Chapter 21 Ashes in the Gingerbread Hearth
Eliza yawned as she slipped out of bed. Today, she was the last one to rise, with Puffcake and Lachlan already up and in the kitchen.
Puffcake’s wings were batting away as he used his claws to dump batter over onto the cooker. The thick cream slowly oozed onto the pan with a soft sizzle. Lachlan nodded his thanks, spatula in hand and shamelessly wearing Eliza’s apron again.
“Careful there, Puff,” she said as she moved toward the coffee pot. “You’re going to burn yourself medium rare.”
Lachlan snickered; however, Puffcake didn't like the idea of being the object of someone else’s joke. He let out a little puff of smoke in answer.
“That’s fair, you are somehow a fire-breathing, sugar-huffing edible dragon,” she replied.
“Merry Christmas Eve,” Lachlan moved around the island to Eliza, pulling her close to him. He smelled like his usual evergreen scent mixed with batter.
“Lachlan, I thought we had an understanding to leave the baking up to me.” She looked up to find him already smiling down at her.
“I know, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to do sweet things for you from time to time.”
He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead before planting a second kiss on her lips.
He kissed her the way one savored the first bite of dessert—slow and reverent, and sweet on the tongue.
Taking it all in, as if the moment itself was perfectly warm and golden; too precious to rush, and too perfect to waste.
Lachlan broke away abruptly, resuming his duties over the cooker. “Gotta get back to breakfast. Don’t wanna be two for two in burning anything,” he apologized quickly.
He flipped the pancake, and Eliza finally got a good look around the house.
The broken window had magically fixed itself overnight, and the snow globe was back inside, sitting on the shelf. It was like all traces of Davis were gone—except for the lump of uncertainty in her heart.
The house seemed to glow a bright shade of amber, the multicolor string lights of the evergreen mixing their vibrant hues around the house like a kaleidoscope of color. Along the hearth were three knitted stockings. And on the counter was Isadora’s Memory-Baking Cookbook.
“W–where did you get that?” Eliza asked nervously.
Lachlan didn’t look up from his work, only smiling to himself. “They were hung up when I woke up, too. Thought you must’ve created that touch, but I guess I was wrong.”
“Not the stockings,” she swallowed. Her finger shook as she pointed to the cookbook. “That.”
He followed her gaze. “Oh, just from the cupboard where the rest of the cookbooks are. You haven’t used this one yet? Figured you’d have blown through all of the recipes in every cookbook here so far—”
“That’s the thing … I have.” Eliza said, “There’s no recipe for American pancakes in Isadora’s cookbook.” She’d baked the last recipe in the cookbook two evenings ago.
What was going on? Did the cookbook reveal another recipe? When they eat the pancakes, would they both see another memory? Would it somehow unlock another sad flashback of Isadora’s life?
“Yeah, there is,” Lachlan protested, shrugging it off.
He didn’t seem to catch her uneasiness. After all, why would he?
He hadn’t been the one to see the memories within the recipes.
“Page 13. It flipped straight to it for me. It’s like the house wanted me to bake this for you. Any particular reason?”
“They’re my favorite.”
Lachlan just stared at her before bursting into laughter. “Of all the astounding, literal award-winning desserts, American pancakes are your favorite. You surprise me every day, Snow.”
“It was the first thing my nan taught me to make,” she said softly.
“Is that so?”
She nodded, the memory of her nan ebbing away the moment of anxiety due to the cookbook’s presence. “Right here, in this gingerbread house.”
“Well, I know I’m nothing like the Snows, but I hope my efforts are acknowledged.”
She smiled. “I’m sure they’ll be fine. Besides, it’s the thought that counts.”
Puffcake fluttered over to her, beckoning her to take her seat at the round table. She sat, sipping her coffee, and Puffcake continued to help Lachlan bring the bottle of syrup and napkins over to the table.
She wondered what memory they were about to experience. Her fingers itched to get a hold of the recipe, to see what the title of the dish was, if she could at least have an idea as to what she was about to witness.
“What’s the name of the pancake recipe?” she asked. “Each recipe in this cookbook has an interesting name.”
Lachlan glanced at the book. “Holly Jolly Hotcakes. Festive, huh?”
“Festive,” she repeated. It didn’t sound like one of the more solemn recipes, like Silent Night Soufflé or Barren Cradle Bake.
