Secrets and Scones

by Laurel Remington

  The blanket is folded on the sofa, and the room is empty. I feel a stab of panic. I’d offered Mrs. Simpson my bed, but she said she preferred to sleep on the sofa downstairs. What if she wandered off in the night—sleepwalking maybe—and got hit by a car? Or maybe Mr. Kruffs broke in and gagged her and took her off to a home, and I’ll never know where she is or what happened, and it’s all my fault—

  And then I smell it. Like a zombie, I turn and leave the room in a daze. Whatever it is, it’s coming from our kitchen—and I can already tell it’s going to be delicious.

  I practically collide at the bottom of the stairs with Mom. She’s looks sleepy and grumpy with uncombed hair and no makeup.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I blurt out. “I shouldn’t have said those things last night.”

  She rubs her eyes. “No, Scarlett, I was the one who was wrong. You were just trying to be kind and neighborly—the way I raised you.”

  I smile faintly and don’t bother to contradict her.

  Mom sniffs the air. “What’s that? It smells like cooking.”

  “I think it’s Mrs. Simpson’s way of saying thank you.”

  Mom raises her eyebrows. “Oh?”

  I follow her to the kitchen. Mom stops at the door and gasps. A second later, I can see why.

  The kitchen is immaculate—the cleaning up is done, the magazines and clutter neatly stacked to one side, and the table has been washed and set with four places. There are two large cast-iron pans on the stove, one filled with four sizzling eggs, and one that I can’t see because Mrs. Simpson’s back is blocking my view. She’s standing straight and steady without any sign of her stick. A second later, she lifts the frying pan and something flips into the air. She catches it in the pan and removes it with a spatula on to a plate.

  “Sit down,” she says, without turning around. “Everything will be ready in about five minutes.”

  Mom and I look at each other wide-eyed. I wouldn’t even think of not obeying the command. Mom sits at one end of the table. I sit at my usual place, and behind me I hear the shuffling feet of my sister in her bunny slippers.

  “Oooh, breakfast,” Kelsie says. “Smells nice.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Sit down.”

  Mrs. Simpson brings Mom a steaming cup of coffee. “Thank you,” Mom says in a croaky voice. The milk and sugar are already sitting neatly in front of her. Mrs. Simpson goes back to the stove and spoons more batter into the hot pan.

  “I’m not the biggest fan of cooking trends nowadays,” the old woman says. “It’s all nonfat this and no-carbs that. But when they do things the old-fashioned, home-cooked way, they get it right. Like pancakes and pure maple syrup. Nothing beats it if you ask me.”

  “I love pancakes!” my sister says. “It’s like when we went to Disney World.”

  I smile at her. Just before Dad left, we had a family vacation in Florida. We stayed at a little motel next to an International House of Pancakes. I can almost remember how good it all tasted.

  “Where did you get everything?” Mom asks, looking flustered. “I’m afraid I forgot to arrange a food delivery for this week.”

  “From my house,” Mrs. Simpson says. “The fire really was nothing—just a little smoke damage.” She smiles in my direction. “The refrigerator was fine. I went over early to make sure I saved what I could.”

  “Good thinking,” Mom says. “And I’m glad the fire wasn’t serious.”

  “Um,” I say, biting my lip, “there’s something I need to say—”

  Mrs. Simpson cuts me off with a quick finger to her lips. I stop. She begins handing out the plates.

  “It’s just…can I help with that?” I mumble.

  She waves away my offer. This is her moment.

  In addition to pancakes, maple syrup, and perfectly cooked eggs, there’s bacon, fruit salad, and toast with fresh strawberry jam from a jar with a handwritten label. It’s like being in breakfast heaven.

  When everyone else is served, Mrs. Simpson sets down her own plate, but keeps standing behind her chair. “Eat it while it’s hot,” she says. She watches intently as we pick up our forks and try the food. After that, no one speaks—it’s all too delicious for words. Mrs. Simpson finally sits, a satisfied smile on her face. I smile too—for a second. Then I’m back to eating the best breakfast ever.

