Chapter 2 — Overheard on Harbor Street
By nine o'clock, Clara had learned two things.
The first was that chocolate cake could be too dry even when it contained enough butter to make a cardiologist nervous.
The second was that nobody in Thistlewood Bay could mind their own business.
“Don't look now,” Roz Okafor said.
Clara looked immediately.
Roz sighed.
“You are terrible at this.”
“At what?”
“Not looking.”
They were halfway down Harbor Street, walking toward the farmers' market with two empty wicker baskets swinging from their arms. Saturday traffic had begun to crowd the narrow road, and the smell of coffee, sea salt, fried dough, and fresh peaches drifted between the buildings.
Clara glanced at Roz.
“You told me not to look.”
“I know.”
“Then why tell me?”
“Because I wanted to see whether you could resist.”
“You've known me for fifteen years.”
“And yet I remain hopeful.”
Clara smiled.
Roz had been her best friend since secondary school, when Clara had accidentally dropped an entire tray of cupcakes on Roz's shoes.
Roz had eaten one off the pavement.
Their friendship had survived everything since.
They passed Okafor's Blooms, where buckets of sunflowers stood outside beneath a striped awning. Roz's assistant waved from inside.
“Don't you need to be at your shop?” Clara asked.
“I own the shop. I am allowed to leave it.”
“You have employees.”
“I also have an employee who thinks watering plants means staring at them.”
“Fair.”
Roz adjusted her sunglasses.
“So. Dean Harlow.”
Clara groaned.
“There it is.”
“You knew it was coming.”
“I hoped it wouldn't.”
“Your hopes have never survived Main Street.”
They continued toward the market.
“I saw him leaving your bakery yesterday,” Roz said.
“That was this morning.”
“I saw him leaving this morning.”
“You just said yesterday.”
“I was testing you.”
“You're impossible.”
“Thank you.”
Clara sighed.
“He came for cake.”
Roz stopped walking.
“For cake?”
“Yes.”
“Dean Harlow?”
“Yes.”
“The man trying to buy your building?”
“Yes.”
“The man who has been threatening half the businesses on Main Street?”
“Yes.”
“The man who thinks a smile is something you put on when you want someone to sign a contract?”
Clara resumed walking.
“Yes.”
“And he wanted cake?”
“He wanted to try my competition cake.”
Roz hurried after her.
“That is the strangest sentence you've said all week.”
“He was acting strangely.”
Roz's expression sharpened.
“How?”
Clara hesitated.
“Distracted.”
“Drunk?”
“No.”
“Threatening?”
“No.”
“Actually pleasant?”
“Almost.”
Roz considered this.
“That's worse.”
Clara laughed.
“I thought so too.”
The market came into view.
Stalls filled the pier-side square beneath strings of peach-colored bunting. Farmers arranged crates of produce. Vendors shouted greetings. Children chased one another between tables. A local guitarist was tuning his instrument beneath a canopy.
Three days until the Summer Peach Festival.
The town had been preparing for weeks.
And beneath the excitement was a nervousness Clara could feel almost physically.
Everyone knew Harlow's company had been buying properties.
Everyone knew the company wanted more.
And everyone knew the town council would vote soon on the zoning changes needed to turn the proposal into reality.
Roz picked up a peach.
“Too soft.”
She put it down.
“Bennett's going to lose his store.”
Clara looked over.
At the far end of the market, Bennett Marsh stood beside a display of tools and garden equipment, talking angrily with an elderly customer.
“Why?” Clara asked.
“His supplier contracts were undercut after Harlow's people started buying in bulk.”
“That doesn't sound accidental.”
“Nothing about Harlow sounds accidental.”
They continued walking.
“Bennett owes the bank a fortune,” Roz said. “If the hardware store goes under, the building gets sold. Guess who has already asked about it?”
Clara didn't answer.
“Harlow,” Roz supplied.
“Of course.”
They passed Bennett's stall.
He noticed them.
“Morning, Clara.”
“Morning.”
Bennett looked around before lowering his voice.
“That man is destroying this town.”
Clara knew exactly whom he meant.
“You're not the only one who thinks so.”
Bennett's jaw tightened.
“He was here yesterday asking about my property again.”
“You argued with him?”
“I told him where he could put his offer.”
Roz raised her eyebrows.
Bennett shrugged.
“Politely.”
“Of course,” Clara said.
“Mostly.”
They moved on.
Roz waited until they were several yards away.
“He's angry.”
