Someone was squeezing the air from my lungs. That’s how it felt. The posters seemed to multiply before my eyes. On the windows of the First Trust Bank and Stryker and O’Toole, Accountants. On the bike rack in front of Déjà Vu, the vintage clothing store. Everywhere, people were looking at the photos. Wasn’t there a constitutional right to a decent mug shot?
I put on my sunglasses. Maybe Danielle and Jen were correct. Good or bad, my hair looked different. I had a disguise. Racing up the street, I kept my head down as I passed poster after poster. When my phone rang, I grabbed it out of my handbag and saw Mom on the screen. She must have seen the newspaper. Of course she had. I sent her to voice mail, knowing I’d have to deal with her later, and I continued up the street. When the phone rang again, David’s name showed up. I pressed DECLINE once more, so grateful he wasn’t in town.
I turned off the ringer and stopped to catch my breath by a telephone pole plastered with leaflets: GARAGE SALE, 127 ORCHARD LANE, EVERYTHING MUST GO! REWARD FOR MISSING LLAMA, ANSWERS TO “RICKY.” ERIC DUBOWSKI, ELECTRICIAN, LICENSED AND BONDED. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PIE? Wait, what was that? I stepped closer. There was a color photo of a pie with a crumbly topping and below it the owner’s phone number and e-mail address.
I looked to the right. REWARD FOR SAFE RETURN OF OUR OLIVE BREAD—TWO LOAVES! announced another leaflet. Several phone numbers followed a photo of two crusty loaves of bread on a cooling rack. LOOKING FOR OUR MISSING SIX-LAYER CHOCOLATE CAKE another leaflet said; below that was one photo showing a lofty cake drenched in swirls of dark chocolate icing and another depicting a faded, deflated-looking version, generated, according to a footnote, with age-progression software.
I turned away, unable to read any more of them. I’d become the center of a maelstrom, the butt of a town-wide—rather, county-wide—joke. Carter would never speak to me again. And what would Mom say? And the most innocent victim of all—David. How could he avoid seeing these when he returned?
Either my head was spinning or the rest of the world was whizzing around me. Maybe both. I wrapped my arm around the pole but couldn’t shake that dizzy feeling. I lowered myself to the sidewalk and sat with my head down, the sun beating against my back.
“Are you okay?”
I looked up and saw a teenage girl staring at me, FIREFLY MUSIC FESTIVAL printed on her black crop top. “Thanks. I think I will be in a second.” At least I hoped so.
“Maybe you should go inside somewhere, like in the air-conditioning,” Firefly said, pushing a lock of wavy hair from her face. “Maybe the Rolling Pin.” She pointed to the bakery.
“Good idea,” I said. A minute or two of air-conditioning and I’d be fine. I got up; my legs were shaky, but as soon as I stepped inside the shop I felt a rejuvenating rush of cool air. A middle-aged man and woman sat at one of the tables drinking coffee, part of a muffin on a plate between them. Behind the counter, Alice, the owner, was putting cookies in a display cabinet, her red hair back in a barrette.
Alice. She knew Mom. And even though I hadn’t been in there in a few years, she knew me. What was I thinking? Then I remembered my disguise.
“Sit anywhere you want, miss,” she said, then went back to singing along to the Eagles’ “Hotel California.”
I took a seat at a table, closed my eyes, and tilted back my head to let the air from the ceiling vent cascade over me.
A moment later, Alice asked, “You all right there? You look a little peaked.”
I opened my eyes and saw her standing over me in her yellow apron. “I think I’m okay, thanks. I just need a minute to cool off.” I leaned back again, luxuriating in the cool breeze, and heard the muffin man say, “Well, it’s better than stealing cars. That’s what they used to do in Jersey when I was growing up. Nobody there would bother with a cake.”
There it was. People talking about it. I couldn’t escape.
“But who put up all the posters?” the woman asked.
