Lowen and Sami worked together until the library closed. From there they headed through the falling snow to the Cornish Eatery.

They had no sooner walked through the door than Lowen’s heart splintered.

There, at the table, was Clem.

And Luna. Together.

Together, together.

Clem and Luna leaning over the table, sharing one of Mum’s sweet potato pasties. Clem gazing at Luna. Luna taking little bites of the pie and laughing.

Lowen could feel heat rising from his neck to his cheekbones.

When he looked away, he caught Sami staring at him. He knew by the expression on her face that his feelings had been discovered. Great. As if things weren’t bad enough!

“Hello, you two,” Mum called from behind the counter.

Luna looked up and gave Lowen a smile just for him.

“Do you want some help, Mum?” he asked, already hurrying toward the back.

“That would be great,” she said.

He went behind the counter and popped a saffron roll into his mouth — whole.

“Go easy,” said Mum.

The place was pretty packed for an early Saturday afternoon. It seemed as if people in town were getting braver about visiting the Cornish Eatery — even when the Busy Bee was open. Sami entered into a conversation with two teen girls who were talking about Restored Riches while waiting for pasties. Sami pulled out her phone (a recent gift from her father, who was probably just as sick of going through Rena as Sami was) and appeared to be showing them a picture of an upstyled shirt.

And that’s when Mr. Avery walked in.

His presence surprised them all. Maybe it was a sign that Mum really would be able to make a living here in Millville.

“May I speak to you, Mrs. Grover?” he asked.

“If you don’t mind talking to me while I finish making this batch of buns,” said Mum.

“If you wish, but I’m afraid I have some bad news.” The tone of his voice sounded more like he’d just discovered a cure for cancer.

Mum raised her eyebrows.

“Coach tells me that you plan to stay open through the dinner hour several nights a week.”

“That’s right,” said Mum. “Until eight.”

“Well, I double-checked,” he said, waving a paperbound book in the air, “and I’m afraid there’s an ordinance that will prevent that. You see, any Millville restaurant that provides food after the hour of four must have at least four tables for dining, and fifty percent of the menu must require a knife and fork for eating.”

Mum laughed cheerfully. “That’s rubbish.”

“It’s right here in these pages,” said Mr. Avery, holding the book up again. “The people of Millville had foresight. They have always known that families who eat dinner together are happier and healthier. This ordinance was intended to squelch the very thing you’re trying to do, Mrs. Grover, and that’s encourage families to eat on the run rather than sit down at a table with one another.”

“That doesn’t make sense. We’re a take-out establishment. Most people order their pasties to go, and presumably they eat them at the family table.”

“I don’t make the laws, Mrs. Grover. It’s simply my job as a town selectman and code enforcer to remind people that a lot of careful consideration went into creating these laws and they shouldn’t be dismissed simply because newcomers think they should.”

“But surely there’s some —”

Mom stopped short as Mr. Avery grabbed his knees and bent at the waist as if he were about to throw up.

“Mr. Avery?” Mum moved out from behind the counter. She reached for his arm, but he pulled away.

“Mr. Avery? Are you all right?”

Mr. Avery straightened, looking pale. He teetered for a moment and then put his hands on the counter to steady himself. “I’m fine,” he gritted out. “Would it be possible . . . for me to have . . . some juice?”

Mum nodded to Lowen, who retrieved a bottle of juice from the cooler.

Mr. Avery drank the juice down in one long gulp. “Thank you,” he said gruffly, placing the empty bottle on the counter. “I’ll let you get back to work.” With that, he headed out the door.

Lowen walked to his mother’s side. “What was that about?”

“If I had to guess,” said Mum quietly, “I would say that Mr. Avery suffers from low blood sugar.”

“What’s with him trying to close us down?” called Clem from the table. “That’s the dumbest law I have ever heard of!”

“There must be some way to change it,” said Luna, her voice as rich as her cello playing.

“Changing laws takes time,” Mum said. And then she muttered, so that only Lowen could hear her, “More bloody time than I have to make this shop succeed.” She wrapped four pasties in foil and slid them toward the girls Sami had been talking to.

Sitting down that night to a Dad-cooked meal of chicken piccata and risotto, the Grover kids took to brainstorming Cornish meals that would require a knife and fork to eat. Under roast? Pease pudding?

The kids shook their heads. Way too strange for Millville tastes.

“What do you think we should serve, Mum?”

Mum put her fork down, took a sip of her water, and then rubbed her forehead. “I’m thinking that even if we can think of dishes that require a knife and fork — a law that demonstrates the sometimes ludicrous thinking of this little town — I still can’t fit four tables in the front of the shop. Trust me, if I do, Mr. Avery will be back citing me for fire safety violations.”

He didn’t know if it was the tension from the dinner conversation, but Lowen lay awake that night for hours. The full moon was a headlamp beaming into his room. He reminded himself for the millionth time to ask his mother for window shades.

On the other hand, Clem, whose snores traveled down the stairs to Lowen’s room, apparently had no trouble sleeping.

Clem, who was so clearly in love. He’d been giddy at dinner. . . . Every comment, every random thought expressed led straight back to Luna.

It goaded him. It wasn’t that he believed that a girl who was three years older would actually choose him over Clem; it’s just that he hated the thought of her choosing anyone. Her smile, the way she moved her hands when she talked, the texture of her voice, her music . . . She was just . . . just . . .

Definitely too good for Clem.