Chapter 4 - The Neighborhood Gossip
Mark lunged toward my phone, but I took two quick steps back, slipping the device smoothly into the pocket of my jeans.
“Don't do it, Mark,” I warned, keeping my voice level. “Don't make this uglier than it already is.”
He stopped, his hands raised in surrender, his chest heaving. “Sarah, please. You don't know the moms she’s dealing with. That circle… they’re ruthless. If they find out Jenna’s a fraud, they won't just cancel their orders. They’ll blackball us from the country club, they’ll push Mason out of the private soccer league, they’ll ruin us socially. You know how this town works!”
“I know how honesty works,” I replied coldly. “And right now, Jenna is running a con game using my seven-year-old child as a prop.”
Before Mark could reply, the heavy wooden front door swung open. Jenna strode into the foyer, her oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses perched on top of her blown-out blonde hair. She was holding two brown paper bags from the boutique grocery store three miles away. She looked flushed, but her posture had returned to its usual haughty, performative perfection.
“Crisis handled,” Jenna announced loudly, breezing into the kitchen as if she hadn't spent the last forty-five minutes screaming curses in her SUV. She set the grocery bags down on the counter with a flourish. “I managed to secure two dozen artisanal cupcakes from *Le Petit Four*. They’re Madagascar vanilla with salted caramel drizzle. Quite frankly, they’re far superior to what the children would have appreciated anyway.”
She didn't look at Emma through the window. She didn't look at the mess of her sons' handiwork on the ceramic platter. Instead, she immediately reached for her designer purse, fished out her phone, and tapped the screen.
Her eyes flicked to me, sharp and calculating.
“Sarah, darling,” Jenna purred, her tone drenched in false sweetness. “I assume you received my business notification? The app requires payment confirmation within forty-eight hours to finalize the invoice ledger for tax purposes. I’d appreciate it if you could tap approve before the party ends. I have an accountant reviewing my quarterly startup ledger on Monday morning.”
I leaned back against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest. I didn't reach for my phone. I didn't blink.
“Tax purposes, Jenna?” I asked quietly.
Jenna sighed, a practiced, long-suffering exhalation. “I know it seems sudden, but business is business. When I offered to supply the cake, it was under the assumption that it would be a shared promotional feature. But given the... *unfortunate lack of supervision* in your home that led to the destruction of eleven hours of my labor before I could capture adequate promotional footage, I have no choice but to bill for my time and materials. Two hundred and fifty is actually my family-discounted rate.”
Mark stood completely still against the opposite wall, his face turned toward the floor, looking like a prisoner awaiting a firing squad.
“Eleven hours of labor,” I repeated, letting every single word hang in the air between us like heavy smoke. “That’s fascinating, Jenna. Tell me, which part took eleven hours? Was it driving down the I-95 corridor to Trenton, or was it peeling the Gordon’s Wholesale inventory sticker off the cardboard transport box?”
Jenna froze.
The color drained from her face so fast it looked as if someone had pulled a plug at the base of her neck. Her perfectly glossed lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. Her gaze darted frantically from me to Mark, then down to her unzipped purse sitting beside the sink.
“I... I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she stammered, though her voice had lost all its polished arrogance, dropping into a tight, defensive squeak. “Gordon’s? That’s... that’s an ingredient supplier. I buy my organic flour and imported French butter from their wholesale depot. Every serious baker uses commercial suppliers!”
“Really?” I pulled my phone from my pocket, unlocked the screen, and tilted it so she could see the crisp, clear photograph I had taken of her notifications. “Does your organic flour order come under item number 8841, titled ‘Lavender/Raspberry Display Cake, blast-chilled, wholesale price $42.00’? Because that doesn't sound like flour to me, Jenna. That sounds like a pre-baked, chemically stabilized hotel sheet cake.”
Jenna’s hands began to shake. She grabbed her purse, clutching it against her designer blouse like a shield.
“You went through my personal belongings,” she hissed, her eyes narrowing into slits of pure venom. “You violated my privacy! That is a federal offense, Sarah! Looking through someone’s personal communications—”
“Your phone was lit up on my kitchen counter in plain view,” I said, stepping toward her. “And don't talk to me about federal offenses when you’re currently sending fraudulent invoices through a commercial banking app and charging three mothers in our neighborhood twelve hundred dollars in non-refundable deposits for cakes you don't even know how to bake!”
“They’re my clients!” Jenna shrilled, though she kept her voice muffled, mindful of the parents outside. “What I source and how I curate my product is proprietary business information! Interior designers buy furniture from wholesalers and mark it up three hundred percent! Caterers buy pre-made puff pastry all the time! It’s called supply-chain management!”
“Interior designers don't charge their family members two hundred and fifty dollars for a birthday gift they claimed they made with their own two hands!” I retorted, my anger finally breaking through its restraint. “You handed that to my little girl! You looked her in the eye and lied to her so you could get a tax write-off and an Instagram reel!”
At that moment, the sliding glass door slid open again.
Claire, my neighbor, walked in carrying an empty tray from the patio. She was smiling, but the smile died instantly as she caught the sulfurous tension vibrating in the room.
“Sarah? Everything okay?” Claire asked, her eyes moving from my flushed face to Jenna’s pale, trembling expression, and finally to Mark, who looked like he was about to vomit into the sink.
Jenna immediately spun around, pasting on a brittle, radiant smile that looked grotesque over her panicked features.
“Claire! Hi!” Jenna chirped, her voice two octaves higher than normal. “Everything is wonderful! We were just discussing the catering logistics. I was actually just telling Sarah that I have to run. So many orders to prep for next weekend!”
“Oh, really?” Claire said, tilting her head with an expression that made my stomach drop. She didn't leave the room. Instead, she set the empty tray on the island, right next to the smear of lavender icing. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.
“It’s funny you mention next weekend, Jenna,” Claire said smoothly, her tone far too polite to be friendly. “Because Mrs. Gable—you know, Eleanor Gable, the head of the country club social committee?—just texted our neighborhood group chat. She said she tried to call Gordon’s Bakery in Trenton to ask about gluten-free cross-contamination for her daughter’s graduation party next month.”
Jenna’s breath hitched audibly.
“And do you know what the bakery manager told Eleanor, Jenna?” Claire continued, taking a slow step closer. “The manager said, *‘Oh, are you with that woman Jenna Miller? Because we told her this morning that we don't do custom retail orders, and if she tries to resell our commercial catering displays under her own label again, our legal department is filing a cease-and-desist.’*”
Claire lowered her phone and looked Jenna dead in the eye.
May you like
“So, Jenna... care to explain why my sister paid you a four-hundred-dollar deposit for an ‘artisan handcrafted cake’ that’s coming out of an industrial freezer in Trenton?”
***