“I don’t know,” Alice said from behind the counter. “But I bet you whoever did it had a connection at the newspaper. That would explain how they got a copy of the photos and made the posters so fast.” She picked up an empty coffee carafe and put it in the sink. “Anyway, I don’t see the harm in having a few posters up around here. People seem to think the whole baked-goods-bandit thing is fun. Whoever’s doing it isn’t causing any trouble. I mean, it’s just food. And I figure it can only help my business.” She glanced my way. “You want some water?”
I think I might have jumped. “Me? No, no. I’m fine.” People thought the food thefts were a good thing? That was crazy. I just wanted all of it to go away.
The muffin woman put down her mug. “Everybody’s trying to figure out what they’re doing with the food. Are they giving it away, like Robin Hood? Or are they eating it themselves? And where are they going next?”
“Nobody knows,” Alice said as she took some cookies from the display case and put them in a box. “Although some folks are placing bets. Steve Francisconi, over at the firehouse, has a pool going. Point spreads and the whole thing.”
Point spreads? I’d heard enough. I got up to leave.
“Hold on there. Take these with you,” Alice said, setting the open box on the counter. I walked over and saw a half a dozen cookies in it. “Orange chocolate chunk,” she said. “Three kinds of chocolate in that recipe. Good for a little energy boost.”
I took out my wallet.
“No, no. This is on the house.”
“But I—”
“Don’t worry about it. I know your mom.” She closed the little box and handed it to me. “And besides, you’re a celebrity.”
“Excuse me?” I said, putting the box in my handbag.
“Oh, honey,” she said, her voice hushed. “I knew it was you. From the minute you walked in. Even with the new hair…” She wiggled a hand above her head. Then she picked up a copy of the Hampstead Review from behind the counter. “I’ve been looking at your face all morning.”
I froze. I’d been busted by the bakery lady. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. For once I didn’t know what to say. I stepped outside, nearly colliding with a man walking a dachshund, and hurried down Main Street, my mug shot following me again. I’d become my own Mona Lisa. Everyone was staring at me as if they knew I was the one on the poster. At least, that’s how I felt.
I walked faster, passing a man carrying a potted fern, a woman pushing a stroller. I swear they were giving me the eye. Picking up the pace, I decided I’d cut through one of the stores and use their back exit to get to the parking lot where I’d left my car. When I came to Then Again Antiques and saw that they didn’t have a poster in the window, I figured it might be a safe place. Opening the door, I ducked inside.
A bell jingled as the door closed, and my eyes adjusted to the dim light. I stared at a mountain of furniture before me, the pieces piled so high on top of one another I couldn’t see the back of the shop. The place smelled of old wood and stale, dry air. I walked to the left, down a narrow aisle like a footpath, past huge armoires and hutches, Hepplewhite chests and Chippendale sofas, tables piled with brass lamps, wineglasses, clocks, and candelabra.
“I’ll be right with you.” A man’s voice came from somewhere in the back. Deep, with an accent that had me imagining Christopher Plummer.
“Oh, I’m okay,” I said, moving past a carved headboard, a steamer trunk, a large wooden bucket.
“Ah, there you are.”
The man with the accent, about two hundred fifty pounds of him, blocked my way in the aisle. His large face sagged beneath a head of jet-black hair that didn’t look real. A gold crest adorned the pocket of his blazer. “Albert Cuttleworth, proprietor,” he said, his chin raised slightly, as if he needed to fit something underneath. “Are you hunting for anything in particular?”
I should have admitted I was hunting for the back door, but I told him I was browsing. Hoping he’d let me squeeze by, I feigned interest in a copper weather vane with a trotting horse on it.
“That’s a rather lovely one, don’t you think? Circa 1919. British.”
I looked up. “Oh, yes. Very nice.”
“It’s in wonderful condition. Are you looking for a weather vane?”
“Not exactly.” I pictured my apartment in Chicago. The thirteenth floor. I didn’t exactly have a roof.
“That one is an excellent value.”
I nodded, looking at the price tag of seventeen hundred dollars. “Yes, well, I’ll think about it.”
