CHAPTER 1

C HAPTER 1

"I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference to you, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me."

—Elizabeth Bennet, in Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice

C lippety-clop- splat. My shoes struck the rain-soaked sidewalk at a brisk pace. Clippety-clop- splat.

"Careful, Allie," I muttered to myself. The rain had stopped, but the pavement was still slick. "Slow down."

But I couldn't. Why was I rushing on foot to Dream Cuisine, the pristine ghost kitchen that I rented on a month-to-month basis? Because Marigold Markel, one of my favorite people in the whole world, the woman who owned Feast for the Eyes, a darling bookshop, had hired me to make and serve a midmorning tea tomorrow for the Bramblewood Community Theater Foundation, and she'd put in an additional request. Driving to the store down the street to purchase the few extra items seemed senseless. But now I was late getting started. I hated being late for anything.

Clippety-clop- splat. Skid!

"Honestly, Allie, get a grip," I said as I veered right onto Main Street. "You'll get it all done."

Would I? Making six dozen mini mince pies, five dozen tea sandwiches, four dozen icebox sugar cookies, and a pound of chocolate caramel fudge would not be a snap .

"Breathe," I said.

Dutifully, I inhaled and exhaled, adjusted the two reusable bags filled with groceries that I was carrying, and refocused on the sound of the narrator reading my latest foray into Sherlock Holmes stories, The Sign of the Four, via my earbuds.

Reading—even audible reading—calmed me. At one time in my life, I was destined to become an English teacher. And why not? I'd spent most of my childhood days reading books while dreaming about any host of heroes and heroines. In high school, my passion for fiction swelled. At Davidson College, it became an obsession. I graduated eager to alter young minds. I also graduated, foolishly thinking that getting engaged to a handsome, intriguing banker was a good idea.

At the age of twenty-one, reality hit me hard. Number one: Not all prospective English teachers got hired right off the bat . . . or at all. Number two: Bankers were not intriguing, and fiancés were not worth the effort. Case in point: When I became aware that my beloved was leaving me for a younger woman, I was devastated. I mean, how much younger could he find without robbing the cradle? Needless to say, a week later, I hawked my engagement ring for a gold Celtic knot necklace. I had Celtic heritage on my mother's side, primarily those that settled in the British Isles who identified more with the talkative Irish nature than the direct and economical English personality.

A month after the breakup, I gave up trying to launch a career as a teacher, moved home to Bramblewood, a serene town in the Blue Ridge Mountains northwest of Asheville, North Carolina, and decided to try my hand as a caterer and baker. Why a caterer? Because while waiting for a teaching position to open up in Charlotte, I'd worked as an assistant caterer for a popular diner known as the Eatery and discovered I was good at it. Why wouldn't I be? I'd learned to cook at the tender age of five. I'd had to, out of sheer necessity. My mother, a mathematics teacher who was easily distracted in the kitchen, burned everything.

Now, four years after starting my business, thanks to a devoted clientele and a little pluck—pluck that I drummed up by mimicking all my favorite fictional characters—I was still catering, as well as working as a personal chef and supplying goods to local bakeries. Six clients were demanding twice-weekly deliveries of my scones, cupcakes, and cookies. Three others regularly ordered my fruit or chocolate tarts. Could I use more business? Sure. Couldn't everybody? I certainly needed more money in my coffers to buy all the books I wanted to read.

"Allie, stop!" someone yelled, and batted my arm.

I glanced over my shoulder at Tegan Potts, née Meriweather, my best friend since kindergarten, who was hauling back to assault me again. "Hey. Stop hitting me."

"Haven't you heard me calling you? I've been chasing you for blocks." Her cheeks were pink with exertion.

"Sorry. Can't talk now. I'm running behind."

"Cool your jets. You're your own boss. Time is irrelevant."

"Not to me. Your aunt expects me to deliver the goods." Marigold was Tegan's aunt.

I jammed a key into the lock on the front door of Dream Cuisine, twisted, and pushed the door open. The alarm system started to bleat. I hurried inside and tapped 6-4-6-3 on the keypad, the reciprocal numbers for m-i-n-e. The code didn't register correctly. The panel started to bleat faster. "Stop, stop," I grumbled at the idiot box while reentering the digits. Last week, I'd had a techie tweak the darned thing so this wouldn't happen. That worked well. Not. Finally the code took, and the system announced almost gleefully that it was now off.

