Chapter 9
The following morning, I wake to the smell of freshly brewed coffee.
I follow it to the kitchen, where sunlight streams through the east-facing windows and saturates everything with a buttery hue.
Alice is nowhere to be seen, but it’s clear she’s been here.
Hot coffee rests in a carafe beside a few white coffee cups and a tray of creamer and various sweeteners.
A mound of freshly picked rhubarb stalks—already washed and leaves removed—covers the kitchen island.
I see a note on the small easel chalkboard:
Good morning! Gone to farmers market.
I grab one of the white mugs and fix myself a coffee.
Normally, at home, I have only enough time to pour black coffee into a thermos and drink it on the way to work.
But here, I’m pulled toward the small pitcher of what looks to be heavy whipping cream.
And I figure a teaspoon or two of sugar can’t hurt either.
The result is indulgent and comforting. I could get used to this.
I stand in the kitchen, sip my coffee, and listen: Silence.
No traffic. No garbage trucks. No sirens.
No beeping. No ticking. No ringing. After a few moments, I hear some bird chirps and cow moos in the distance.
I walk to the porch barefoot, and finish my coffee on the swing, listening to the birds and cows and otherwise silent morning.
At eight, Hannah is still sleeping, and I decide to let her doze however long she wants. We are on vacation, after all. When I pop inside to refill my mug, my eyes dart to the pile of rhubarb. When I look closer, I see Alice has left another note beside the stalks:
Maggie Brodbeck has my permission to make whatever she wants with this rhubarb.
And below that, her signature and the date.
A permission slip.
I smile and run my fingers over the stalks.
They’re a brilliant pinky red and firm. I think back to the strawberry-rhubarb pie I never made after the Eastridge farmers market, overwhelmed by the time and attention it would take.
But here, my mind explores possibilities.
Pies are a default for rhubarb, and we already enjoyed a crisp last night. I want to make breakfast.
Muffins? Maybe. Scones would be better.
Alice’s kitchen is well organized, like Julia Child’s.
Most of the tools and pots are out in plain sight, not hidden in a drawer.
Everything is at hand and where it logically should be.
I quickly grab a wooden cutting board from the countertop and a sharp knife from the block, and begin to cut the rhubarb stalks.
The heaviness of the knife handle, and the rhythmic, blunt sound of the blade comfort me.
And then I am lost to the passage of time.
Or rather, time stands still as I measure flour and sugar, sprinkle cinnamon, shred a stick of cold butter with a box grater, pat a pile of dough into a mound, portion out eight craggy triangular-shaped biscuits, brush each with egg wash, and sprinkle a hint of demerara sugar on top.
I pop the tray of scones into the freezer for fifteen minutes while I preheat the oven, then bake them on a parchment-lined baking sheet.
They come out beautiful, golden brown and studded with red bursts of rhubarb.
While they cool, I whisk up a quick glaze using a rasp to add some orange zest to the icing, then drizzle it onto the scones in a zigzag pattern.
I pull a white platter off a display shelf and arrange the scones artistically.
Except one, which I bite into, still standing at the counter.
Somehow, it’s both dense and light, tart and sweet, moist and dry.
I set the platter on the countertop beside the carafe and erase Alice’s note on the chalkboard. I playfully replace it with my cursive script, as if it’s the daily menu board at my own bakery.
Orange-Rhubarb Scones. And then for dramatic effect:
Bon Appétit!
A scone and another cup of coffee later, I sit on the front porch debating whether to wake Hannah for the day.
The serenity—I am truly alone with my thoughts—feels like a guilty pleasure.
I should get dressed and get moving, and yet, I don’t want this moment to end.
The quiet, the peace, the comfort. Those hours in the hospital after my panic attack have faded away.
It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I arrived at the farmhouse, but it’s already worked some kind of magic.
Alice has already worked some kind of magic.
The ER doctor referred me to a therapist, but I wonder if staying here for the week could be its own form of therapy.
I hear the crunch of tires on the driveway, and assume it’s Alice returning from the farmers market.
But I soon see it’s a red pickup truck. I make out a bearded man through the window; he waves like he knows me.
I look down at my pajama shirt and bottoms and sense the remnants of scone icing at the corner of my mouth.
But it’s too late to run inside to change or grab a napkin.
The man is already walking up the porch steps with a huge smile.
At least I put on a bra.
