But not this time. She had a daughter and a dog and a business and rent to pay: she had enough on her plate. And it had taken her a good long time and a boatload of mistakes (Dustin, her ex-husband, sprang immediately to mind), but finally Joy Sousa thought she’d learned not to borrow trouble.

She turned back toward the Jeep and the flour, and almost ran straight into her best friend, Holly Baxter, who was probably on her way to work for the Block Island Chamber of Commerce. In the summer the island was a lot like Richard Scarry’s Busy, Busy Town book, with every island resident having a job to do to keep the town running. I bake the whoopie pies! Joy could imagine a cartoon version of herself saying in the book. I help the tourists find their way around! Cartoon Holly would say.

“We’re looking over a new application to the chamber. A food truck,” said Holly, without preamble.

“Ooooh!” said Joy. “I hope it’s tacos!”

Holly shook her head. “It’s not tacos. I wanted to talk to you about this in person.” She nodded meaningfully toward JOY BOMBS.

“Me? Why? What are they selling?” Food trucks had come and gone on the island over the past few years.

A worry furrow popped up between Holly’s eyebrows. “Coffee,” she said. “Salads. Different things.”

“So what?” said Joy. “Everyone sells coffee. Lots of people sell salads.” But it looked like there was another word trying to come out of Holly’s mouth.

“And,” said Holly, “macarons.”

“Macarons?”

“You know, those little French cookies, they come in tons of flavors, there’s an American Girl doll who bakes them . . . I mean, the doll doesn’t bake them—”

“I know what macarons are,” said Joy.

“I was trying to think of a way I could block it,” said Holly. She lowered her voice. “You know, for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes. What can I say except you’re welcome?” (Holly loved to quote lines from Moana. She had a thing for the Rock.) “Except I couldn’t do it, so don’t actually thank me.”

“Why were you trying to block it for me?”

“Think about it, genius,” said Holly. “You don’t want some food truck selling a baked good practically across the street from your shop, do you?”

“There’s no room for a food truck across the street from my shop.” Joy gestured across the street, which was small and narrow.

“Hypothetically speaking,” said Holly. “This truck is backed by some fancy New York company, apparently they’re putting oodles of money into marketing . . . I don’t know, the whole thing gave me a worried feeling for you. A little bit of a—” She sucked in her breath and her eyes went squinty.

Joy squinted right back at Holly and opened the back of her Jeep. “Grace,” she said.

“Exactly right,” said Holly, looking relieved. “Grace under pressure. That’s the best way to look at it.”

“No, Holly, I mean the doll. Grace is the American Girl doll who owns the bakery.” When they were younger Maggie and Holly’s daughter, Riley, Maggie’s best friend, were obsessed with American Girl dolls.