frowned as she considered it, knowing that Monica ordered her desserts from the pastry chef at the Sweetheart Inn.
When the door jingled with the customer’s departure, Monica sat down on the little wrought-iron chair by the dessert table. “Whew! Mothers of the bride can be so picky.”
“Isn’t she your cousin?” Emily said, glancing toward the door.
“And that’s why I feel free to comment. It will be a lovely wedding if Angela calms down. Hard to believe my cousin has a daughter old enough to marry.” She shuddered.
Emily grinned, then gestured to the coffee cake. “Sweetheart Inn?”
“Yep, and delicious.”
“Of course. But can I make a suggestion? I love to bake. Why don’t you let me whip something up for you? Why should you pay those exorbitant prices from the inn?”
“I pay it because it’s the only game in town. But I must say, those tarts of yours were scrumptious.”
Emily grinned and sat down opposite Monica. “I’ve been working on my high-altitude baking since I arrived.”
“So now my customers will be test subjects?”
“Hell, no, you will. If you don’t like it, I take it back. I just . . . I just really miss cooking for people. Almost makes me want to move back to the boardinghouse. Those ladies were very appreciative.”
“Wow, okay, okay, we wouldn’t want you to give up your freedom just to keep baking. I’ll pay you, of course.”
Emily shrugged. “Just the ingredients. I’m not a professional although I did bake desserts for a friend’s catering business in San Francisco. Nothing full-time, just when she was swamped.” She cut a slice of cake. “But regardless, this shouldn’t go to waste.”
“Dessert before lunch—my idea of being a grown-up.”
While they dug into the cinnamony goodness, Emily studied her friend, who’d seemed . . . not quite herself this morning, shadows beneath her eyes, her smile a bit strained.
“Monica,” Emily said hesitantly, “is something wrong?”
Monica shot a surprised glance at her, then gave a distracted smile. She opened her mouth to answer, but then stopped at the sound of someone in the back room and put a finger to her lips.
Into the shop came a young black woman with close-cropped hair, dressed elegantly in pants and a silk blouse. Emily saw the resemblance at once, the cheekbones of a model, and caramel-colored skin.
Monica stood up. “Hey, Missy—Melissa, I’d like you to meet my friend, Emily.”
Emily stepped forward to shake hands with Monica’s sister, who didn’t flinch at her childhood nickname. “Nice to meet you, Melissa.”
The woman’s smile was friendly and engaging, but then as a reporter, she dealt with the public all the time.
“You’re the one doing all the renovations yourself, right? Monica bragged about you.”
“She shouldn’t have. I’m such a klutz that I have to learn everything I do each step of the way.”
“And who better to help than Nate?” Melissa grinned at her.
Monica winced her apology.
“He knows a lot about renovations,” Emily said neutrally. “He’s been kind enough to take time out of his busy schedule to help.”
“That’s our Nate,” Melissa said cheerfully. She glanced at her sister. “I’m heading over to Mom and Dad’s. See you there for dinner?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Bye, Emily,” Melissa said, sliding on expensive sunglasses as she went to the door. “Don’t work too hard.”
When she’d gone, Monica went to the glass door, and after watching her sister walk away, let out a heavy sigh. “She’s staying with me, which she usually never does. Mom is beside herself, considering she renovated Missy’s old room.”
“Well, Melissa probably didn’t realize it was for her. And you’re her twin—don’t you think she’d want to spend time with you?”
Monica frowned, and said in a softer voice, “It’s so . . . uncomfortable now. It makes me want to cry.”
Emily put an arm around her, which Monica accepted for a moment, before straightening and moving behind the counter. “She took over my second bedroom with enough luggage for a monthlong stay.”
“You know how the weather can change here. She probably wants to be ready for anything.” Emily hesitated. “How’s it going so far?”
Monica shrugged. “Okay. I tried to show her the things I’ve changed in the flower shop, but she only pretended interest. The fact that she looks down on what I do . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “It really hurts, Emily.”
“Oh, Monica.” Emily felt helpless in the face of her friend’s pain. “I’m so sorry.”
Monica wiped away a tear and put on a fake smile. “I’ve got to go to the bank. Do you mind keeping