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“You and I both. Don’t worry. Your sister will be on them.” We glance up where Von is pacing the terrace, talking emphatically on her phone. She sees us and mouths,I’ve got this. I give her a thumbs up.
“In the meantime,” Dad says, “I’ll get Roger on the phone. Start arranging the event for the announcement.”
“Why don’t you come to Magnolia Day, Dad?” I say.
His eyebrows knit together like the words are foreign to him. But I’m feeling jubilant. Isla and I are together, at long last. I get to move Everton in a sustainable direction. And this is a real lead, not some weird letters. This ishardevidence.
I feel like celebrating.
“Mom loved Magnolia Day,” I say. “And you never once came. It’s fun. There’s good food. Daisy is running the Everton booth. Come on. Take a break from work for one second.” I pause, then add, “It was Mom’s favorite day of the year besides Christmas.”
Dad shifts on his feet and clears his throat. “Perhaps I will stop by for a minute between meetings,” he says.
That’s about as good as I could expect.
“Okay,” I say with a grin. Then I turn to Isla. “Let’s get started on those croissants.”
“Don’t these look delicious! Harold, look at these macarons.”
A woman wearing a big floppy hat and a frilly pink blouse is poring over the selection of macarons at Isla’s booth. It really does look like a cozy, eccentric parlor for tea. The drawers of the old dresser have been boarded over and pulled out so that they’re stacked like tiers, each one featuring a different treat. Macarons spill out of lacquered jewelry boxes, with neatly packaged assortments tucked into the old walnut chest for sale. Bakewell tarts perch on a side table next to the rocking chair and croissants gleam under a glass case on the credenza. Focaccia is placed at various spots, like paintings—Isla made each loaf with a garden effect, using onions, tomatoes, bell peppers, asparagus, caramelized onions, and herbs to create stunning images on the fluffy bread.
“I’ll take two boxes of the Earl Grey ones,” the woman is directing to Isla, while I ring her up on my phone. “And one box of raspberry lemonade.”
“We’re almost out of the raspberry lemonade,” Isla mutters as the woman pays and leaves, happily munching a macaron. The festival is packed with locals and tourists alike, and Isla’s booth is nearly as crowded as Dev’s, which is always the fan favorite.
“These are wonderful,” a portly man in a polo shirt says, examining a focaccia. “How much?”
“Twenty-five,” I say.
“I’ll take two.”
I ring him up.
“Do you have a bakery?” a woman in tortoiseshell glasses asks Isla.
Isla ducks her head shyly. “Oh, no, I just bake for my family’s bed and breakfast. It’s called the Thorn and Rose.”
“Well, I know where I’ll be staying next time I come out to the North Fork,” the woman declares. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll take a box of peanut butter and jelly macarons and one of those heavenly ham and gruyere croissants.”
“It’s a shame you don’t have a location of your own.” A pointed voice makes me turn. The woman peering at the macarons in the jewelry boxes is definitely a New Yorker. She wears clothes that are simple but I can tell they’re high end. Her shoes are Gucci. She wears her dark hair in a severe bob, her lips painted scarlet, a tennis bracelet glittering on her wrist. She looks like someone Von’s firm might represent.
Isla does not notice any of this. She smiles at the woman like she’s any other customer and my heart melts a little.
“Maybe one day,” she says. “I’ve got to save up some money first.”
The woman peruses the selection of macarons. “I’ll take a box of the blueberry basil,” she says. As I ring her up, she opens the box and takes a bite. Her eyes pop, then roll back in her head as she moans, quickly dispatching the rest of the morsel.
“These are the best macarons I’ve had outside of Paris,” she says.
Isla beams as my chest pinches with pride. “Thank you.”
“Do you do catering? These would be perfect for my luncheon next week.”
“Oh I?—”
“She does,” I say, stepping in before Isla can undersell herself. “If you leave your contact information, we’ll get back to you with a pricing sheet and details. Her website is undergoing a revamp but it will be up and running soon.”
The woman hands me her card. “Please be in touch,” she says.