I stand there holding the plate I didn’t order, in the shawl I didn’t ask for, wondering what the hell kind of world I’ve stumbled into.
It lasts about ten seconds.
“You’re her!” a voice says in delight.
Two women have appeared in front of me. One is short and round-faced with a silver clip in her hair. The other is taller and elegant, with a chignon in her hair and glistening white teeth.
I smile at both. “That depends who you’re looking for.”
“The baker,” says the short one. “You have the shop in Sunset Park, right? My cousin’s daughter got her wedding cake from you in September. Lemon.”
“With the raspberry?”
“That’s the one!” She grabs my forearm. “I stole my husband’s piece. He still hasn’t forgiven me.”
The taller one is already talking over her. “I need to ask you something.