"Bully for you," I snarled at the smug, inanimate object.

I wiped the soles of my shoes on the mat and tossed my key ring on the desk to the right of the door. Then I switched off my audiobook, pocketed my cell phone and earbuds, and unloaded the groceries on the granite counter. I slipped my lightweight tote off my shoulder and set it beside the bags. Lightweight was a misnomer. It weighed a ton, mainly because of the recipe cards, business cards, utility knife, ongoing grocery list, to-do list, paperback book, and Kindle it held. I would be lost without it. My mother told me I wasn't doing my body any favors carrying the entirety of my life around with me, but I rarely heeded what she said.

Tegan entered behind me.

"Whoa! Stop right there!" I pointed at the doormat. She needed to clean her wet shoes, too. I prided myself on keeping the kitchen as clean as a whistle.

She stamped her feet with a grunt.

I shrugged off my peacoat—the air in April could be chilly—and shoved the tails of my white button-down shirt back into my black jeans. Then I started to unpack items: flour, sugar, chocolate, nuts, and more.

Tegan closed the door and jammed her fists into her hips. "Give me your full attention, Allie Catt. Or else." Clad in her puffy, knee-length white parka, all five-feet-three of her looked about as intimidating as the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. The cute one, not the supersized monster in Ghostbusters.

"Or else what?"

"I'll meow!"

"You wouldn't dare."

Don't get me wrong. I liked the name Allie, and I even liked my surname. The earliest reference to Catt was Catford, a name of medieval English origins, which initially meant a ford frequented by wildcats. I considered myself pretty wild, so the name fit. But how many jokes could one girl endure in a lifetime?

What do you get when you cross a baby chick with an alley cat? A peeping Tom .

Why don't alley cats play poker in the jungle? Too many cheetahs .

Kids could be cruel; adults too.

On the other hand, my world-traveling parents—they rarely came to the States for longer than a day's visit—could have named me Pussy, which would have been way worse. So there you have it. I was Allie Catt, a five-foot-six, almost–twenty-six-year-old caterer who escaped into books or presided over book clubs when not making food for a client, which I aimed to do right now.

"Here, kitty, kitty." Tegan meowed.

I whirled around. "Honestly, I don't have time to play today." I tapped my big-faced cat watch and motioned to the white corkboard to my right. Dozens of future orders were tacked to it, as well as a floor plan of the bookshop.

"Whew! You're busy," Tegan said.

Thanks to the parties that people liked to throw in Bramblewood, as well as Asheville and its ritzy enclave, Montford, I stayed regularly employed—that is, unless Vanna Harding, Tegan's older half sister and premier caterer, didn't get the gig first. Why Marigold hadn't hired her to serve tomorrow's tea was beyond me. A smirk tweaked the corners of my mouth. Maybe my food was simply better, or perhaps Marigold realized how out of touch with the common folk her snobby niece was. Vanna thought molecular gastronomy was chic. To me, it tasted like soap bubbles.

"Nice layout," Tegan said, tapping the floor plan. "Very organized."

"Thanks." On the floor plan, as I did for any event I catered, I'd drawn the specs for every aspect of the location. That way, I could formulate where I'd stage the savory foods and sweets. It was like a flowchart, the flow being the attendees. Tomorrow I would set the savory food table in front of the sales counter and the sweets tables by the endcaps of each aisle.

"Why are you here?" I pulled mixing bowls from the wire racks that also held pots and pans. A half-dozen mixers stood on a shelf beneath the island. Knives and utensils hung on a magnetic strip affixed to two of the walls. Floor-to-nearly-ceiling shelves held my designer pastry boxes, serving trays, and more. "Why aren't you at the bookstore?"

"Auntie gave me a two-hour lunch break so she could close the shop and hold a meeting for the theater foundation board." Tegan clerked at Feast for the Eyes. She was a terrific salesperson. She'd always been a good conversationalist.

"Why didn't I know about it?"

"No food required. Beverages only."

"Well, don't bug me," I said. "Go do something fun."

