“We’re done?” I said to Reilly. “It’s not even two o’clock.”

  “We got what we want for today. What you want, too. Happy customers enjoying your food in this nice garden.” He pointed east, across the narrow landmass of the Outer Cape, in the direction of the open ocean. “Clouds are moving in. You might get rain sooner than expected. Josh’ll want to see the footage from today, and then we’ll decide if we need to gather all the customers again, even if we have to do it inside. Take advantage of the time off, Lily. The judges will be in your kitchen tomorrow, watching you work, and then they’ll eat what you’ve made. The stress of that can be intense. On Wednesday you’ll bake for them one more time, and they’ll give you their opinion. We’ve booked you all week. Depending on how it goes, we might be done on Wednesday, or we might need to shoot more on Thursday and Friday.”

  While we’d been talking, I’d kept my eye on my surroundings. Most of the guests were getting up to leave, chatting excitedly. Full of apologies, although the tardiness wasn’t her fault, Marybeth brought out the last trays of food and full teapots and served the remaining grumbling guests.

  A cluster of giggling women had gathered around Tommy Greene, and he was cracking jokes and signing autographs. Edna and her friends, including Susan, our mayor, were chatting to Claudia D’Angelo. Gary had cornered Scarlet again, and he was talking to her in an uncharacteristically low voice. Her eyes scanned the patio, seeking escape. Still, she was a professional, and she kept her smile fixed on her face.

  My personal guests also prepared to leave. The light wind blew Bernie’s red curls around her face as she stood up. Matt helped Rose to her feet, and Bernie gestured to me that she’d see my grandmother up the driveway to the house. I nodded my thanks.

  “Looks like they’re done,” a voice with an English accent said behind me. “That was early.”

  I turned to Simon. “I expected to be here all day. But they seem to move at their own pace. I have to be back on set, bright and bouncy and ready to go, at seven.”

  “No B and B breakfasts again tomorrow, then?” Sand was trapped in his fair hair, and a streak of dirt crossed his cheek. He’d put in most of a day’s work already, and the stubble on his face was coming in thick and fast, outlining the sharp cheekbones. The sun sparkled in his ocean-blue eyes. His gardening gloves were stuffed in the pocket of his grass- and dirt-stained overalls, and heavy boots, also grass and dirt stained, were on his feet.

  The gardens at Victoria-on-Sea are one of the highlights of the property and part of the reason Rose can charge as much for a night’s stay as she does. It’s not easy maintaining an English-style country garden on the bluffs overlooking Cape Cod Bay, and we were lucky to have snagged Simon at the beginning of the season, when our regular gardener up and quit with no notice. Simon’s a professional gardener and horticulturalist; he’d come to America for the summer on a special work visa, but the job had fallen through, leaving him with no prospects for the season. It had worked out all around.

  “Rose explained to the guests what’s happening,” I said, “and they understand. We’re doing a scaled-down breakfast tomorrow. I’m going to make muffins and coffee cake in the morning and prepare a breakfast casserole for Edna to heat after I’ve left.”

  “You were expecting to be filming all day here and then making breakfasts in the B&B?”

  I smiled at him. “Sleep’s vastly overrated. It’s only for a few days. I didn’t want to do this show in the first place, but now that they’re here, I can’t not do all I can.” I dug in the pocket of my white capris and pulled out a hair elastic. I reached behind my head and twisted my hair into a high ponytail. I immediately felt more comfortable.

  “If I may be frank,” Simon said, “all that makeup doesn’t suit you, Lily.”

  I found a tissue and wiped at my lips. “I don’t have to bake tonight for the tearoom. I’m going to take advantage of it and enjoy a partial afternoon off.”

  As we chatted, the guests continued dispersing, many of them calling their good-byes and thanking me. A giant white SUV idled in the driveway. To my surprise, I saw Bernie help Rose climb inside it. Scarlet finally broke away, abandoning Gary Powers in mid-sentence, and hurried to join them.

  “Claudia, Tommy, ride’s leaving,” Reilly called.

  The two chefs left their circles of admirers and also got into the vehicle. Reilly slammed the door behind Tommy, and it drove slowly away, up the long driveway to Victoria-on-Sea.

