Samantha Martins strategically arranged the plate of scones, dish of butter, and ring of Kringle on the tray meant for customers of Das Teehaus Café, an elegant German tea shop on the outskirts of town.

She’d sworn she’d never be a waitress like her brother’s friend Mindy, but her need for independence won out. Especially since both her brothers were now married, and even Mindy was engaged. Sam had needed out of her hometown of Crow’s Nest, a small fishing town north of Racine, Wisconsin. And this was the first job that made such an escape possible.

Herr Vogel, the large-waisted baker who made every treat except the famed Kringle, tapped the side of his head with the back of his wrist. The owner of the bakery, Astrid Becker, hated it when one of the waitresses had her blue fedora askew. It was part of the required uniform that offered a nod to Frau Becker’s German heritage. Only ten days on the job, and Sam had been scolded thrice. One of these nights, she’d make herself a properly fitting one—once she’d saved enough for the materials, which might not happen for a long time.

Setting the fedora-inspired hat with the black lace firmly on her bobbed hair, Sam gave Herr Vogel a nod of thanks and lifted the tray to her shoulder. She liked the middle-aged baker. He was quiet, but had no time for fussy waitresses. She was glad he’d taken a shine to her. He’d saved her from a scolding more than once.

Leaving the bustling kitchen, Sam wove through the tables, each covered in starched white linen with autumn-inspired centerpieces, a reminder that Thanksgiving was merely two weeks away. When David had conceded that Sam needed to get out of Crow’s Nest, he’d encouraged her to wait until after the holidays. That hadn’t stopped her, though. Her brothers, her friends, they were all so happy.

The large picture window allowed bright November sun to filter in, making the ornate chandeliers above sparkle. Even the walls had gorgeous oil paintings commissioned by Frau Becker. It was unlike anything they had in Crow’s Nest, and Sam always took a moment to soak it in, especially before greeting these particular customers.

“Here you go, ladies.” Sam forced a congenial smile. Smiles were easy when gentlemen joined the usual female customers, but not with these two older ladies. Regulars. Widows. And entirely too full of their own importance. “Scones, butter, Kringle, and a plate for each of you. Do you need another pot of tea?”

Winifred Farncombe sniffed, the feather in her wide-brimmed hat—two decades out of date—bobbing at the movement. “We wouldn’t need one if you hadn’t taken so long to bring our food. Now it’s cold.”

Beulah Pritchard eyed the scones through her spectacles, and the tiny fascinator perched on her gray curls looked a breath away from falling into her plate. “These don’t look like apple.”