“You must be Maggie,” the man says. “I’m Brady,” he adds, extending his hand.
Our eyes meet mid-handshake, and I notice the deep chestnut brown of his eyes; they’re as warm and soft and strong as his hand.
“Alice isn’t here,” I say. “Was she expecting you?”
“I come around on Mondays but usually later in the afternoon.” He pauses, as if realizing something. “She’s at the farmers market, isn’t she?”
I nod.
“She probably left some jam for me.”
“Jam?”
“Don’t you know? Your aunt is the local jam lady. It’s all rhubarb jam this month. Vanilla rhubarb, ginger rhubarb, cinnamon rhubarb, orange rhubarb.” He counts the list with his fingers, and I see the hint of a tattoo on his upper arm but try not to stare.
He’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but I feel self-consciously underdressed. “You’ll have to excuse my attire,” I say, gesturing to my pj’s.
He doesn’t seem to notice. “It’s nice to put a face to a name.”
I cock my head in confusion.
“Alice told me all about you,” he says.
I feel a sudden pang of sadness. Alice has been talking about me? For how long? And I didn’t even know enough to think about her.
“I ran into her in town last week,” Brady explains. “I was delighted to see her because she missed our last chamber of commerce meeting. That’s not like her, but she said she had a doctor’s appointment. Anyway, she said you might be visiting soon. She hadn’t seen you in a while.”
My stomach suddenly sours as I process these bits of information.
Alice recently missed a meeting she usually attends.
Because she’d gone to the doctor. I think back to last night in the attic.
She’d said, “Life is short” and “Time is a gift.” I had noticed a microexpression, a fleeting look of resignation that crossed her face.
And she’d wanted me to take the recipe box home with me.
As if, perhaps, she was giving away her belongings.
I couldn’t shake the suspicion that Alice’s letter was not written on a whim.
“We weren’t in touch for a long time,” I finally say to Brady like some sort of apology.
He smiles. “Now is all that matters.”
A silence falls between us, and I quickly search for something to say. “So my aunt is your jam supplier?”
He nods. “Only the best will do. I come by every week and pick up at least a dozen jars.”
“You must eat a lot of toast,” I jest.
He laughs, and I see his bright, straight teeth through his thick brown beard.
“That’s true. I do enjoy a good piece of toast with jam,” he says.
“But I actually use it for work. I’m a pastry chef.
I own a bakery in Madison. But over the summer, I run a culinary-arts program here in conjunction with the state university.
It’s sort of a summer baking boot camp. We use a lot of jam for cake layers, doughnut fillings, glazes. ”
I take in his muscular biceps and manly but nimble-looking hands and realize both have likely been shaped by working dough.
“I’m surprised you don’t run the program in Madison,” I say, trying to stay present, though thoughts of Alice’s health still run in the back of my mind like a computer program. “Closer to your bakery and the university?”
“That would be more convenient. But to be honest, I come out here for some R & R. It’s a working vacation.
Plus, we’re farm-to-table baking,” he points out.
“We source everything locally—the milk, the butter, the flour, the fruit, the jam, the honey. Everything is super fresh, from no more than ten miles away. And I have all my suppliers here.”
“That sounds amazing.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Really? Then you should come by the camp sometime and see what we do. Actually, are you free this afternoon? Around two?”
“What’s happening at two?”
“We’re making Ebelskivers. They’re these delicious—”
“Danish pancake balls,” I spit out.
He cocks his head. “Impressive. Not many people have heard of them.”
I shrug. “I’m a food anthropologist.”
“That’s right, Alice mentioned that. Well then, you understand why I need her jam. To fill the Ebelskivers.”
“But usually it’s lingonberry jam,” I note. “Very Scandinavian.”
“Exactly, but since we’re all about local and seasonal, and no one grows lingonberries around here, we’re substituting your aunt’s rhubarb jam. The vanilla rhubarb.”
“Vanilla-rhubarb jam inside an Ebelskiver? Now that I have to try.”
“Good, so you’ll come?”
I pause. “Maybe. I’ll have to ask Alice if we have plans. And I have my daughter.”
“Right. Hannah,” he says. “Five years old?”
I’m not sure if I should be flattered or creeped out by his knowledge of the personal details of my life. “What else did my aunt tell you about me?”
“Just your Social Security number and blood type.” He delivers this in a monotone.
I can’t help but laugh.