“Ah, maybe you’re not in the market for a weather vane. Well, no matter. Would you like to see a few things that just arrived?” He turned and began walking toward the back. I followed, happy to at least be going in the right direction. “Look at this lovely piece.” He stopped in front of a huge wooden wheel. “A ship’s wheel, of course. Late nineteenth century. Oak and mahogany. Beauty, isn’t she?”
I wondered if he’d let me leave if I bought it. “Yes, she is. I’m just not sure I have a place for her.”
“No place for a ship’s wheel? You don’t have walls?” He sounded a little put out.
“Yes, I have walls. I just mean it won’t really go—”
“Ah, what a pity. Well, browse away,” he said, his arms outstretched. “I’ve got hundreds of gems.”
I had to get out of there. I looked at my watch. “Oh, my. Time flies, doesn’t it? I need to be somewhere. Else. Is there a back door I can use? I’m parked behind the stores.”
“Back door? Yes, just follow this aisle until you—oh, here, I’ll show you.”
I followed him the rest of the way down the aisle into a small room. I could see red letters glowing on an EXIT sign. A woman was in there, her back to me as she looked at a folding Japanese screen with gold pagodas and trees and dragons on it. She turned, saw me, and the smile on her face vanished in a second. Mariel.
“What did you do to your hair?” She took a step closer, examining me, scowling.
“What are you doing here?”
“I asked you first.”
“I had it done. A cut and some highlights.”
“You had it done to look exactly like me.” She was fuming.
“I just added a little spark, that’s all.”
“You added my spark. It’s my hair.”
“Nobody owns spark, Mariel. Or a hairstyle.” I turned to Albert, whose eyes darted between Mariel and me. “I’m her sister.”
“Yes, I see the resemblance.”
“She’s my much older sister,” Mariel huffed. “Of course he can see the resemblance. You’re trying to be my twin.”
“Only three years older, and I’m definitely not trying to be your twin.” I casually picked up a brass candlestick.
“That’s one of a pair,” Albert said. “Circa 1840, I believe. Stellar condition.” He paused. “In case you have room for them.”
I put the candlestick down. Albert raised his eyebrows and walked away. “What are you doing here?” I asked Mariel again.
“I’m checking the registry to see if anything’s been bought.”
She had to be kidding. “You’re registered here?”
She shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
“Isn’t it a little…” I lowered my voice. “Pricey?”
“I’m not forcing anybody to buy anything here, Sara. People can get something if they want. Or not.”
“Right. Like that Japanese screen? I’m sure they’ll be fighting over that. It’s probably fifteen thousand dollars.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s only ten.”
A steal at that.
“I want to know what’s going on here,” Mariel said. “You had more than a cut and some highlights.” She crossed her arms. “What are you trying to do? Destroy my life?”
She’d lost me. “What are you talking about?”
“Your hair. Hello. Look in the mirror.” She pushed me toward an oval mirror with a gilt frame. “See?” She jabbed a finger at the glass. “You’re totally copying me with those layers. And look how short it is. And how…blond. Ugh.”
She was right, of course. I already knew it.
“And you’ve turned into some kind of a criminal,” she went on. “Your picture’s all over town. And in the paper. You and that guy. Mom’s seen it too, you know.”
Mariel had seen it. Mom had seen it. I was sure Carter must have seen it. My heart was unraveling.
“Hold on. I’m not a—”
“What’s wrong with you? Stealing food from people. During the week of my wedding. You’re doing this on purpose. You’re trying to embarrass me. And now you’re making yourself look like me. People will think I’m involved in it. They’ll think I’m a thief too.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mariel. No, they won’t. Get over yourself.”
“Ladies, ladies.” Albert was back, his face looking strained. “There are other customers in the shop. Perhaps you could keep it down.”
“I’m leaving,” I said.
“Excuse me, yoo-hoo!” a woman called to Albert. “Can I get some help, please?”
He gave us a stern look before stepping away. I headed toward the door.
“You need to change your hair back to the way it was!” Mariel stomped after me, her Louboutin heels clicking against the floor. I heard the tinkling of glass, and when I turned, I saw she’d bumped into a low-hanging chandelier from which forty crystal teardrops dangled and swayed.
