Page 1 of Sharp Lies

CHAPTER 1

LILY

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DAMN, I JUST WANTED to go upstairs and go back to bed.

Like, I would have killed to just crawl up the stairs and climb back under the covers. And I almost never thought about killing anyone, so that was saying a lot. But right now, the entire universe seemed to have it in for me, and I was pretty much done with today.

“Are you saying,” Mr. Barker said sharply, “that you’re a bakery–where your job is to bake bread–but that you’re not going to have any bread until tomorrow?”

Heaven give me patience. Give me strength. And send a phone call to Mr. Barker’s phone notifying him of some sort of emergency at his house so that he’d get the hell out of the bakery and leave me alone.

“Not at all, Mr. Barker,” I replied, struggling to keep my voice calm and rational. “I am saying, though, that we’re already sold out of sourdough loaves. And since our sourdough is on a twenty-four-hour-rise schedule, that means that we’re not going to have any more until tomorrow.”

The old man scowled, his bushy eyebrows and mustache bristling like he was some sort of insect. Or maybe a sheepdog. “What does that mean, a twenty-four-hour rise?”

It meant the same thing it had meant yesterday when he showed up too late for sourdough. And the day before. In fact, it meant the same thing it had meant for the last forty years, ever since my mom and dad opened this bakery.

But evidently I had to tell him again, because either he’d finally gotten so old that he couldn’t keep the facts straight, or he was just stubborn enough that he wanted to force me to go through it again.

“It means the same thing it’s always meant, Mr. Barker. Ever since the day my mom started baking here. It means that once we set the dough out, it gets twenty-four hours to rise before we bake it. Once it’s baked, it’s all yours, but right now, it’s back there in pans on the counter, inflating its little heart out.”

The scowl on his face deepened. Maybe because he could hear that I was being at least a little bit sarcastic. “Why’s it got to rise so long?”

I leaned onto the counter and gave him my best secret-keeping look. “That’s what makes it taste so good. But you know I can’t tell you, Mr. Barker. That would be giving away one of our best-kept secrets, and my mother would never forgive me.”

The scowl lightened a little bit, and I let my lips twitch, knowing that I had him.

“So there’ll be sourdough tomorrow?”

“Loaves and loaves of the stuff,” I confirmed.

“Can you set one aside for me?”

“You know I can’t do that. But if you get here before 10, there’ll still be plenty left.”

He cast me a bashful grin. “Before 10. I’ll be here.”

“You do that. Do you want anything else while you’re here? Maybe a half-dozen croissants to tide you over? We have some on special.”

He thought about it for a total of twelve seconds before saying that he guessed that would be okay–the same way he did every day–and then quickly made the purchase and walked out the door, saying he’d see me tomorrow.

He would, too. Because Mr. Barker and I danced like this every single afternoon, when he came into the bakery asking for sourdough that he knew we would have sold out of and walked out with half a dozen croissants that he got on special because I felt bad about the sourdough.

The truth was, I didn’t even think the man liked sourdough. I’d never actually sold a loaf to him, that was for sure. I’d decided a long time ago that this was just his way of getting croissants–which he definitely did like–on special.

But I’d never ratted him out. And I’d never stopped giving him discounted croissants.

Because that man had been my third-grade teacher, as well as the guy who taught me health and driver’s ed in high school. He was the town’s football coach and one of our oldest citizens. And I had a soft spot for anyone who’d been in my life that long.

The truth was, I had a soft spot for most of the people in my town. Oakville wasn’t a big place–we only had a population of one thousand or so–but it was a close community. Everyone knew everyone else, and if they didn’t know everyone else, then they’d at least heard of them or seen them around at some point. It was impossible not to get attached to people when you saw them every day and could probably name every member of their family. Hell, they’d probably taught you at some point or been taught by your mom. They’d bought flowers from you or dropped off a pie when you were sick.

They’d come into your bakery every day for the last forty years to see whether you’d started baking cakes yet, or if you’d share your sourdough starter with them.

And the truth was, I loved it. I loved my little life here, started by my mom and dad when they first moved to town. Yeah, it could be hard work. The bakery never made enough money for us to afford anything more than an apartment above the kitchen, and my dad had died years ago, which shoveled more of the work onto my mom and me. She had a second job at the tailor’s, where she made handmade dresses for little girls, and I had a second job as a waitress in the biggest diner in town. My parents hadn’t had enough money for me to go to college, and even now, we scraped to make ends meet.

But we were happy. And every day, I was surrounded by people who knew me and my history and wouldn’t hesitate to help me out if I needed it.