“He has reason to be.”
“He also has reason to kill Harlow.”
Clara stopped.
“Roz.”
“What?”
“Don't say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because someone might hear you.”
Roz looked around.
“Someone always hears me.”
That was unfortunately true.
They reached the next row of stalls.
Fiona Laurent's bakery display occupied the center position, filled with immaculate fruit tarts, macarons, and miniature peach cakes.
Fiona herself stood behind the table wearing a cream apron and an expression of carefully controlled irritation.
She spotted Clara.
“Whitfield.”
“Laurent.”
Roz smiled.
“Ladies.”
Fiona's eyes narrowed slightly.
“Enjoying the market?”
“We're trying to,” Roz said.
Clara elbowed her.
Fiona leaned forward.
“You know what I heard?”
Clara immediately regretted stopping.
“No.”
“Harlow was negotiating to buy my bakery.”
Clara blinked.
“You were selling?”
“I was considering an offer.”
“Does your business partner know?”
Fiona's smile disappeared.
“Some things are complicated.”
Roz made a small sound.
Clara gave her a warning look.
Fiona continued arranging pastries.
“He offered enough to clear my debts.”
“So you needed him.”
“I needed the money.”
“That's different.”
“Is it?”
Clara didn't know what to say.
Fiona picked up a peach tart and straightened it by half an inch.
“Now he's dead.”
Her voice had dropped.
“And my only way out of debt is gone.”
Clara studied her.
Fiona looked frightened.
Not relieved.
Not pleased.
Frightened.
Before Clara could ask anything else, a voice called from behind them.
“Clara?”
She turned.
Her cousin Theo stood near the coffee stall.
For a moment, she barely recognized him.
He looked older than the last time she'd seen him.
Lean.
Tanned.
His dark hair was longer than she remembered.
And he was looking at her as though he hadn't expected her to be pleased to see him.
Clara's stomach tightened.
“Theo?”
He smiled cautiously.
“Hi.”
Roz looked between them.
“You two know each other?”
Clara didn't answer.
Theo did.
“Family.”
He glanced at Clara.
“I came back a couple of weeks ago.”
“A couple of weeks?”
His smile faded.
“I meant to tell you.”
“You've been in Thistlewood Bay for two weeks and didn't tell me?”
“Clara—”
“You could have called.”
“I know.”
“You could have texted.”
“I know.”
“You could have walked across Main Street.”
“I know.”
Roz cleared her throat.
“I suddenly have somewhere else to be.”
Clara shot her a look.
Roz smiled innocently.
“I'll be over there.”
She disappeared toward a jam stall.
Theo looked embarrassed.
“I wasn't trying to avoid you.”
“Then what were you doing?”
“Figuring things out.”
“About Grandmother's house?”
“No.”
“The bakery?”
He looked away.
Clara's chest tightened.
Theo had always been part of the complicated history of Whitfield's Sweet Shop.
Their grandmother had left Clara the business.
Theo had never spoken openly about it.
But everyone knew there were feelings there.
Old ones.
Unresolved ones.
Before Clara could press him, a familiar voice cut through the market.
“Good morning, Clara.”
She turned.
Dean Harlow.
Again.
He stood several feet away, briefcase in hand.
This time, the tiredness was gone.
The polished businessman had returned.
“Dean.”
His gaze flicked toward Theo.
Something unreadable crossed his face.
Then he smiled.
“Enjoying the market?”
“Very much.”
“I wanted to remind you that we should discuss the health-code issue with your bakery.”
Clara's stomach dropped.
“Again?”
“I've reviewed the regulations.”
“You reviewed them last week.”
“I found another provision.”
“You mean another excuse.”
A few nearby conversations quieted.
Harlow lowered his voice.
“Clara, I'm trying to make this easy.”
“Easy?”
“Yes.”
“You've spent months trying to make me sell.”
“I'm offering a fair price.”
“You're threatening my livelihood.”
“I never threatened you.”
“You threatened to report my kitchen.”
“Your refrigeration records have discrepancies.”
“They're being corrected.”
“Then perhaps there's nothing to worry about.”
Clara felt heat rise in her face.
Around them, people had begun listening.
Bennett.
Fiona.
Two market vendors.
A woman holding a basket of tomatoes.
Someone near the coffee stand.
Half of Main Street seemed to have developed an interest in their conversation.
“You know what, Dean?” Clara said.
His smile tightened.
“What?”
“I am tired of being polite about this.”
