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pans—overflow from the kitchen. Julia had put most of her stuff in Baltimore in storage when she’d moved here, and brought only her clothes and her cooking supplies, so there wasn’t much to the apartment. It was shabby and sparse, which was fine with her. There was no sense in getting comfortable. When they sat down, Julia said, “All I can tell you is that your mother was the most beautiful, popular girl in school. She made it seem effortless. Perfect clothes. Perfect hair. Supremely confident. She was in a group that called themselves Sassafras, made up of girls in school whose families had money. I wasn’t one of them.”
    Emily looked astonished. “My mom was popular? Grandpa Vance had money?”
    There was a knock at her door. “Excuse me,” Julia said as she got up. She assumed it was Stella, which was why her whole body gave a start when she opened the door, felt a gust of air that smelled like freshly cut grass, and saw Sawyer standing at the top of the staircase.
    “I brought pizza,” he said with a smile. “Come down.”
    Something was definitely afoot. A year and a half of Thursday night get-togethers, and Sawyer had never asked her to come down to have pizza with him and Stella before. “Thanks, but I can’t.” She took a step back to close the door.
    He tilted his head at her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were embarrassed.”
    That got her. “Embarrassed? By what?”
    “By the fact that I now know you’ve been baking cakes for me.”
    She snorted. “I never said I baked them for you. I said I baked them because of you.”
    “So you did say it,” he said.
    She met his eyes. Yes, she’d said it. And as much as she wished it weren’t true, it was. The one night they’d had together, they’d lain side by side on the high school football field, staring up at a starry night she’d never seen the likes of before or since, and he’d told her a story of how his mother used to bake cakes on summer afternoons and, no matter where he’d been, it had sent him to her, a beacon of powdered sugar flowing like pollen in the wind. He’d sensed it, he’d said. He’d seen it.
    Cakes had the power to call. She’d learned that from him.
    “Actually, what I think I said was I baked cakes because of people like you,” she finally said. “You’re my target customer, after all.”
    He looked like he didn’t believe her. But he smiled anyway. “That’s a nice save.”
    “Thank you.”
    His eyes went over her shoulder. He’d never been in her apartment before, and she wasn’t going to ask him in now. Sawyer had grown up with money, and she hadn’t. But her things in Baltimore were nice—a little edgy, a little bohemian. That’s who she was now. Not this. She didn’t want him to see this. “It smells good up here,” he said. “I want to live in your kitchen.”
    “There’s not enough room. And I only bake here on Thursdays.”
    “I know. Stella told me when you first moved in. Why do you think I always come by on Thursdays?”
    She’d never even suspected. He was that good. “I can’t come down, because I have company. You and Stella have fun.” She closed the door and leaned against it, letting out a deep breath. After a moment, she realized that she hadn’t heard Sawyer walk back down. She turned her head and put her ear to the door. Was he still there? Finally there was a whisper of movement and she heard him walk away.
    She pushed herself from the door and went back to the living room. “Sorry about that.”
    “I can come back later if you’re busy,” Emily said.
    “Don’t be silly.”
    “So, everyone must have liked my mom, if she was so popular.”
    Julia hesitated. But before she could speak, there was another knock at the door. “Excuse me again.”
    “Who do you have up here?” Stella demanded when Julia opened the door. Stella had a wide, exotic face, with almond-shaped eyes and straight dark brows. She was wearing a kimono-style robe and her dark