For those unfamiliar with Bramblewood, it was a delicious locale that consisted of a primary boulevard named Main Street, as well as Mountain Road, which crossed Main Street in the middle and led into the mountains. There were a number of offshoots, too. The town brimmed with art galleries, shops, and restaurants. All the buildings were uniform red clapboard with white trim. Because the town wasn't flat, there were charming terraced courtyards connecting the streets, each with additional shops at the crest. Tourism and second-home property owners kept the economy hopping.

Most of the homes, bed-and-breakfast inns, apartments, and condos were within walking distance of Main Street. In addition, there was a modest lake, which was north of town, a nine-hole golf course, and plenty of hiking trails. A stone's throw away was the burgeoning metropolis of Asheville, which boasted the splendiferous Biltmore Hotel and the University of North Carolina Asheville.

In summer, the weather was spectacular. During the fall, leaf peepers descended upon the town to witness the changing colors. In winter, tourists enjoyed a variety of seasonal sports. In the spring, like right now, tulips and daffodils were in bloom, as were redbud trees and dogwoods.

I said, "I know what you can do. Ride a kayak on the French Broad. You're dressed warmly enough." The river was one of the oldest in the world and one of two in the United States that flowed north. "Or check out the bazaar." The town's year-round bazaar, which was housed in a series of old abandoned buildings that artists had revitalized at the turn of the twenty-first century, offered lots of handmade goods for sale.

"Can't. I've got errands to run." Tegan smoothed her white-blond braids. "Why is it every time I visit, you're busier than a beaver?"

"I've got to make ends meet."

"No, it's because you're selfish," she jibed with mock seriousness. "Selfish, selfish, selfish. Am I surprised? No, I am not. Do you know why? Because you're an only child."

"Blame Fern and Jamie," I said.

Yes, I was an only child. A surprise only child. My parents—Fern and Jamie, not Mom and Dad—had been shocked to become parents and hadn't even considered stocking the pond with another guppy after my birth. During my early years, they were cool to me. Their lack of compassion was another reason I'd lost myself in the world of books. Now that I was grown, they were kinder but not warmer.

"Speaking of parents, how is your mother?" I fetched two dozen eggs from the walk-in refrigerator. "Any good prospects on the dating scene?"

"She's seeing someone new."

"Is he nice?"

"How would I know? I haven't met him," she said with a bite.

"Then don't judge a book by its cover . . . or lack of one."

"Spare me." My pal flopped melodramatically onto a stool by the counter, crossed her legs, and bounced one tiny foot. If I didn't know better, she was getting ready to audition for a Tennessee Williams play. But I did know better. Though she could be chatty one-on-one with customers, she hated putting herself in the public eye.

Me? I'd performed in a lot of plays growing up. I wasn't a ham, but I didn't shy away from the spotlight. "Did they meet online?" I asked.

"Ugh, no! They met the old-fashioned way, after bumping into one another, literally, in a grocery aisle."

Tegan's mother, Noeline Merriweather, was the proud owner of the Blue Lantern, a bed-and-breakfast in Montford. Twice a widow, she had pieced herself together after her second husband, Tegan's father, the true love of her life, passed away from a rare blood disease. Recently she'd rejoined the dating pool. Clearly, Tegan was not happy about it. She didn't believe her mother had grieved long enough, but even I knew people grieved differently. Time was not a measure. Shakespeare wrote, "Grief makes one hour ten." I might not have lost a husband, but the demise of my engagement had left me hurting and wondering if I would ever find someone to love.

"What does Vanna think of him?" I asked.

Tegan rubbed her finger under her nose. "She says he's okay. I bet if I had a brother, he wouldn't be so happy about it."

I had brothers. Guy friend "brothers" who wanted to take care of me. Protect me. My best guy friend from high school had hated my first boyfriend. My best guy friend from college had abhorred my second boyfriend. And my best guy friend from my just-out-of-college days had despised my fiancé. According to him, no one was good enough for me. Period. I wasn't sure why I attracted guys who treated me like a younger sister. I wasn't the girl-next-door type. I had ample curves, and according to my mother, my curly red hair was saucy, bordering on scandalous. She didn't have a clue where I'd gotten it. Not from her or my father—their hair was stick straight and dark brown—and no one in their lineage had red hair or even a red beard. In addition to my aforementioned attributes, my ex-fiancé said my sage-green eyes were smoldering. Definitely not girl-next-doorish. Maybe my guy friends had latched onto me because my smile was bright and cheery, with no hint of a sirenlike come-on. Also I wasn't a prude, but I didn't wear anything that showed off my cleavage. I liked sporty, fitted clothing. For catering and deliveries, I wore the basics: white shirt or white sweater and black slacks, leggings, or jeans, like I was wearing today.