  “Nice of them to offer Rose a ride home,” I said. “Although she walks that route regularly.”

  Matt and Bernie joined us. “Didn’t you know?” Bernie said. “They’re staying at the B and B for a week. Rose told us over our tea. Four of them, the three judges and the director.”

  “They are?”

  Bernie chuckled. “Rose hopes that, to quote, the gracious hospitality of Victoria-on-Sea, combined with the bracing sea atmosphere and the delicious homemade baking, will further inspire the judges to award Tea by the Sea the America Bakes! trophy.”

  I groaned. “Oh, great. Now I have to produce TV cooking show–quality muffins and coffee cakes?”

  “Pretty much.” Bernie patted her flat stomach. “It’ll be tough finding any more room in here, but I’ll suffer for your art, Lily, if you need any tasting done.”

  “As fun as this has been, I have to be off,” Matt said. “I’m expecting a load of lumber to be delivered shortly.” Matt had bought the decrepit house next door to us and was slowly and diligently knocking it into some sort of livable shape. “You still up to giving me a hand later in the week?” he asked Simon.

  “I’ll be over.”

  “Hey!” Bernie said. “I’ve had a great idea. Maybe we can get you on one of those home renovation shows.” She pointed up the driveway to Victoria-on-Sea. The SUV had stopped at the bottom of the veranda steps, and passengers were unloading. “I wonder if those people have any contacts in that line.”

  Matt threw us a wave and headed to his own property.

  “As long as I’m giving Matt a hand later, I’d better get back to my own work,” Simon said. “If you need any help, Lily, you know you can count on me.”

  “I’d love it. But the contract for the show says only the owner and head baker’s allowed to be doing the cooking. I guess that’s so we don’t bring in a ringer. Plus, it keeps restaurant chains out of the competition.”

  He touched the lock of sandy hair tumbling over his forehead, flicked his finger, and said, “Cheers.”

  “Is it my imagination,” Bernie said, “or does Simon’s accent get sexier every time he speaks?”

  “It’s your imagination,” I replied.

  “Might be. Tommy Greene’s English, too, and far from being sexy, I found him a bit creepy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Too much charm maybe? Laying it on too thick.”

  “Part of his job, I’d say.”

  “Maybe.”

  We watched Simon amble through the gate and cut across the lawn at his usual slow, gentle gait. I liked Simon. I suspected he liked me. But he was going back to England in the fall, and this summer I had to devote every bit of attention to getting Tea by the Sea established. I had no time for romance. On the other hand . . .

  “Did Matt enjoy joining you for tea?” I asked Bernie.

  “He likes Rose. He likes sparring with her. You know that.”

  “He enjoys sparring with you, too, Bernie. As dates go, it was like something out of Pride and Prejudice, with Rose in the role of chaperone.”

  Beneath her freckles Bernie’s face turned various shades of pink. “It wasn’t a date, Lily. You get the strangest ideas sometimes.”

  “If you say so. How was the non-date?”

  “It was fun. I hope the camera ran out of film and no one noticed, so they need to do it all again.”

  “Do they still use film?”

  “You’re missing the point. Anyway, while we were sitting and waiting for something to happen, I had time to think about my book. A formal tea scene would be good, don’t you think? Maybe I can make it humorous. Rose—my Rose—and Tessa have tea with Rose’s stuck-up mother, and the mother tries to trip up working-class Tessa’s manners, but . . .”

  Bernie was writing a novel. She was, to say the least, having trouble concentrating on what she wanted it to be about. She’d quit her job as a forensic accountant at a major Manhattan law firm, cashed in her savings, and come to the Cape to spend the summer writing her book. Bernie had talent—real, genuine talent—and I wanted nothing in the world as much as I wanted her to succeed. But she simply couldn’t settle down and just write the thing. Every shiny object that crossed her path gave her a new idea, and she went haring off in all directions in pursuit of it. She’d already changed the entire plot and the setting, both geographical and historical, at least twice. Twice of which I was aware. Thankfully, I knew who Rose and Tessa were—partners in a nineteenth-century Boston detective agency. At least that hadn’t changed recently.

