Chapter Two
I vy was locking up her shop at the end of the day when Holly popped her head in.
“You want to just start now, cleaning up for me? It would save time.” Holly grinned.
“Shoo,” said Ivy. “Your place is all cleaned already. I know it is. You closed up an hour ago, and you’re an organizational neat freak.”
Holly laughed. “Let’s just say I look forward to winning.” With a wave, she headed out. Ivy could hear her cheery little bell jingle jangle as she locked her front door. She watched as Holly walked across the street to her white bakery van with its jolly, bubble-gum-pink writing on the side, advertising Hollister’s Bakery everywhere she went.
Holly knew how to market her business. Ivy could probably learn a thing or two from her sister, but she liked doing things her way, growing her business organically. Maybe her business didn’t expand as quickly, but it was manageable and met a need in the community. The perfect place for shoppers to stop in and take a break, it fit right in with the Hazard Historical Society’s plan to draw tourists from nearby Newport, Rhode Island’s many mansions and experience Hazard’s own four unique mansion tours.
Ivy made sure her sister got in and drove off before she reached up and removed the antique cookie press from the metal hook on her wall. She stroked the bright green, velvet ribbon and held the cookie press reverently in her hands. She murmured the blessing, her fingers tracing the edges of the swirling floral design. The press did make the loveliest cookies. She remembered her parents sharing them and laughing. Every year on their anniversary, they would bake them together and go on a picnic at Cliffside Park. They always ate all the cookies themselves, never sharing a crumb. It was why Holly started baking at twelve, making red velvet cupcakes for her and Ivy to share.
Ivy sighed. They both missed their parents, who were happily sailing the Mediterranean.
With a deep breath, Ivy moved to the special drawer in her antique hutch where she preserved her secret recipes. They were family heirlooms, really, handed down through the generations. And they had been gifted to her, not Holly. She found this remarkable because Holly was the baker and the eldest.
“You’ll not be burdened by limitations,” her mother had said as she placed three weathered, hand-written journals in her youngest child’s hands. “So, these are for you, because you are a believer in all things winsome and wild.”
She’d just turned eighteen. She hadn’t realized the importance of the legacy her mother was bequeathing her, not then. But she’d been pleased and honored to be singled out, to be chosen over her sister for once. Her parents hadn’t meant to favor their oldest child over their youngest, of course, but Holly demanded attention in the way of over-achievers, while Ivy watched from the sidelines.
But her mother knew Ivy loved their family history. How her maternal ancestors had traveled to Hazard, Rhode Island, from Normandy, France, in the mid-1700s and settled here, while her father’s ancestors had come from Ireland to America a century later to escape the potato famine. She adored knowing that her parents had met at a charity fundraiser on the same town green that sat right outside her shop window.
Hazard was home. Ivy gazed out at a pink-tinged sky, dimming into dusk over the little town square. She loved the placement of her own little business, snugly between Hollister’s Bakery and LaFleur, her aunt’s crowded and sweet-scented flower shop. Her gaze wandered approvingly over the other local businesses: Leo’s diner, now managed by his stepson Pedro, which served everything from hearty breakfast specials to lobster rolls; Throckmorton Grocery, still managed by Seymour himself, the first in a chain of corner marts that now graced a dozen little towns in the Northeast, each store run by a family member; Community Projects, a thrift shop that supported local charities because this was a town where the residents looked out for each other; The Hazard Inn, with its For Sale sign, ready for a new owner to come and remodel it back to its former glory—no small task, that. And on the far end of Main Street sat Langford Architectural Enterprise, next to Cece’s Salon. Ivy couldn’t see those from her window, but she knew Jaxon would be seated at his desk, doing whatever it was architects do.
Her eyes settled on the imposing granite statue of Captain Hazard in the middle of the town square. Ever solid and reliable, the captain was surrounded by elaborate white benches in the center of a lush green lawn.
Giving a decisive nod, Ivy picked up the darkly burnished skeleton key for the one special drawer she kept locked in her country French hutch. She held the key, coolly resting in the palm of her hand, savoring this moment before she slid it into the lock. She turned it until she heard the tiny click. With a rush of breath, she slid her very special drawer open and stared at the jumble within.
Unlike her sister, she was not an organizational neat freak.
She knew the recipe she needed was in the oldest journal, the one at the very bottom of the drawer. And while the drawer might appear disorganized, she remembered the order of the contents, as she had arranged them herself with the oldest journals tucked into the bottom and the newest ones on top.