"Look, I'm sorry to intrude on your work time," Tegan said.

"I know you need to focus. It's just . . ." She burst into tears and flailed her arms. "My cheating ratfink husband wants a divorce."

"Oh, honey." I ran to her and attempted a hug. Her down coat prevented me from getting a good grip. "Why didn't you start with that?" I had lots of compassion for women who had been dumped like me. At least, I hadn't married the guy.

"I did. I said I needed to talk, but you didn't hear me. When you're on a mission . . ." She waved her hand.

She was right. I could be single-minded. My mother said it was my fatal flaw. I begged to differ. Being single-minded made it possible for me to accomplish anything I aimed to do. Well, almost anything.

"Whoa!" Tegan exclaimed.

I gazed in the direction she was pointing and moaned. "Oh, no!" A long trail of ants was marching across the floor from the pantry to the rear door. "No, no, no!"

"It's a satellite colony," Tegan said.

"A what?"

"A group of ants that didn't go into hibernation in the winter because they found a warm spot, like a kitchen." All of her young life, Tegan had enjoyed studying science and anything computer-related. It wasn't until high school that she fell in love with the magical world of books.

"Crud." I couldn't bake in a place where I'd have to spray ant killer solution. The natural way to get rid of ants was water and vinegar, but that wouldn't work fast enough. "Grab this." I shrugged into my peacoat, snatched up my keys, rebagged the items on the counter, and shoved them into Tegan's arms. "Let's go."

"Where?"

"To my house."

"But your kitchen is small."

"I can make it work." I wasn't Wonder Woman. I couldn't move at warp speed. But I wouldn't let Marigold down. I had twenty-four hours to complete the task.

I lived around the corner from Dream Cuisine, but I almost always drove because I needed my Ford Transit for deliveries. We stowed the bags in the rear of the van and climbed in. "Buckle up."

I sped lickety-split to my mountain retreat, which was located at the far end of a cul-de-sac. Actually, the house wasn't mine. It belonged to my parents. I was renting from them. I called it mine because I had no fear they would want it back. They would never return to town to live. When they turned sixty, they decided Bramblewood was too pedantic for their tastes.

On the way there, I phoned the pest company that serviced Dream Cuisine and put them on alert for ants. They had their own key and promised they'd solve the problem before the end of the day. I warned them about the four-digit security code sometimes not taking on the first try. They assured me they could deal with it.

I skidded up the rain-slick gravel driveway, parked beneath the carport, hurried to the porch, and pushed through the front door. The aroma of knotty pine wafted to me. Heaven. I removed my coat and hurled it, as well as my tote bag, onto the leather couch in the living room. In addition to the living room, there was a parlor, two modest bedrooms, two-and-a- half baths, a laundry room, an attic for storage, a dining nook, and the aforementioned kitchen. Thirty years ago, my parents had bought the place furnished and hadn't updated a thing. Luckily, the owner before them had good taste. They'd liked shabby chic and comfy when it came to seating, plus they'd installed a double oven, side-by-side refrigerator, granite counters, petite island, and pantry large enough to store my trays, mixers, and whatnot. The rest of the décor was getaway cabin in flavor. A few skylights. An easy-to-light gas fireplace. A lovely south-facing bay window by the kitchen dining area with a sitting bench. To make the house even homier, I'd added a rocking chair, throw pillows, and a number of plaques with sassy literary sayings, my favorite being: A book lover never goes to bed alone. Upkeep on the house was a challenge. A month ago, the roof had a leak. Six months ago, the porch needed shoring up. Before that, the washing machine overflowed and soaked the floor. Thankfully, my parents agreed to pay for all repairs.

"Put the groceries on the table in the dining nook." I tossed my key ring on the foyer table. A creature of habit is a creature of comfort, my mother often said; to which, I'd snarkily retort, A creature of habit is a creature.

Tegan obeyed. "Don't you lock your door?"