  • • •

  Mom gracefully ducks out after a second helping—but before doing the dishes—and Kelsie goes off to watch TV. I’m left facing Mrs. Simpson across the table.

  “That was amazing,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

  Mrs. Simpson sighs and begins clearing the plates.

  I jump up. “I’ll do that,” I say, taking the plate from her hand and running water in the sink to do the dishes.

  “No, child.” She waves at me to sit back down. “I’ve got a headache. And when that happens, it helps to have something to focus on. I need to think straight.”

  I pour myself a third glass of fresh orange juice and sit. “What can I do to help you?” I say. “Violet and I—well, all of us really—we’d like to do something. Your nephew has no right to put you in a home. He just can’t!”

  The old woman’s shoulders droop like a wilted flower.

  “I mean, you didn’t start that fire! We left the stove on, and I put the dish towel on the front of the oven to dry. The fire was my fault. And I’m going to tell your nephew—and my mom—the truth.” I feel like a prisoner going to jail, but I know it’s the right thing to do.

  Mrs. Simpson straightens suddenly and turns to me. “Don’t mention it to them, Scarlett,” she says. “It won’t help anything. If Emory knows you were there in the house, it might make things worse.”

  “But why? Isn’t it worse if he thinks you can’t look after yourself?”

  She turns back to the sink and begins soaping the dishes with a sponge, pausing only to tuck a stray strand of gray hair back into her bun. “Everyone gets old,” she says finally. “There’s no escaping that. I have to go sometime, and I’m okay with that. I’d just like to stay in my own home as long as I can, that’s all.” She stops talking and turns to look at me. A tear runs down her cheek—or maybe it’s a soapsud.

  I stand. “How about I dry?” I offer.

  Mrs. Simpson nods. I grab a dish towel, and we both do the dishes in silence. My mind is turning over and over. There must be something I can do, something the Secret Cooking Club can do. But what?

  When we’ve finished the dishes, Mrs. Simpson dries her hands and takes off her apron. Her ankles are thick and saggy in too-dark stockings.

  “I’d like my cat to be with me,” she says. “If I have to go into one of those places.”

  “We need to get Treacle back anyway.” I fold my arms stubbornly. “And as far as I’m concerned, you’re not going anywhere if you don’t want to.”

  Her smile is fragile. “Thank you, child. And now, I’d like to go back to my house.”

  “Are you sure?” Part of me was hoping Mrs. Simpson would stay here with us.

  “Yes,” she insists. “I have to deal with this on my own. Trust me, it’s better that way.” She rubs her temples as if she’s in pain.

  “But what about the fire? I mean, aren’t you mad at us?”

  She gives a little chuckle. “Let me tell you a secret, Scarlett. Everyone makes mistakes. In this case, there was no harm done, you learned something, and it will never happen again. I know that.”

  “Oh,” I say, some of the tension draining away. “I’m sorry all the same.”

  “I know.” She smiles.

  “You’ll be okay going home on your own?”

  “Yes, I will.” She grips her stick tightly and hobbles toward the front door. I open it and she goes outside, her stick clonking on the sidewalk. I watch to make sure she’s okay. When she gets to her own front door, she stops. “By
the way, Scarlett,” she says.

  “Yeah? I mean…yes?”

  “I shall expect you and your friends at five o’clock today. Don’t be late.”

  I stare at her in disbelief.

  “Um, okay,” I say. “We won’t be.”

  • • •

  Back inside my house I get Mom’s phone from its charger and quickly call Violet.

  “We’ve got a situation,” I say. I tell her all about the fire, about Mrs. Simpson staying with us, about the breakfast—and about how we can’t be late.

  “Oh, Scarlett,” Violet says, “that’s so awful. I can’t believe we… It’s terrible!”

  “I wanted to tell Mr. Kruffs, but she didn’t want me to. She said it would only make things worse. But I’m not sure I believe that. We have to do something.”

  “And she really still wants us to come over? Didn’t you say the whole kitchen was on fire?”

  “No. Luckily it wasn’t that bad—just some smoke damage. It could have been a lot worse apparently. But now Mr. Kruffs is trying to put her in a home.”