The recipe for today, the Very Special Recipe as per the legend, was only to be used in dire circumstances. At least that was how she interpreted it. Desperate times called for quantifiable measures, and she would accept that challenge. Ivy needed Jaxon Langford to see her, really see her.
Was he still mourning his wife? Ivy shook her head. He didn’t act like a grieving husband. Jaxon took on work projects, played community baseball, and coached Little League. Surely, he had moved on with living his life. And, perhaps, he didn’t always want to be alone.
Ivy was ready to live her life to the fullest. What was she waiting for? She couldn’t be governed by her sister’s negativity. She would do this.
She eased out the oldest journal. With care, she turned the brittle pages. She ran her finger over the curling script. She should type up these old recipes and store them on her laptop, but she loved the spidery writing from some early ancestor, copied over and over through the decades, the original pages no doubt long since turned to dust. The recipes were kept legible. The careful preservation of the smallest details made what she was about to do all that more profound.
Ivy smiled, confident now. She was most at home when she was baking. She spread the recipe flat and ran her index finger down the list of ingredients. Next, she gathered the items to arrange in a loose semicircle on the counter. Flour, baking soda, salt. Measuring carefully, she stirred them together in her favorite mixing bowl before setting them aside.
The wind picked up. Ivy glanced up, surprised to see the red maples in the square start to move with a breeze that had come out of nowhere. Next came the sugar, ginger, and cinnamon. She softened butter, holding it over a stove burner, before working it in with a wooden spoon. She didn’t want to use her mixer tonight. She wanted to prepare the recipe as closely as possible to the original.
Wind gusted, rattling her door like an insistent visitor. Ivy frowned. Odd that, the weather report had been mild, she was certain.
After combining the soft ingredients, she carefully cracked three eggs, breaking the yolks and folding them into the sugar mixture. While her door rattled itself into a frenzy, she hand-whipped the batter smooth.
Ivy bit her lip. She was so, so tempted to add in nutmeg. Nutmeg made everything better. You couldn’t go wrong adding nutmeg, not to cookies, but it wasn’t listed in the recipe. She reached for it and hesitated. Her hand trembled. “Must resist,” she murmured. “Must follow recipe exactly.” Besides, if she was going to add it, it should have been added with the other spices. If she added it now, it was out of order. She worried her lower lip with her teeth.
She rather liked out of order.
Holly hated out of order. If Holly had these recipes, she would follow everything flawlessly.
Ivy wasn’t flawless. Not ever. But tonight was different, right? Tonight was about desperation and longing for Jaxon to see her for who she was, so she needed to follow the rules. Maybe following the rules would tip the odds in her favor. Her thoughts churned along with the gales outside.
Scalded scones! She really wanted to add the nutmeg.
Her hand shook, reaching out of its own volition. Sighing, she pulled it back. This project would only work if she made the recipe exactly as it was. Those were the rules. Still, having to follow a recipe precisely was bothersome. Improvisation in life was essential.
She pressed her hands on the countertop. She could hear her sister’s voice in her head, giving her instructions just as she had through their childhood while her parents were practicing their pretend magic. Holly saw improvisation as a flaw. Holly proclaimed improvisation in baking reprehensible. Holly was successful.
Fine, she would follow the rules. Success, too, would be hers.
A strong blast hit the building, rattling the windows and door sharply, repeatedly, like it was desperate to enter. The overhead lights dimmed once. Ivy held her breath and let it out when they stayed on. The branches of the maple trees on the green waved wildly, leaves breaking free, swirling loose in uncharacteristic gusts.
Ivy stopped, fairly vibrating with how much she wanted to add the nutmeg. She blew out a breath. She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t.
She could not… “Okay, admit it,” she said. “Following a recipe exactly is impossible. I can’t do it. I can’t.”
Rule following to that degree simply wasn’t in her.
She huffed out a breath, one sole tendril of hair around her face, fluttering.
“Oh, bother.” She grabbed for the nutmeg, unscrewed the lid, and before she could stop herself, shook a generous smattering into the cookies.
This whole project was just for fun anyway, right? The blessing of Hazard was a myth. All magic was artifice. She’d learned this by watching her parents, professional illusionists, practice magic tricks at home.
Besides, nutmeg would make the cookies taste better.