Lachlan lit the taper candles in front of her before placing her plate in front of her. They were perfectly round and fluffy, still steaming from the hot frying pan.
Seems Lachlan was good at cooking one thing. She smiled to herself, thankful that it was pancakes, of all things. She could certainly get used to this. She drizzled the hot syrup on top and sliced off a piece, eager to try it. Then she stopped herself, remembering the magic attached to the dessert.
Bracing herself, she popped it into her mouth.
She closed her eyes, breathing in the gingerbread house.
Her hesitation then gave away to savoring, and then to bliss.
She closed her eyes, and there, she saw her.
Her nan, standing in the gingerbread house in her apron, her hair an icing white.
The whisk was stirring itself as she poured buttermilk into a measuring cup, her crystal blue eyes aglow the way they always were when she was baking something.
Her nan dropped a bit of icing on her shirt, just shy of where the apron didn’t cover, and she giggled to herself.
Eliza opened her eyes. They were wet with tears. She remembered that laugh. It was good to hear it again.
It wasn’t a memory of Isadora’s, but of her own. It hadn’t been the magic that made her remember. No, it was the nostalgia of the flavors. They’d just … taken her back.
She wished she could’ve stayed there with her a little longer.
Instead, she took a second bite of her pancake. Then a third and fourth, until the entire thing was gone. The memories came flooding back to her, not quite as strong as the first one, but they were there all the same.
Lachlan’s laugh broke the silence. He nodded to the empty plate. “I take it that I met your standards?”
Eliza smiled back. “In more ways than one. Thank you for that.”
She rose to take her plate to the sink, but Lachlan stopped her, coming over to take it for her. “No, please. Let me.” He placed a kiss on her cheek before returning back to his seat. “This is for all the times this past week you’ve served me.”
“Wasn’t that the deal?” she asked. “I serve you sweets if you keep quiet?”
“It was. Turns out you liked my presence more than you let on.”
“Just a little bit.”
She was curious, now, about the cookbook.
So she reached over for it and scanned the particular ingredients.
It was weird. This recipe was completely normal, void of any exact phrasing, measurements, or extremely particular directions that would warrant it to be a magical recipe.
It was just plain old American pancakes.
So why had the memory felt so strong, so alive? Was that just the magic of the memory, how strongly connected she felt to this dessert that it brought her back to another time, another place, entirely her own?
And what about Lachlan? Why had this cookbook revealed itself to him when it did? Why this recipe? It was like the house knew that pancakes were her favorite, and it’d saved them specifically for this moment.
“You’re quiet,” Lachlan sipped from his cocoa with ease.
“Yeah,” she admitted, looking out the window. The sun was pouring in through the sugar-spun glass, casting an array of colors throughout the kitchen.
Why was she so in her head about all this? It was Christmas Eve. It was supposed to be a happy day. One she planned to spend with Lachlan and Puffcake, binge-watching happy Christmas movies.
But in two days, they’d be gone from here. She couldn’t shake that part of the deal, either. And with Isadora’s cookbook laying out, paired with the random arrival of her ex, it further drove the statement home that happy endings were rare.
There was a lot for her to think about today.
A lot of questions that needed answering.
There was no resolution with Isadora or her story.
Did she ever find love again? Were they somehow able to start a family together, or had her new significant other loved her regardless of her ability to give him children?
Or was that the point of all this happening, that it was to show Eliza that, despite her efforts, any love kindled here always was extinguished?
“Just thinking, I suppose,” she added..
Lachlan raised a brow, suspicious. “You know, you don’t normally think this hard when there’s sugar and coffee involved. What’s going on, Snow?”
She hesitated before setting her mug down. She needed to tell him. She’d been keeping the secret of Isadora from him for too long. “I’ve been baking all week … ” she started.
Lachlan snorted. “Gained a few pounds to prove it. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Well, I’ve sort of been … waiting to bake some things when you and Puffcake go to sleep,” she confessed.
Lachlan cut his eyes at her, feigning a look of offense. “You mean you save some things for yourself?” He shook his head. “Even for you, that’s cold, Snow.”
She stopped him. “They were from this recipe book. It revealed itself to me the first night we came here. Just literally fell onto the floor behind me. It was like it was wanting me to pick it up from the shelf, and so that’s what I did. I baked them while you and Puffcake were asleep.