"Why? Crime isn't an issue in Bramblewood."

Tegan slipped off her parka and tugged down the sleeves of her Demon Slayer anime T-shirt. In addition to enjoying books of every genre, she was a fangirl of movies, music, and video games. Plus she collected vintage comic books. "What the heck is this?" She picked up the key ring and twirled it on her finger.

"The same kind of key ring your aunt has." I'd recently swapped out all my keys for the quick-release, pull-apart kinds. Too often over the past year, I'd needed to give a key to a workman, and my nails had suffered the consequence .

"Clever," she said, pulling one off and letting it snap into place via the magnet.

I removed my to-be-read pile of books from the rustic dining table and plunked them on the colorful woven rug next to my tower of already-read-but-saved-to-be-savored-again books. "Darcy! Here, kitty." I made kissing sounds. Yes, I'd named my cat Darcy. I'd dubbed my childhood cat Darcy as well. Once smitten . . . twice bitten. Darcy One was now in kitty heaven. Fortunately, my former fiancé wasn't named Darcy or Fitzwilliam or any variation of Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pride and Prejudice fame, or I might have fought harder to keep him and been stuck to the man for life. "Where are you, boy?"

My tuxedo cat slinked from behind my stack of Jane Austen books. I swear, he could read. Of all things, he had a particular fondness for Pride and Prejudice. Often I found him lying on the book, opened to a new page. He trotted to me and begged for a scratch under his chin. I obliged. Then he scampered to Tegan. She picked him up and showered him with kisses. Her husband was allergic to cats, so whenever she saw Darcy, she pretended he was hers. She put the cat on the floor, and he scampered to his barrel-shaped llama, a cat-scratching station near the dining table, and disappeared into the belly of the beast.

"Come with me," I said.

I moved into the kitchen, Tegan followed, and I closed the floor-to-ceiling Plexiglas door. Darcy was pretty much hypoallergenic. I groomed him often enough to remove his undercoat, which earned me a good Cottage Food Operator health rating so that on the rare occasion when I couldn't bake at Dream Cuisine, I could do so at home. To comply with the rating, I'd installed the see-through door to keep the kitchen separate from the rest of the house, and I fed Darcy in the dining nook. He wasn't allowed to enter the kitchen ever.

I washed my hands, dried them on a cat-themed tea towel, slipped on my mesh-style chef's cap to keep my hair in tow, and tied on a checkered apron. "Now tell me what's going on with you and Winston." I fetched all the mixing bowls I had in stock. I made a mental note to purchase more, plus another stand mixer for just such emergencies. I could store them in the attic, if needed. "I can listen while I'm baking. He cheated on you?"

Winston Potts was a computer geek in the bourgeoning tech industry in Asheville. He and Tegan met in high school. They'd both been seriously into coding back then, and they'd both been in the band. She'd played the clarinet, and he'd played the snare drum. Even though he went off to Duke and she enrolled at UNC Chapel Hill, she always felt they were destined to be together. Perhaps not.

"He admitted he's been having affairs ever since we got married," Tegan said.

"Are you kidding?"

"Auntie joked that I thought I married Mr. Darcy, when in actuality I married Mr. Wickham."

"He should have come with a warning label," I said.

She tried to laugh at my joke, but a sob caught in her throat. "Am I as dumb as a rock?"

"You were hopelessly in love." I washed my hands and dried them with paper towels.

"I'm thinking of creating a Dear Jane group with the other women he dumped so we can commiserate. Either that or a murder club."

"Bad idea on both fronts."

"For now, I think I'll stay at my mother's inn until we get everything sorted."

"You could stay here."

"I don't want to inconvenience you. Besides, I'll be served two delicious meals a day there." Tegan couldn't make ice in a freezer .

My cell phone jangled in my tote. "Get that, would you?"

Tegan rifled through my bag. "I can hear it, but I can't find it."

"Outside pocket," I said. "By the logo."

She retrieved the cell phone. "It's Aunt Marigold calling."

"Answer it."

"Hello, Miss Catt's personal assistant." She did a curtsy to mock me.

I stuck out my tongue while I cracked two eggs into one of the bowls.

"What? Auntie! Auntie, it's me, Tegan. Can you repeat that? Auntie!" Tegan gawked at me. "I think she's choking."