  “A home? But she has a home.”

  “No! I mean an old people’s home. Like one of those awful places you hear about on the news. I bet there’s nothing to do but sit around and watch TV and play bridge. You probably have to eat horrible mushy food so your dentures don’t fall out. Everyone’s pretty much just waiting to die.”

  “Ugh.” Violet says. “She can’t go there. But what can we do?”

  Secretly, I’m a little disappointed Violet doesn’t have a solution, because I know I don’t.

  “Can you call Gretchen and Alison?” I grasp at straws. “We need an emergency meeting right after school. We have to think of something.”

  Chapter 27

  Brainstorming

  When the Secret Cooking Club gathers in the living room of Violet’s aunt’s house, everyone starts talking at once. “Who used the stove last?” Gretchen tries to get to the bottom of things.

  “I don’t know,” Violet says. “Maybe me, or Alison, I don’t remember—”

  “I’m sure I checked,” Alison wails. “It wasn’t me.”

  “Look.” I hold up my hand. “This won’t help. We’re a club, so in some ways we’re all responsible.” I swallow hard. “Besides, I went into the kitchen last—”

  “You’re right. It doesn’t matter,” Gretchen says. “It happened, and we need to move on—together.”

  Everyone nods glumly. I pass around a bowl of tasteless cheese crackers.

  “We could meet here sometimes,” Violet volunteers. “As long as we clean up really well. Aunt Hilda doesn’t cook, and she doesn’t like the smell of food in the kitchen.”

  “What good is a kitchen where you can’t cook?” Gretchen says disdainfully.

  “We could meet at my house,” Alison says. “Mom doesn’t get home from work until seven. She doesn’t cook either, but she’s got a lot of stuff we could use.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not the point. Even if we could find somewhere else, it won’t be the same.”

  “I agree,” Violet says. “Besides, we’ve made things worse for Mrs. Simpson; her nephew’s threatening to send her to an old people’s home because she can’t look after herself. We can’t just leave her to be locked away eating mushy food until she dies.”

  “Mushy food?” Alison looks horrified. “She’d hate that.”

  I clear my throat to get things back on track. “And anyway,” I say, “she’s teaching us. I’ve never had a mentor before.”

  “Me neither,” Gretchen says. “And I guess she must have enjoyed it too if she wants us to come back. So, what do we do?”

  “Well, I was kind of hoping you might have some ideas,” I say. “Since you’re involved in the PTA and all that.”

  Gretchen gives me an exasperated look. “Have you ever been to a PTA meeting?”

  “No.”

  She shakes her head. “Forget it.”

  “I have an idea.” Alison flicks a lock of blond hair out of her eyes. The three of us turn toward her. I stifle a mean thought that it’s probably the first time she’s ever spoken those words. “Well, I do.” Alison glares at Gretchen (who must have been thinking the same as me). “I was thinking maybe we could have a bake-a-thon or something.”

  I sit back in my chair. “Go on…”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we could get sponsors and advertisers, and people could make pledges to a PayPal account. Nick says you can raise money by doing stuff online. I mean…look at your mom.” She glances sideways at me like she’s still trying to figure out why I deserve to have a “celebrity” in the family.

  The mention of Nick Farr makes my cheeks go hot. “Well, I don’t know anything about what Mom does, other than make my life miserable,” I say. “Besides, even if we raised money, what good would that do?”

  “Mrs. Simpson could hire a nurse or caregiver,” Gretchen says. “That’s what happened when my grandma got really old. The caregiver came in once a day at first. At the end, she was there around the clock.”

  “It’s definitely something to consider, I guess.”

  “But what about Mr. Kruffs?” Violet says. She lowers her voice. “Aunt Hilda said he’s eager to have Mrs. Simpson sell her house. I think he owns a share of it or something. Maybe that’s why he’s trying to get rid of her.”

  “That’s pretty low,” Gretchen says.

  “You know,” I say, “there is one thing that we might be able to do about Mr. Kruffs if he causes trouble.”

