“Isn’t she so nice?” Maggie had said.

“Definitely,” Joy said, and bit her tongue so hard the act became actual rather than rhetorical. “So nice.” Maggie was genuinely excited. And these days she opened the window to her soul only so often; if Joy didn’t clamber through it at just the right time, it shut again. Bam.

When Maggie walked back to the office now, Joy could see that the soul window was definitely closed. “Can I spend the night at Riley’s?” Maggie jutted her chin forward just the way she had when she was three and wouldn’t try sweet potato.

Joy squinted at her and said, “Who’s behind the counter?”

“Nobody’s here,” said Maggie. “If the bell dings, I’ll hear it and I’ll go out. So, can I?”

“You were just at Riley’s two nights ago. Why don’t you spend the night at our house? We can watch Pitch Perfect again. I’ll make caramel popcorn!”

Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “I knew you’d say no,” she said viciously.

“I didn’t say no! I just said you were . . .” But Joy didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence because Maggie said, “I knew it!” and huffed her way out of the kitchen.

“What’s happening, Mags?” Joy whispered. For years and years it had been the two of them against the world, shoring up to face the island winds. Now talking to Maggie was like walking through a minefield. No, it was worse—it was like walking through a minefield at night when someone had taken your night-vision goggles and given them to Riley because they looked better on her.

Her phone chirped again. What do you say? We’ll do something summery. Show me something on this island I haven’t seen.

Maggie was back, like a whack-a-mole that kept popping up. “Well, can I or not?” she demanded.

Joy picked up her phone. She texted, I’m in. I’ll text you when I’m done here. Then she summoned all of her patience and smiled sweetly at Maggie. “Of course, darling. Since you asked so nicely. Of course you can spend the night at Riley’s.” She was trying for a joke but the tone was off, and she could see that she’d irritated Maggie.

Her phone rang. She answered without looking. “Joy Sousa.” She heard the bell signaling that somebody had come into the shop and she motioned to Maggie to go back to the front. The caller was Geoff Billings, and the news wasn’t good. He wasn’t going to be able to get the replacement shipment out when he thought he could, because someone else in his office had mistakenly promised Joy’s order to another customer. Instead of being two days late, the butter would be five days late.

Joy said, “Five days?” She closed her eyes and inhaled. She’d have to rethink everything about the next week. She’d get behind on production, and she had three large orders scheduled to go out to Boston on Monday. Almost as bad, what if people on the island came in search of whoopie pies and, finding none, flocked to the Roving Patisserie for macarons instead?