Chapter 12 Baking Alone
Eliza blinked awake to find Puffcake still asleep beside her.
He was upside down on his back. For a creature the size of a ferret, he snored like a lawnmower.
She stifled a laugh and snapped a picture to show Lachlan before she quietly slipped out of bed.
Pulling on her thickest socks and comfiest clothes, she tiptoed her way down the stairs, the warmth of the cottage embracing her like a memory.
Eliza moved to the kitchen with a renewed sense of energy. Morning light spilled across the golden countertops, illuminating the copper alliances. Isadora’s Memory Baking Cookbook was already on the counter, as if it had been waiting for her. Expectant.
She was sure she put it back up last night.
She didn’t open it, nor did she crack open the tin of recipe cards on the baker’s rack.
She wanted this to be her victory, not someone else’s.
Not just a copycat recipe from Isadora. Still, the presence of the book oddly grounded her.
It felt like the women who’d baked before her in this cottage were cheering her on as she carried the baton of their legacy.
Baking was an eternal art, and she was keeping the wonderful tradition alive.
Eliza pulled out the cranberries and oranges, set them in a mixing bowl, and got to work.
She zested the citrus and mashed the cranberries, red staining her fingertips as she added whipping cream to a large mixing bowl.
She mixed and measured and poured until she was proud of the consistency.
Soon, zest and holiday spices filled the air.
She thought of Isadora’s words laced along the gingerbread floor last night. The dream felt more real, like another memory, only this time it had found Eliza in her sleep. She couldn’t make sense of it. She felt like the house was trying to communicate something to her …
Gretel mentioned that the cottage only became enchanted when couples stayed here. Was it enchanted because of Isadora? Was the cottage showing Isadora’s heartbreak to warn her?
She hadn’t noticed when, but at some point, Puffcake came paddling down the stairs, blinking through his hazy, lavender eyes. He lapped at the extra batter she’d dropped on the floor. “Helping clean up my messes?” She chuckled at him, scratching behind his ear.
Her hands moved gingerly, pouring cream and sugar. A drawer slid open for her, revealing a bundle of cinnamon sticks she’d forgotten to add. A whisk hovered in mid-air, and she grabbed it.
“Thank you,” she said to the house. She swore the flames in the hearth responded with a spark.
Christmas carols crackled from the record player in the corner, and the electric mixer churned in time with the beat. The spice rack spun on its own as she reached for cloves. The cottage was alive, and today it was her baking partner.
She hummed quietly as she worked, sweet contentedness at last.
Come to think of it, the cottage was unusually quiet.
She padded onto the patio, expecting Lachlan to be nursing a cup of steaming coffee, but the space was empty.
Maybe he was in the shower, she reasoned, but the door was propped open, the light off, and no steam wafting between the cracks. No sign of him.
His boots and winter coat were nowhere to be found, but his bag still lay beside the Christmas tree. Had he left in such a hurry that he’d forgotten it? Or worse, had he not even cared to take it?
She glanced around again, sure that she was mistaken, but there was no trail of footprints across the flour-coated floor. No creaking floors. No one was teasing her about her sleep-tangled hair.
Then it hit her. She was truly alone in the house. He’d gone outside without her.
Had he taken the first opportunity to split when the cottage would let him?
She denied the heaviness in her gut, excusing it as hunger pangs.
Did she say something wrong last night? Had she shared too much of her sadness about losing her nan?
Regret and embarrassment filled her as something sharp spiked within her chest.
She thought of Isadora, of Silent Night Soufflé. Was this the cottage’s way of saying they weren’t right for each other? Was this Lachlan’s way of saying they weren’t right for each other?
Not that she hoped they were right for each other.
Was this how it ended? Not with a slamming door and yelling choice words, like with Davis, but with silence. With so many unspoken words and left out feelings—just as it’d been for Isadora.
And it was Isadora’s chant that rattled around in her mind: Let love not last here if mine cannot. But who was Eliza kidding? It’d ended before it ever really began, and it certainly hadn’t been love.
Still, her steps were hurried as she crossed the cottage, eagerly parting the sugar-laced curtains. His rental Land Rover was still there, parked in the same spot it had been since he’d arrived.
She blinked, relieved but still confused. Then she smiled to herself, thinking of her friend Piper. This would be what her friend called the “romantic plot twist.”
