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Riley just chuckled.

Dinner was exactly what Marlowe expected. Homemade rolls—soft and golden—and potatoes and salad that looked like they’d been lifted from a Good Housekeeping post. The roast was so tender it fell apart in Marlowe’s mouth. Mrs. Clark had prepared everything from scratch with apparent ease.

Everyone else already had so much rapport. They joked around with each other, but spoke in polite, formal tones to her.

Marlowe had planned defenses for all the bad things Jace had told his family about her but wasn’t able to use them because no one mentioned her stint as a roadie, her belief that she had a purple aura, or her second prison friend. She did manage to work a Benjamin Franklin quote into the conversation once. That felt like a win.

After dinner, Mrs. Clark brought out apple pie for dessert. While she put slices on plates, her gaze landed decidedly on Marlowe. “Do you like apple pie?”

It seemed to be a weighted question. Everyone paused and turned to hear her answer.

“I love it,” Marlowe said. “There’s nothing more American, right? Except for baseball, which I also love. And football, of course. That’s great too.” Was she rambling? Did she sound desperate?

Jace’s father picked up his fork. “You can’t buy a decent pie in the store. Mother’s homemade ones are the best.”

Everyone chimed in to agree that store pies were trash, made in dismal factories by heartless machines.

Mrs. Clark handed the plates around with a pleased smile. “Some people think you can get away with buying the store-bought piecrust for your pies, but they’re never as good. Cooking from scratch takes effort, but it’s worth it for your nearest and dearest.”

“I love cooking,” Marlowe said. She’d actually meant to say “I love your cooking” but had thought better of it halfway through the sentence. It seemed presumptuous to assume she belonged in the nearest and dearest category.

For the first time, Mrs. Clark looked at Marlowe with true appreciation. “Do you?”

Well, not really, but Marlowe couldn’t admit that now. “Yes. I wish I had more time for it. I find cooking to be a calming, creative outlet.”

“Exactly,” Mrs. Clark said. “It’s like artwork you can eat.”

Marlowe nodded. She was going to call herself an artist every time she made chocolate chip cookies from here on out. She took a bite of apple pie. The apples were sweet and tart, and she had never quite tasted a piecrust so flaky. This was Renoir-level pie.

Mrs. Clark threaded her fingers together and leaned toward Marlowe as though about to make her a conspirator in some plan. “Would you be willing to do me a favor?”

“Sure,” Marlowe said. Favor requests were a good sign. She was halfway to winning over Jace’s mother.

Mrs. Clark lit up with enthusiasm. “Wonderful. Our church is hosting a community bazaar on June thirteenth. It’s something we’ve done on a small scale before, but this year we’re moving it to a large venue and really want to get the whole town involved. I’m in charge of the silent auctions and raffles, and I’m still looking for dessert donations for the silent auction. We’ve got plenty of cookies and cakes, but we’re short on pies.”

Marlowe’s fork froze in her hand. Jace nudged her under the table, just slightly. A subtle “Don’t dig yourself too deep” kind of nudge.

Okay, she’d never made a pie before, but that’s why recipes existed. She could follow instructions. “I’d be happy to help with that.”

Mrs. Clark gave Marlowe an approving smile. “Thanks. If you don’t mind doing four, we’ll be in great shape.” She sat back in her seat with satisfaction. “You wouldn’t believe the trouble I’ve had getting ladies from church to agree to make pies. These days, no one seems to like baking. They can’t be bothered.”

Four pies? Did four pies even fit into the oven at the same time?

Mrs. Clark took a bite of her dessert, savoring the taste. “Homemade apple pies usually fetch the highest prices of the desserts, but I’ll be so busy running things this year that I won’t have time to make any. And that’s a pity because Pastor Curtis already said he was planning on bidding on one.” She fluttered a hand in Marlowe’s direction. “I’ll tell everyone you took over the baking for me this year.”

“Oh…” And now a good amount of pressure came with this assignment.

Mrs. Clark tapped her fingers together. “I’ve still got to find people to help me set up and take down tents…”

Was she about to ask Marlowe to do that as well? This was not how Marlowe wanted to spend one of her free days when she’d just been roped into baking duties. “Jace would be great at that.”

Jace straightened, coughing in protest. “Between studying and volunteering for the fire department, my schedule⁠—”

“Is flexible,” Mrs. Clark cut in. “You’ve already passed your practice test, so you don’t have to worry much about the board exam, and the fire department will just have to understand that volunteering for your mother takes precedence over volunteering for them.”

She went on to discuss more details of the help she needed from him, all happy chatter. She finished by turning back to Marlowe. “We want to show the city council that the event is well attended. You’ll have to come too.”

“I watch my grandmother on the weekends,” Marlowe said apologetically.