Chapter 9 #2
He flashes a wide grin. “Seriously, everyone is welcome. You, Alice, Hannah. Whatever works. I run a tight ship, but it’s also casual and fun. Kid friendly.”
I want to say yes. In another circumstance, I might even say “It’s a date.” But I’m in no position to flirt. “We’ll see,” I say instead. “Maybe.”
“I’ll take maybe.”
He smiles, and I look down, tucking stray hairs behind my ear.
“Do you mind if I run inside to grab the jam?” he asks. “I know where Alice keeps it. I’ve got a tab with her and all that.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Come in.”
He follows me inside, heads to the butler’s pantry, and exits with a box of ruby-hued jars.
“Who made these scones?” he asks, pointing to my plate of goodies and setting his box on the counter.
“I did. They’re orange rhubarb,” I say. “Alice left out a bunch of freshly picked rhubarb, so I decided to get creative. Would you like one?”
He shoots me a look of awe. I’m nervous as he takes a bite. I made them for me, for Hannah, for Alice. I did not make them to be taste-tested by a pastry chef from Madison.
“Wow,” he says, after a seemingly long, thoughtful chew and swallow. “Maybe you should be the one teaching my students how to bake this summer.”
“Stop,” I protest. “That’s child’s play compared to what you must do every day.”
“Look, Maggie, I do not throw out culinary compliments on a whim. You have to earn them with me. And I’m telling you, that is the best scone I’ve ever had. Truly.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He laughs. “I’m not kidding. There’s a really nuanced flavor and texture balance going on with these. Tart. Sweet. They’re moist but also dry.”
I note how his description mirrors my own.
“If you didn’t study professionally, then you’ve got some mean raw talent,” he adds.
I shake my head, unable to take him seriously.
He raises his hands. “Okay, okay, you’re not ready to hear the truth just yet. But I’m eating this one now, and taking this one for the road.” He grabs another scone from the plate, sets it on top of his jam box, then dusts off his hands and reaches them toward me.
“It was a pleasure, Maggie,” he says, shaking my hand again. “I look forward to—possibly—seeing you later today.”
We hold hands longer than we should. I’m the first to let go.
“Possibly,” I repeat.
He starts for the door, then stops. “Oh, and if you do come, and I really hope you do, bring a pair of knitting needles, metal if you have them.”
I give him a look of confusion. “To knit a scarf?”
He shakes his head. “To flip the Ebelskivers.”
Upon her return from the farmers market, Alice enters the kitchen with an empty wooden crate. Hannah sits on a stool by the counter eating her breakfast scone, orange glaze glopping in the corners of her mouth.
“Where are the fruits of your labor?” I ask, motioning to the empty crate.
“I sold them,” she says, pulling off her floppy straw hat to wipe her brow of sweat.
“Ah, you go to the farmers market to sell, not buy. Jam, right? Rhubarb this month?”
Alice narrows her eyes. “How’d you know?”
“Brady, the pastry chef. He stopped by to pick up his weekly box of jam.”
Her lips curl into a smirk. “Oh, shoot. He mentioned that he needed to swing by earlier than usual. I forgot.” From her feigned look of surprise and the smile forming at the edge of her mouth, I get the sense that her absence—and my presence—was very much calculated. “Well then, you met Brady, did you?”
I control every muscle in my face not to smile at her.
“Yes, I met him,” I say matter-of-factly.
She cocks her head. “And?”
“And he told me about your famous jam.” I check the clock. “Hey, you’re home early. Don’t most farmers markets go until at least noon?”
“Yeah, but I sell out by ten a.m. And in a few weeks, I’ll sell out by nine. June is strawberry jam. July is cherry. August is tomato. And September, apple and pear butters.” Her eyes land on the plate of scones. “What do we have here?”
“Mommy made scones,” Hannah says.
Alice pats Hannah affectionately on the head. “I knew I left the rhubarb in capable hands. But the question is, Miss Hannah: Did you leave any scones for me?”
Hannah grabs one and hands it to her, then watches intently as she takes a bite.
“This is phenomenal.” Alice licks her finger of the glaze and crumbs.
I wave her compliment away like a fly. “It’s flour and sugar and butter and rhubarb.”
“It’s a heck of a lot more than that. Really, Maggie. Forget my jam. We should sell these scones at the farmers market next Sunday.”
Her comments echo Brady’s. “Oh, they’re not good enough to sell.”
“Like heck they aren’t.”
I stare at her. “Are you serious? Would people really buy them?”
“Like hot cakes.”
“But aren’t there rules? Like health department codes? Don’t you need a cottage kitchen permit or a commercial kitchen, something like that?”
She points to the barn. “Put one in about five years ago. That’s where I can my jam.”
I cock my head. “You have a commercial kitchen in the barn?”
She grabs another scone from the plate, then turns her back side to Hannah. “Hop on, Hannah Banana. I’ll give you girls the tour.”
Hannah practically leaps onto Alice’s back. I walk behind, noting the energy and vitality of this woman twice my age. It’s hard to believe she could be sick. Maybe I’m just a worrier.
When we step into her commercial kitchen, I am nearly blinded by the amount of stainless steel.
The countertops, the ovens, the stove tops, the backsplash, the sinks.
The rows of hanging stainless steel pots and pans, the stock pots stowed beneath.
It reminds me of the Foods 2 class I never got to take.
“This is . . .” I start.
“Cool,” Hannah fills the silence.
I make my way through the galley. The space is enormous. Too much space for just making jams and jellies.
“I rent it out to local artisans and farmers. They use it to make various goods,” Alice explains, answering my question before I ask.
I imagine the amount of rent Alice must charge. My mother and her sisters sold her short. She’s a real entrepreneurial businesswoman. They thought she merely sold jam for a couple of bucks on the side of the road.
“It’s lovely,” I say. I like how the stark, modern kitchen juxtaposes with the farmhouse and the sprawling countryside outside the sink windows. “What is it about a clean open kitchen? I want to put an apron on right now and make something!”
“I know the feeling,” Alice says.
Hannah pulls out the pots and pans from underneath the shining stainless counters.
“Hannah, no, let’s not touch anything,” I scold.
“You go ahead and play,” Alice chimes in. “They’re stainless steel,” she says to me. “She can’t break them.”
“They’ll get dirty,” I protest.
“So, I’ll wash them.”
Hannah clinks and clanks the pots, changing out the lids, banging on them with various wooden spoons Alice hands her.
Once Hannah seems fully immersed in her culinary orchestra, Alice focuses on me.
“He’s nice looking, isn’t he?” she says.
“Who?”
“You know who.”
“Brady?”
She smiles.
I think back to his beard, his soft brown eyes, his muscular arms, and the tattoo under his T-shirt sleeve. “Yes. I guess. He’s pleasant.”
Alice lets out a snort. “Pleasant? We’re talking about a man here. Not a Sunday afternoon drive.”
I laugh too, at my word choice. “Yes, he’s handsome.” I pause. “Actually, he asked me to come to the afternoon baking class at his camp today. I want to go, but . . .”
Alice lowers her voice. “It’s okay, you know. To open your heart again.”
I think back to my conversation with Brady. There was a moment on the porch when my stomach fluttered. Brady laughed and smiled, and for a moment, my breath caught.
I shake my head. “It doesn’t feel that way.”
She pats my hand. “Well, sometimes what we feel isn’t always the truth.”