I was getting better every day, and it occasionally brought us a little online attention. But I didn’t think a milk swan was going to save us. Especially when I’d seen Annabelle post a gold-flaked cupcake on her Instagram last week. There was no competing with that.
“Jess,” I said, tapping the milk jug on the counter to release the air bubbles. “I actually wanted to talk to you about the food market tomorrow, I’ve been thinking of trying something a little different this month.”
I’d been planning to wait until the end of the day to talk to her about this. Putting it off because I was a bloody wuss was more accurate.
“What do you mean ‘different’?”
The second weekend of every month, a food market was held on the village green. Vendors came from all over Skye and even from the neighbouring islands. It always drew a huge crowd.
I manned the Brown’s food van, offering our usual fare of croissants, scones and cinnamon buns. But coffee and pastry stands were a dime a dozen. Last month we’d barely sold half of our stock.
“Well . . .” I started, then cleared my throat. “I tried out this new recipe for a matcha-filled croissant cube—”
“What the hell is a croissant cube?”
“A croissant in a cube shape . . .” I trailed off as her face turned pale.
“Why would anyone want a croissant in a cube shape?”
“Because it’s fun,” I shrugged, very aware this wasn’t going well. “And they are huge online right now.”
“Bah,” she scoffed. “Everything’s about clicks and how many likes yer get on FaceSpace these days. Whatever happened to good traditional food instead of overpriced gimmicks?”
I didn’t disagree. But resting on our laurels wasn’t going to get people through the door, especially with shiny gimmicks just over the road. “Just let me try this month, what’s the harm?”
“Fine. But if it doesn’t work, we go back to the regular menu next month.”
“Promise,” I said, excitement and nerves battling it out in my stomach.
She’d given me free rein. I could do the lemon and basil scones I’d been desperate to try – no wait, the salted caramel and pistachio cruffins. If I got up a hour or two earlier, I might even have time to bake a pie or two, test out some recipes for the Cairn & Crust—
“Look,” Jess hissed, shoving the binoculars into my hand, almost knocking the milk jug clear across the room. “There’s Duncan. I always give him a discount too, rat bastard. Can yer believe the cheek of it? I’m confronting him.” She started untying her apron.
“The last thing you need to do is storm over there swinging your cane.” Or make Annabelle think I’d sent her on some kind of misguided revenge mission.
Her hands paused. “That’s a great idea, where is my cane?”
I caught her arm before she could make it a single step. “I mean it, Jess. I know you’re worried, but I truly think this is temporary. It’s only mid-July, the tourist season isn’t even in full swing yet, and Queen’s Cakes is new and shiny. The attraction will wear off, you’ll see.”
“Oh, pish.” Not an agreement, but a temporary cease-fire. “You have just as much reason to hate her as I do.”
“Nothing I’d say in front of Teddy,” I warned quietly. “Why don’t you head home? I can finish the shift out from here.”
She took very little convincing, a sure sign the long days were finally catching up to her. The bell clanged behind her a few minutes later. Quickly followed by the group of hikers leaving. Ladened down with overstuffed backpacks, they handed me a ten-pound tip on the way out, obviously grateful to have had somewhere to hunker away from the rain.
“Well look at that.” I turned to Teddy, waving the note like a flag. “Pizza for dinner tonight? My treat?”
She cracked a small smile. Not her full grin but it still pricked at my heart. “Only if you don’t get pineapple on it, that’s disgusting.”
“What about peppers?”
“Even more disgusting.”
Unfortunately, she’d caught the fussy-eating gene from me and very rarely did our tastes align. “What if I promise to keep the pineapple to my half?”
She considered it, adjusting her glasses. “That’s acceptable.”
“So kind of you.” I rounded the counter, heading to her table. “How’s the drawing coming along?” I paused, looking down, and choked on my own saliva. Was that a—
