‘I have a designer dress stinking of prawns that says otherwise,’ Naomi said.

Morgan pursed her lips, failing to contain her glee.

‘Just . . .’ Naomi sighed. ‘Well, if you can’t say anything nice, then don’t say anything at all.’ It was the best she could come up with.

She cast an eye over the people huddled over the few well-spaced tables. There were a couple of elderly gentlemen, one quite flamboyant – possibly a couple, watching them closely. Then there were two teenagers with milkshakes, their elbows on the chequered tablecloth as they shared a slice of cake. Naomi’s glance went to the mum with a sleeping infant on a sofa to the left, seemingly enjoying some down time. And behind the counter, a wide-hipped homely woman was looking at her expectantly.

‘Hi,’ Naomi said as she approached. ‘Are you Joanne? I’m Naomi Ward, I’ve just moved into Ivy Cottage. I spoke to you on Facebook about my cakes.’

‘I know who you are, dear,’ the woman said with a smile as she glanced at them both. ‘And this is Morgan, I presume?’

Naomi stared in surprise. She had lived at her London address for ten years and had barely known her next-door neighbours. How had Joanne known Morgan’s name?

‘I’m not psychic.’ Joanne chuckled. ‘I’m friends with the estate agent.’

‘Oh.’ Naomi flushed. So much for client confidentiality. But then, this wasn’t London. In such a small place, local gossip was inevitable. ‘I brought some sample cakes.’

She pulled the tea towel back from her basket to reveal her baked goods. A carrot cake. Chocolate fudge cake and some millionaire’s shortbread. Nothing too fancy, just staple favourites that wouldn’t look out of place in the café. ‘You’re welcome to test them out.’

Naomi rested her basket on the countertop as Joanne inspected the cakes. ‘I usually do it all myself, but it’s getting too much for me,’ she said, dipping her hand into the basket and picking out a cling-wrapped slice of shortbread. ‘May I?’

‘Of course.’ Naomi smiled. ‘It’s all yours.’

Closing her eyes, Joanne bit into it, murmuring in contentment. She dabbed her mouth with a napkin from the dispenser on the counter before clearing her throat. ‘Melts on your tongue. But I’m not having you giving away all your hard work. Sit, I’ll bring you a coffee and we can talk terms. You look like a latte girl to me.’ She turned her attention to Morgan. ‘And what about you, young woman? Chocolate milkshake?’

‘My favourite,’ Morgan said, smiling graciously.

‘A latte would be lovely, thanks,’ Naomi added, grateful for her acceptance. Joanne reminded her of her mum – warm and comforting. There hadn’t been a day since her passing that Naomi hadn’t thought of her.