. All at once, Charlie remembered Walter turning it on to test it out. She did not, however, remember turning it off—although she had closed the laptop this morning and it was now covered with her sister’s haphazard papers. Charlie tensed. Her sense of taste and smell had almost entirely returned, yes, but maybe it was time to face facts: her memory was still clunky and slow. She was scattered and all over the place, making mistakes she never should have been making. And it seemed to be getting worse, not better.
“The camera’s off,” Charlie said. Sharon relaxed her posture and stopped pouting her lips. Her voice was somewhat more normal—but filled with disdain—when she said, “You know, you think you can have everything, Cass Goodwin. It’s just not fair.”
“Please, Sharon. I don’t have the energy for whatever drama you’re trying to stir up this morning. We’re not in high school anymore. Can you just tell me what you want, I’ll give it to you, and you can go?” She tried to sound blasé, but in reality she was freaking out about the possibility that she had livestreamed her argument with Brett. How could she have been so careless and not remembered to turn off Live.Li when she got back from her hike with Jake?
“Excellent customer service, Cass. It’s like you don’t even want customers.” Sharon shot one last look at the starter before marching toward the door. “I’ve lost my appetite for Woodburn Breads,” she said over her shoulder as she pulled on her winter hat. “I think you’ll find the rest of the town feels the same, after the things you said to Brett. Who is a lovely man and did not deserve that!” The bells chimed as she threw open the door and then slammed it harder than was necessary.
Charlie groaned, then cleared the papers away from the laptop. Though she really didn’t want to, she knew she had to do it. She clicked “review past broadcast” and watched as an image of the bakery appeared on-screen. Then she hit play—but was interrupted by the tinkling of the doorbells again. Not immediately looking up from the screen she said, “Sharon, you made your point—”
Then she saw who it was and smiled with relief. It was Faye Christie, not Sharon back for another round of berating Charlie—and her heart skipped a beat, because for a brief moment she hoped Jake might just be parking the car and be right behind his grandmother. But Faye was alone. Charlie hit pause on the video, thankful for the reprieve.