I read the flyer again while the stranger waited on my porch. The business was called Marjorie’s Table Catering, and it listed my address as its kitchen. Below the price list sat my ham, my potatoes, and my coconut cake, photographed in my own dining room. “My name is Nadine,” the woman said quietly. “I booked a tasting, and I was told the cooking happens here.”

Before I could answer, a silver car swerved into my driveway. Courtney jumped out in her heels, with Marjorie right behind her, both of them pale. “Don’t say anything yet!” Courtney called. Then Nadine reached into her bag and took out a small badge, and Marjorie grabbed the porch railing. “I’m with the county health department,” Nadine said. “Ma’am, may I come inside?”