“I beg to differ. Why didn’t you come to me, treasure? I didn’t . . .” He slid into his seat, his expression changing to one of guilt. “If I’d known you were trying to make a career out of baking, I would have helped. I would have gone to that spineless prick of a man and—”

“And what, Roane?” Caro placed her hand over his. “Threatened him? I don’t want a job that way. I just . . . I just wanted to see if other people liked my baking . . . if I was good enough to do something with it.”

“You are,” he promised. “Let me speak to Tony.”

Seeing Caro’s lips pinch together, I found myself intervening. “Caro is right,” I butted in. “She doesn’t want a job because you threatened the baker. She wants it on her own merit.” My brain kicked into high gear. “I . . . what if you set up a market stall on Main Street just outside The Anchor? You could sell your baking and get some reactions.” Although I already knew those reactions would be positive.

For some reason this idea caused panic to flitter across Caro’s face.

Deducing she was too shy to put herself at the center of attention, I hurried to add, “We could see if anyone else is interested in putting up a stall. Have a market day. I could ask Penny if I can sell some books.”

She relaxed. “That might work.”

“You’ll need permits,” Roane said, his brows drawn together, “and Caro would need to register with the Food Standards Agency, and that takes time. I can see about pushing the permits through, but not the FSA. You need to register with them twenty-eight days before the event.”

“You can push the permits through?” I asked, curious about his influence in town.

“I sell livestock to market,” he explained, but he wouldn’t meet my eye. “I know people.”

There was something cagey about his explanation—

“Do you really think we could do it?” Caro seemed brighter now, hopeful.

Realizing I wouldn’t be there for it made me sad. But I could still help organize it before I left. “Absolutely.”

Roane frowned. “You’re really not worried about Helena trying to put a stop to it?”

“I’m a little worried,” she replied softly. “But . . .”

“But . . .”

She swallowed hard and stared Roane right in the eye. “I-I’ve been thinking about it for a while and I need to know if I can do this. Because maybe if I can do this one thing . . .” She stared forlornly at the table now.

“You’ll feel strong enough to leave her?” Roane guessed, his tone hesitant, like he was afraid of pushing too hard.

“Perhaps.”

Roane looked at me, his expression determined. “Get sign-ups for the market by Wednesday and I’ll see about getting what you need to hold it in four weeks’ time.”

I knew my expression was equally determined. “You got it, Robson.”