covering one of her eyes. “I just—” she pushed away the assailing strand of auburn hair “—I just didn’t bring it.”
“Why not?”
“I burned it, okay?”
“The famous Miss Harmon, baker extraordinaire, burned a cake? The young lady who has her recipes printed in the church cookbook? I can’t believe it.”
Suzann frowned. “Believe it.”
“I thought you were supposed to be a prizewinning baker.”
“I never said that.”
“Everybody else did.”
Suzann gazed at the card tables again. “Would you mind helping me move these tables? I think there would be more room for parking if we moved them a little closer to the building. It would also protect us from the wind.”
“Whatever the lady wants.”
An assortment of pastries had been brought to the church parking lot by noon. Suzann stood behind the table they were using as a counter top, surveying cakes, pies and cookies of all kinds.
The sweet scent of apple pie yanked her back to her childhood, flooding her mind with memories of a TV commercial she had made for a pastry company when she was seven. Suzann remembered the blinding yellow lights, and how hot and uncomfortable they made her feel.
The director had said in a loud voice, “Whatever you do, Mrs. Condry, don’t let that kid of yours sweat. It’ll ruin that expensive dress she’s wearing.”
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