Roz appeared behind a flower display.
Her eyes widened.
Clara continued.
“You don't get to walk into my bakery, threaten inspections, insult my business, and then pretend you're doing me a favor.”
Harlow's expression hardened.
“Careful.”
“No. You be careful.”
The market went silent.
Clara heard her own heartbeat.
“This bakery belonged to my grandmother. She built it from nothing. You aren't buying it because you love the town. You're buying it because you think everything has a price.”
Harlow stared at her.
“And if I don't sell?”
“Then you will regret making this difficult.”
There it was.
The sentence.
The one people would remember.
Clara saw it land on every face around her.
Bennett's eyes widened.
Fiona looked away.
Theo stared at her.
Roz slowly lowered the flower basket in her hands.
Harlow leaned closer.
“You should reconsider.”
“I have.”
“Then we'll speak through lawyers.”
“Fine.”
He turned.
Then stopped.
For one second, Clara thought he might say something else.
Instead, he looked back at her.
There was something strange in his eyes.
Not anger.
Something closer to disappointment.
Then he walked away.
The market slowly began breathing again.
Roz approached.
“You just threatened Dean Harlow in front of half the town.”
Clara stared after him.
“I know.”
“Technically, he threatened you first.”
“I know.”
“But unfortunately, witnesses don't always remember the beginning.”
“I know.”
Roz sighed.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
“Back to the bakery.”
“Why?”
“Because you're going to need cake.”
Clove was waiting when Clara returned.
He was sitting on the counter beside the mixing bowl.
“You,” Clara said.
Clove blinked.
“You have no idea what happened.”
He licked his paw.
“Exactly.”
She tied her apron.
“Attempt number two.”
Clove watched.
“This one will be better.”
It wasn't.
Two hours later, Clara placed the second chocolate cake on the counter.
Roz cut a slice.
She took one bite.
Then another.
Clara waited.
“Well?”
Roz swallowed.
“It's drier.”
Clara closed her eyes.
“Much drier.”
“I was trying to reduce the richness.”
“You reduced the moisture too.”
Clara took the fork.
She tasted it.
Roz was right.
The chocolate was deeper this time.
The texture was better around the edges.
But the center was dry.
The peach preserve had nearly disappeared.
Clara sighed.
“I'll fix it.”
“You always do.”
She looked toward the office.
“I need my notebook.”
“You left it in there.”
Clara walked into the office.
Her notebook sat on the desk.
Beside it was the small paper bag she had brought home from yesterday's closing cleanup.
She frowned.
She couldn't remember putting it there.
Inside were several receipts, scraps of paper, and bits of what she assumed was Harlow's discarded pocket litter.
She had collected them absentmindedly while cleaning the counter.
Clara picked up the bag.
“Why did I bring this home?”
Clove jumped onto the desk.
He sniffed it.
Then suddenly shoved his paw inside.
“Clove.”
He pulled out a receipt.
Clara reached for it.
The cat grabbed it first.
“Give me that.”
Clove ran.
“Clove!”
He darted beneath the desk.
The receipt disappeared between his teeth.
“Don't eat paper!”
He emerged from the other side.
Clara lunged.
Too late.
Clove tore the receipt.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
“Clove!”
He dropped the pieces.
Clara stared at him.
“Honestly.”
She crouched to collect the scraps.
Most of the receipt was destroyed.
But one corner remained.
A few printed numbers.
A date.
And two letters near the bottom.
D.A.
Clara frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Clove walked away.
She looked at the torn paper again.
Probably nothing.
A receipt.
A piece of litter.
Something Harlow had forgotten.
She dropped it back into the bag.
Outside, a church bell rang.
Three times.
Clara looked through the office window toward Main Street.
The festival banners fluttered above the buildings.
Three days.
She returned to the kitchen.
The second cake sat cooling beneath its wire rack.
Too dry.
Too rich.
Not enough peach.
Clara picked up her notebook.
Under Attempt #2, she wrote:
Better chocolate. Worse texture. Peach still disappears.
Then she paused.
Below it, she wrote:
Harlow is making everyone angry.
She stared at the sentence.
Then added:
Including me.
Clove jumped into the empty mixing bowl.
Clara looked at him.
“You're not helping.”
He curled into a circle.
For once, he didn't argue.
And across town, Dean Harlow's footsteps disappeared into the noise of Main Street, leaving behind angry witnesses, unfinished business, and a shredded piece of paper Clara had no idea would matter.
Not yet.