  “If you want to include the tea scene, add it to your formal outline, and then I’ll see it. Otherwise,” I said, as I always did, “when you have something for me to read, I’ll be ready.”

  Bernie had anything but writer’s block. Her problem was that she had too many ideas. She’d wasted months leaping from one great idea to another. She didn’t want to show me her work, not until it was finished, and I respected that. After all, I never give anyone a taste of my unbaked bread dough. But finally, realizing that if she was ever going to get anywhere with it, she had to settle down, come up with a concept, and simply write, I suggested she draw up character sketches and a rough outline to show me. She’d enthusiastically agreed to the idea and then kept hedging about why it wasn’t ready. But last week, at last, she presented it to me, and I read her concept. I liked it, I liked it a lot, and I believed the book could be a big success. If ever it got finished. I was pleased my suggestion seemed to have worked and she was getting some good writing done.

  “Patience, Lily,” she said. “The creative process cannot be hurried. Before I go, I’m going to pop up to the house and say good-bye to Rose. I want to hear what she thought of how the day went.” Bernie strolled happily away, the skirt of her colorful summer dress flowing around her long legs.

  I headed toward the tearoom to tidy up the kitchen prior to playing hooky for the rest of the afternoon. Only two tables of guests remained, lingering over the last of their tea and the sweets offering. Cheryl was clearing off the tables while small birds hopped about the flagstone floor, searching for crumbs.

  Before going inside, I stopped to talk to Cheryl. “Once you’ve tidied up, you and Marybeth can go home. I should do more baking to get in the freezer, but I’m beat. All that smiling is exhausting!”

  Cheryl laughed. “Gosh, yes. How do you think it went?”

  “I’ve absolutely no idea.”

  “I’ve seen both seasons of that show,” she said. “The judges can be pretty mean. Not Claudia. She always tries to find something nice to say. But Tommy and Scarlet, oh yeah. Mean.”

  After finding out I was going to be on America Bakes!, I’d caught a few episodes. Tommy Greene appeared to delight in being as critical as possible, and Scarlet McIntosh seemed to think she was in possession of a scathing wit. Instead, she came across as just plain nasty.

  “Let’s not give them anything to be mean about,” I said. “They want me at seven tomorrow, so I’d like you here by eight. Is that okay?”

  “Fine. We warned our families we wouldn’t be doing regular hours this week. Marybeth’s kids wanted to come today. They said they’d drink tea and be polite. I put a stop to that. There’s no way those two could have sat still for three hours.” Marybeth was Cheryl’s daughter. “My Jim’s away. He’s been helping a buddy with his charter business in Nantucket this week.”

  I turned to head inside and saw a woman standing alone on the other side of the gate, watching me. She was in her late forties, short and stocky, with black-rimmed eyeglasses, a nose like a hawk’s, thin lips, and dyed blond hair, secured to the back of her head by a big sparkly clip.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but we’re not open today. There’s a sign . . .”

  “I saw it.”

  I smiled at her. She did not smile back. “Can I . . . help you?” I said at last.

  “Nope. Just having a look around. Nice place you have here. You’re Lily Roberts.”

  It was not a question, but I answered, anyway. “I am. And you are—”

  “Afternoon tea. Isn’t that too fancy for Cape Cod?”

  “My customers don’t think so.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. These novelty things never last, do they?”

  “Considering that afternoon tea was first served in eighteen forty, I’d say it’s lasted very well.”

  “You know what I mean. It’s English, right?”

  “I’m sorry, but as I said, we’re closed. If you’d like to make a reservation, we accept them online. TeabytheSea-dot-com.”

  “I don’t need a reservation.”

  The door opened, and Marybeth came out of the restaurant carrying an empty tray to help her mother finish cleaning up. Her eyes widened when she saw whom I was talking to; she sucked in a breath and came to stand next to me. “Allegra,” she said, her voice as cool as the prosecco I keep in the fridge to accompany the royal tea.

  “Marybeth.” Equally cool.

  I glanced at Marybeth. Behind us, I felt as much as saw Cheryl stop what she was doing.

