BY THE TIME the town square filled with people ready to sing along with popular holiday songs and carols, Angi felt dead on her feet. If Gabe had noticed she looked tired yesterday, she could only imagine what he’d think now.

No. She wouldn’t imagine because she didn’t care.

His opinion didn’t matter in the least, despite the fact that she’d stopped off at the local drugstore on her way into work to buy a new tube of concealer.

She’d stayed up far too late prepping a three-course dinner for the upcoming weekend reception at the inn and then tossed and turned as her mind spun with ideas for new menus and themes for future events Emma had booked. Events Angi would not be a part of because she was quitting her role as of the new year.

What else could she do?

She heard her name called across the faded green lawn in the center of town and turned to see her mother stalking toward her.

“That’s not good,” Emma, who was standing next to Angi, muttered. “I’ll see you later.”

“Chicken,” Angi said under her breath, and Emma let out a few whispered clucks as she hurried in the other direction.

“Are you trying to break my heart?” Bianca demanded, wagging a finger in Angi’s direction.

“No, Ma. Of course not. Emma and I were just visiting. We’re still friends, you know.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. They were still friends, although moments earlier they’d been going over the timetable for next weekend. Guilt twinged along Angi’s spine, but she reminded herself the situation was temporary. She was giving up her dream job of owning her own catering company no matter how it made her heart hurt.

“Why is Il Rigatone serving ravioli instead of the signature sausage ball?” Bianca threw up her hands. “I could hardly make it to the booth with the line of people waiting for service, and they aren’t getting your father’s recipe. Angela. That recipe was his Christmas pride and joy. You know that.”

“There’s a line?” Angi looked over her mother’s shoulder but couldn’t see over the people waiting for the concert to begin. “We don’t usually get a line.”

“They’re waiting for your father’s favorites,” her mother insisted, but Angi knew that wasn’t the case. Yes, her father’s sausage balls were tasty, but they’d never been a unique draw at any of the local events where the restaurant served them. In contrast, she knew that her chicken and goat cheese deep-fried ravioli were mouthwateringly delicious and an easy food to take on the go.

She paired them with a drizzle of pesto aioli, and the staff had raved over them when she’d made a batch last week. Everyone from Dom to the longtime waitresses agreed that her ravioli was the right menu item to serve at the holiday events where regional food items would be available for purchase.

“Mom, this isn’t a slight on the sausage balls. We wanted to try something different, to change things up.”