Maybe he had gone into the forest to get more firewood, or was on a call to negotiate with one of his clients about a house. Maybe it wasn’t that deep, after all. But she didn’t check.
If Lachlan wanted to tell her where he was, he would’ve told her. He would’ve left a note, sent a text. There were at least five different ways he could have communicated to her, “Hey, I’m stepping out,” but he didn’t.
It dawned on her then that he didn’t have her phone number. But still, a note would have sufficed. She told herself not to be upset about it, but the sting lingered. Like a paper cut that you didn’t know was there until it stung when you washed your hands.
Fine. Let him be mysterious. She had scones to bake and a competition to win.
Though with Lachlan gone, she thought better of it. Curiosity tugged at her. She thought of Isadora and the odd dream she’d had last night. Had it all been a coincidence, especially now that Lachlan was nowhere to be found?
She practically sprinted over to Isadora’s cookbook, eager to find what the next recipe might reveal about this enigmatic woman. She’d been unable to bake these recipes until late in the evening once Lachlan was asleep, but now she was free to do it in broad daylight.
Once Lachlan returned—if he planned on doing so—Eliza would throw the recipe out and claim that it wasn’t any good.
She still wasn’t ready to tell him the truth about her findings.
It still felt oddly too personal to share with anyone just yet, and now that she’d come this far, she was invested. She needed answers.
There was something about Isadora’s story that felt connected to this house and the strange events that happened here. Maybe this book of memories was even the key to why the cottage only trapped couples here and no one else.
Her phone buzzed in the band of her leggings. With sticky fingers, she pulled it free. Piper.
How’s Mr. Perfectly Fine?
Eliza couldn’t help but chuckle.
Gone.
Was all she sent back.
She locked her phone and set it face down on the counter. Her phone instantly buzzed, but she ignored it all and set off to work.
She flipped to the next page, and her heart sank at the name of the dish. Barren Cradle Bake. Next to the title, there was a date, six months before the date that Eliza had read in the newspaper, Ernest had been reading the cottage.
Eliza preheated the oven to 190 degrees, and quickly pulled the ingredients: Strawberry jam, sugar, eggs, and vanilla. Eliza didn’t allow any time for the cake to cool before plunging in a spoon and tasting, the clouds of the memory parting for her like a veil.
There stood Isadora, clutching her belly as she entered the room. It wasn’t the warm, lively kitchen Eliza knew so well, but another she hadn’t seen before. It was quieter, sweeter, and unfamiliar. A crib sat in the corner, spun from delicate isomalt and embellished with candied rose petals.
Then Isadora fell to her knees, broken and sobbing.
And in that instant, Eliza understood. The name of the recipe, and why she was here.
This was a memory within a memory, a step further back in time to fill the spaces between the story.
This wasn’t a happy memory. It was six months before the others.
Isadora wasn’t pregnant anymore.
It was just as Eliza had cleaned up the kitchen and tossed the rest of the Barren Cradle Cake out, when she heard the bells in the front door jingle. Her heart leapt as cold air came rushing in. She turned to see Lachlan standing there, stomping the snow off his boots by the door.
In his arms, there was a bundle of brown wrapping paper, a sprig of rosemary tied around it with velvet ribbon. All of Eliza’s questions about how he managed to leave died on her tongue. Instead, she crossed her arms, brow raised. “What is that?”
His eyes sparkled as he handed it to her. “Open it.”
She eyed him wearily, untying the string and ripping apart the paper. In it was a rolling pin, carved from real wood and looking several years old. Despite its age, it was in mint condition.
Eliza seemed to be at a loss for words. She just stared down at it.
When she said nothing, he said, “You probably have a million of these already.” He gave an apologetic smile.
“But I saw it yesterday as we passed by that old charity shop.
I pleaded with the house for an hour this morning to go without you to surprise you with it.
At first, it didn't believe me, so it kept pelting snow at me along the road just to make sure I remembered the path.”
“That’s really thoughtful of you.” She wasn’t sure how to take his generosity. It definitely didn’t have to be some sort of romantic gesture. Maybe he was just being friendly. It was the season of giving, after all.
A smile grew on his lips, satisfied. “Don’t assume my intentions were one hundred percent pure, Snow. I’ll be expecting something hot and sweet in return.”
Eliza’s cheeks flared crimson.