  “What’s that?” Violet asks.

  “Well…” I think out loud. “I know how stressed my mom gets over her ‘online image’ and the number of Facebook friends and Twitter followers she has. She’s always going on about it.”

  “She’s got tons, hasn’t she?” Gretchen says admiringly.

  “But she’s always trying to get more. And if Mr. Kruffs is running for office, he’s probably worried about his public image too.”

  “The senior vote!” Gretchen says. “That’s what you call it when you want old people to vote for you.”

  “Yeah. And it wouldn’t look very good if everyone knew he put his aunt in a home, would it?”

  “No!” Violet’s eyes blaze. “I wouldn’t vote for him. No way.”

  “So, if he tries anything, we expose him.”

  “Okay,” Gretchen says. “It’s a start. And now, we’d better head over to her house.”

  “Yeah.” Alison stands quickly. “I’m starving, and I want to cook something, not sit around here.” She eyes the bowl of crackers disdainfully.

  “Me too.” I stand while Violet tosses the rest of the crackers in the trash. “Let’s go.”

  • • •

  We go to Mrs. Simpson’s house and ring the doorbell. There’s no outward sign there ever was a fire, or that anyone is home. Or whether or not Mr. Kruffs came over as promised. After a minute there’s no answer, so I knock hard on the door. A wave of anxiety rises inside me.

  “Is the key still there?” Violet says. “We ought to at least check that she’s okay.”

  I bend down and look under the mat. The key is there as usual. I unlock the door, and we all go inside. There’s a smell of smoke, and the house is quiet as though it’s holding its breath. I tiptoe toward the light under the kitchen door, feeling nervous.

  As I’m about to turn the knob, a voice comes from inside. “You’re two minutes late.”

  Mrs. Simpson’s voice.

  I open the door. Part of the wall is charred black, the window is covered with cardboard, and there are towels mopping up the last of the water on the floor. Mrs. Simpson’s copper kettle is on the stove with steam coming out of it—at least the stove seems to be working. I suck in a breath through my teeth, feeling guilty all over again.

  Mrs. Simpson lo
oks up from where she’s sitting at the table, cookbooks spread out in front of her. There’s also a piece of paper and a pen.

  “I’m sorry we’re late,” I say. “And just so you know, we all wanted to say—”

  She holds up her hand to silence me.

  “You wanted to say you’re sorry, and that it won’t happen again. I know all that, so let’s skip it and get down to business.” She lifts her chin proudly.

  “Yes, Mrs. Simpson,” we all say in unison.

  “I’ve made up a menu.” She holds up the piece of paper. “Four of you, and four courses. Sound fair enough?”

  OMG!

  For the next few hours, I forget about the fire, my problems, Mrs. Simpson’s problems, and everything else—except trying to cook something special that meets her high standards.

  Chapter 28

  An Idea

  At school the next day I daydream about the evening at Mrs. Simpson’s house. For the first time ever, I ate like I was in a five-star restaurant. There was French onion soup with homegrown herbs, spicy crab cakes with dill mayonnaise, perfectly marinated rib-eye steaks with tender vegetables, and for dessert, my own special creation—a mint and strawberry chocolate soufflé.

  Mrs. Simpson didn’t even lift a spoon during the cooking process, but she hovered over each step, approving the measuring and mixing of ingredients as if she was four people at once. She also set the table with fine, gold-rimmed china, snow-white linen place mats and napkins, and gold and silver candles. We didn’t talk about the fire, or her worries, or any of our own.

  Once, as we were cooking, I’d tried to ask her about the little recipe book hoping she’d tell us more about the dedication: To my little cook— May you find the secret ingredient. “It’s a really lovely little book,” I’d said. “It must have taken you a long time to make.”

  But Mrs. Simpson didn’t answer right away. Her breathing seemed to grow shallow, and I could tell I’d upset her. But a moment later, she’d recovered. “It was a long time ago,” she’d said, her hand trembling as she raised a teacup to her lips. I’d taken the hint—and Violet had helpfully changed the subject by asking a question about how long to cook the vegetables.