She just hoped the power would remain on—she needed it to bake these cookies. Ruined cookies, possibly, as far as magic went, but they’d still be delicious.
Was this all a waste of time?
She mentally kicked herself. No, this is for fun .
She tilted her chin up. “I’m having fun. I’m in charge here.” Baking cookies to win the devotion of the man she loved was almost cheating. She mentally slapped her forehead. Magic was not real. Fun was.
She mixed all the ingredients and set the batter in the walk-in freezer to chill. It needed to chill for two hours before she could roll it out. While she waited, she began to transcribe some of the old fragile recipes onto her laptop. She loved the one for stone-ground cornmeal biscuits. That sounded unique and was something she could use in her shop. Likewise, the one for beef barley soup with root vegetables sounded equally yummy.
Ooh, adding a soup of the day. That would be great fun, especially on blustery days that came out of nowhere. She rolled her eyes. Fortunately, the flurries died down and quit rattling the door. Time to stop fretting about the power going out.
Ivy typed up a dozen recipes, everything from roasted new potatoes with fresh dill to peanut soup, and checked on her dough. Time to roll it out.
She preheated the oven, washed her hands, and collected the dough from the walk-in. Carefully, she laid out parchment paper, then rolled and cut perfect circles of dough. The breeze picked up again, buffeting the building in gusts. It revved her up.
She developed a rhythm as she worked, timing her motions with each puff of wind as if working in tandem with some unseen force. Once the cookies were cut and set out on the baking sheets, she paused. With reverence, she washed and dried the cookie press. She held it in her hand.
This was the moment.
Ivy pressed each cookie with the intricate imprint and, following the recipe again, gave each one a fine dusting of cardamom.
Beautiful.
Her lights dimmed once, twice. Ivy held her breath. Would they stay on? If they went out now, this might all be for nothing. She crossed her fingers and counted to sixty. When the lights stayed steady for a full minute, she let out a sigh of relief. Okay, she could keep going. She murmured the blessing as she worked, figuring it couldn’t hurt.
Thou who loveth. She thought about Jaxon and all his wonderful qualities. Really, they were wasted if he never set out to live a full life again. That was what she wanted for him. Yes, she was making these cookies, and winning the bet with Holly would be fun, but what she truly wanted was Jaxon’s happiness.
Be blessed amongst us. She thought of all his contributions to the community from coaching Little League to community fundraisers. He’d even helped to design a gazebo pro bono for Cliffside Park.
With breath bestoweth. A sense of peace settled over her as she slid the first batch of cookies into the large oven. She used an hourglass with lines measuring each ten minutes. It, too, was an antique from her family. She kept careful watch on it as she worked.
My heart. This time she thought about how important it was to make her customers feel welcome by serving them comfort food and drink, the wind once again blasting the town outside. At the ten-minute mark, she pulled out the first batch. Perfection. She had a rhythm going now, and the weather served as an accompaniment. A peace settled over her once again as she worked.
Thou who loveth,
Be blessed amongst us.
With breath bestoweth
Thy heart.
Humming and making up a little song for the blessing, she smiled. Had it ever been set to music? She grinned. That was something she could share with the Hazard Historical Society. If anyone knew it would be them, and if it hadn’t been done before, well, they would get a kick out of it. By the time she pulled the very last batch from the oven, the lights flickered once, twice, and out.
Ivy blew out a breath. She’d done it; she’d finished before the power gave out. She left her cookies to cool while she set out tea lights on little china saucers all around the kitchen, and cleaned up with only candlelight to see by. Once the kitchen was spotless even by Holly’s exacting standards, she reached for an antique tin that her aunt had given her for her last birthday. It was black, with a gold fleur-de-lis on the lid. Ivy packed up the now sufficiently cooled cookies and neatly arranged them. They fit perfectly in the large tin. She worked the lid closed and just like that, the power blinked back on.
“Well then.” Ivy gave a nod. She set the tin on a shelf, blew out her tea lights and put all the saucers away, carefully removing any of the evidence of her night of baking. She really didn’t relish the idea of explaining to her sister what she’d been doing after hours.
Ivy locked up her little shop, ready for the new day. Which, oh dear, had already started. A glance at the sky confirmed its arrival, with bands of gold and orange heralding the new morn. Her sister’s crew would be clocking in any moment to start their baking. Disinclined to provide an explanation as to why she was still in the shop, Ivy hurried to her car to drive home and catch a couple hours sleep.