  “Everyone’s left,” Marybeth said. “You’re too late.”

  “I’m never late. I didn’t come earlier, because I have a business to run, but I wanted to check the competition.”

  Comprehension started to dawn. “You must be from North Augusta Bakery,” I said. “Allegra Griffin.”

  Allegra’s nose wasn’t her only hawklike feature. Those black eyes reminded me of a bird of prey about to dive for its quarry. “I am,” she said at last. “And I don’t appreciate an upstart outsider coming to my town to try to show me up.”

  “I’m just a baker chosen to appear on a cooking show. I’m not trying to show anyone up.”

  “We’ll see.” She turned away. I started to let out a breath when she turned again. “You shouldn’t wear red. It doesn’t suit you.”

  Chapter 3

  I attended to my forgotten macarons while Cheryl and Marybeth put the patio to rights and prepared the indoor tables for the following day, when the three judges would take tea with me.

  The encounter with Allegra had unsettled me more than I’d expected. She hadn’t made any overt threats, but she didn’t have to. Her stance, her tone, her attitude had been threatening.

  Marybeth placed a full teapot on the table and sat down. I’d made a few extra sandwiches in case of mishaps, but we hadn’t needed to dip into them. Cheryl, Marybeth, and I were dipping into them now.

  Cheryl selected a sandwich made from chicken poached in Darjeeling. “The nastiest woman ever to grace North Augusta and environs was Noreen Griffin. The second nastiest is her daughter, the ill-named Allegra.”

  “I briefly worked at the bakery a couple of years ago.” Marybeth poured the tea. “A high school summer job. How long did I stick it out, Mom? Three days?”

  “If that,” Cheryl said. “She started working there soon after Allegra took over from her mother. Noreen was never a kind person, but she knew how to keep her temper under control when she had to. Some people actually thought she was rather nice. She owned the bakery, and when she was no longer able to work all day, her daughter stepped in. Most of the staff fled.”

  “Thus the need to hire new staff,” Marybeth said.

  “I haven’t been there,” I said. “What’s it like?”

  “I’ve only ever had better baking at one place.” Marybeth gestured toward the kitchen with her chicken sandwich. “And that’s here.”

  “Rumor has it,” Cheryl said, “Allegra’s like the witch in some fairy tale. She sold her soul in exchange for baking skills. Fairness forces me to admit that wouldn’t have been necessary. Noreen was a legend in her own time, and she taught her daughter everything she knew. Their baking is practical, traditional, middle American. Heavy on fruit and cream pies, chocolate cakes, chocolate chip cookies. Her specialty is donuts.”

  “They are to die for,” Marybeth said.

  “Don’t tell me you still go there?” a shocked Cheryl said.

  “Of course I do.” Marybeth ducked her head. “Sorry, Lily, but you don’t make donuts, and they’re my favorite. My kids love them. Allegra never comes out front, so no danger of running into her.”

  “Apology accepted.” I selected an herbed cucumber sandwich. “Not a donut fan myself, but to each her own. Hmm, this sandwich needs more chopped herbs. It’s too pale.”

  “Tastes good, though,” Cheryl said.

  “TV’s about pictures,” Marybeth replied. “Lily’s right.”

  “It sounds as though the bakery isn’t competition for us,” I said. “Do they do sit-down meals?”

  “Sandwiches, soups, and the like. All plain and practical and homemade, and all absolutely delicious. At least that’s what people say,” she added quickly.

  I put my sandwich down and picked up my teacup. I sipped at the contents. Creamy Earl Grey, my favorite, a delicious full-bodied Earl Grey with notes of bergamot and vanilla and a hint of dulce de leche for creaminess. I let the warm, aromatic, flavorful liquid linger on my tongue for a moment. I always feel better over a cup of fragrant tea, and today was no exception. “I didn’t want to be on this stupid TV show in the first place, never mind making an enemy out of a longtime local business owner I’d never even met before today.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Cheryl said. “Most of the North Augusta Business Improvement Association members are Allegra’s enemies, and even if they aren’t, she regards them that way.”

  “She’d have been run out of town years ago if it wasn’t for her sister,” Marybeth said.