Albert scurried back and steadied the crystals, beads of perspiration glinting on his forehead. “This is Baccarat. Nineteenth century. Let’s do be careful.”
“Yes. Sorry,” Mariel said, flashing him a smile that was gone as soon as he turned around. “I refuse to have you going all over the place trying to look like me.”
“Oh, stop. I’m not trying to look like you. Why would I want to look like you?”
“To get Carter back.”
Oh my God. She was so close to the truth, I think I stopped breathing. “Give me a break,” I said, trying to put the right amount of denial and outrage in my voice. “That’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t even want him back. And I’m keeping my hair the way it is.”
“You’re not going to get away with it, Sara.”
An older couple turned and stared at us. I picked up a porcelain jug. One side had a chip in it. “Away with what?”
“With ruining the week of my wedding. The way you ruined so many other things in my life.”
Albert had scurried back again. He laid a hand on Mariel’s shoulder. “I know how stressful it can get before a wedding, but I’m sure you and your sister can work this out. Somewhere else. Shall I call you with any updates on your registry?” He was smiling, but his eyes were the eyes of a lion. I thought I saw points on a couple of his teeth.
“Just for the record,” I said, “I never ruined anything of yours.”
Albert lifted the jug from my hands. “I’ll just put this back here. I’m assuming you don’t have room for—”
“Are you kidding? You were horrible to me. You always resented me for being prettier than you.”
“I did not.”
“Yes, you did. And you never gave me credit for anything I could do besides look good. If I won a ribbon at a horse show, you said it was because I was pretty, not because I was a good rider. If I got an A on a paper, you said the teacher had a crush on me. You hated that I was pretty. And you couldn’t stand it when I did something besides be pretty. I’m not as smart as you, Sara, and most of the time it is the way I look that gets me places, but once in a while I can pull something off using my head, and it would be nice if you could recognize that.”
I bristled. Could I have been as bad as she claimed? Had I failed to see who she really was? I hoped not. She had to be blowing it out of proportion. And what about the way she’d always copied me?
“You weren’t exactly blameless yourself,” I said, my elbow bumping a large wooden birdcage. “Always imitating me, wanting to do whatever I was doing. Horses, tennis, the violin, the school paper. All you ever did was try to get in the way and compete for attention, especially from Mom and Dad. You ruined my college graduation. You told Mom you were too sick to get out of bed, knowing she’d go stay with you rather than see me get my diploma. And then you went out that night and partied.”
“You should have been happy I recovered so fast,” Mariel said.
“You weren’t sick to begin with!”
She glared at me. “You wrecked my chance to get that job at the Getty.”
“How could I have known some offhand comment I made at a cocktail party would get back to the hiring manager?”
“The guy you were talking to was on their board, Sara. You did know that. Didn’t you think telling him I wouldn’t know the difference between a Monet and a Manet was something that might get around?”
She was right. I should never have said it. I’d been angry with her about something, but now I couldn’t remember what it was.
“You’re such a bitch!” Mariel said.
“I’m the bitch? You’re the bitch! I could name ten really rotten things you’ve done to me, starting with Carter.”
“Enough!” Albert said, grabbing our wrists as if we were misbehaving children. He pulled us the final few yards toward the door, Mariel knocking over a brass coatrack on the way. He shooed us out, and I heard the clunk of a deadbolt after he closed the door behind us.
Mariel strutted on ahead of me. I watched her go and then saw her stop in a dead freeze in the middle of the parking lot. She stared at her phone, and she kept staring. Then she wheeled around to me, her face white. Something was up. Maybe it was Mom. Was she back in the hospital? Oh God, I hoped not.
“What’s going on?” I said. “What’s wrong?”
“I think you’ve done enough for one day.” Her eyes were so cold, I shivered in the July heat.
And I knew. She’d found out about my plan. Someone had talked. Maybe the photographer or the guy from the band. Or that opera singer. I should have known Britney Spears was too much of a stretch.