Secrets and Scones

by Laurel Remington

  “Well, he’s going to help me set up a blog. An online Secret Cooking Club—I thought we’d have different posts like ‘Yummy Cakes and Bakes,’ ‘Home-Cooked Dinners,’ and ‘Recipes for Sharing.’”

  “What about something healthy too?” Alison suggests. “Like ‘Healthy Bites for Home’? Mrs. Simpson showed me a great recipe for fruit-and-nut protein bars. I’m dying to try them.”

  “I like it!” I grin at Alison.

  “Okay, okay,” Violet says. “Now stop avoiding the real subject. How was it meeting…him?” she coaxes.

  My face flushes. “It was fine. Actually, Nick wants to join us.”

  “Join us?” Gretchen and Violet say at the same time.

  Alison shrugs. “I guess he keeps things buttoned up. He didn’t say anything to me.”

  “It will be really cool to have a boy member,” Violet says.

  “Especially Nick Farr, right, Scarlett?” Gretchen winks at me and blows a kiss.

  “Very funny,” I sulk. Is it that obvious Nick makes me feel so strange—bubbly one minute and self-conscious the next? “But the more the merrier.”

  “Maybe he’ll invite the rest of the soccer team,” Violet says. “They must eat a lot.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “But first we need to focus on helping Mrs. Simpson. Here’s what I have in mind…”

  I outline my idea to the group. How we’ll start a blog, get lots of followers and friends, and raise money to help Mrs. Simpson and other elderly people living alone.

  “It might work.” Gretchen says. “I mean, look at all the sponsors your mom has.”

  “And like Alison suggested, we can have a bake-a-thon. But we’ll do it online. We’ll get sponsors and advertisers and pledges. And if we can get other kids to join us—kids from all over the place—they can bake things too.”

  Alison beams. The bake-a-thon was her idea, after all. But it’s Gretchen who takes up the brainstorming. “It’s a really good idea, Scarlett,” she says. “And once we’ve got an online profile, if Mr. Kruffs tries to force his aunt out of her home, we’ll tell all his voters.”

  “Do you really think it might work?” Violet says.

  “Well, unless anyone has any better ideas,” Gretchen says, “let’s give it a try.”

  “Okay, we will. And, there’s just one other thing…” Taking a deep breath, I turn back to Alison. I can’t believe the words are coming out of my mouth. “I was wondering about Nick. Is he…um…your—”

  Gretchen and Violet look at each other and laugh. Alison’s perfect skin flushes a lovely shade of peach.

  “No, silly,” Alison says. “He’s my cousin.”

  Chapter 31

  Mom’s Little Helper

  My mind bubbles like a boiling pot. The new blog, Mr. Kruffs, Mrs. Simpson—where is she anyway?—and the most distracting of all, the fact that Alison is not going out with Nick Farr. He’s her cousin! No wonder she’s so relaxed around him.

  We finish making the pies—they have fluffy mashed potato tops that are just browned, and the meat filling has lots of fresh vegetables, gravy, and herbs in it. In the end, they are simple, but delicious. But for once, I can’t finish mine. I pack the rest of it up in a plastic container, along with the one we made for Mrs. Simpson. Despite the note she left, it’s getting late and I’m starting to get worried.

  We all pitch in to do the cleaning up (double- and triple-checking the oven and stove are turned off). Treacle curls up in his basket next to the oven. I stay behind after the others have left, hoping Mrs. Simpson might return. She doesn’t. Eventually, I decide to go home. I lock the door and put the key back under the mat.

  At home, I’m surprised to hear the TV on. It’s way past Kelsie’s bedtime, and Mom is always too busy to watch anything. But when I go into the living room, I see her—sprawled out on the sofa, asleep, her laptop half falling off her lap. At first I worry she tried to wait up for me (luckily, both of us seem to have forgotten that, technically, I’m supposed to be grounded). Then I realize she’s just exhausted. For a second, I feel sorry for her.

  I turn off the TV and watch her sleep for a minute, my brain pondering an idea. She won’t allow me internet access at home, so I won’t be able to upload my post or update my new blog. But maybe there’s something I can do to change that.

  I move the laptop off her legs, and she jerks awake. “Scarlett?” She looks around her as if she’s in a strange place. Then she sees the laptop in my hand and reaches for it. “Thanks for waking me,” she says. “I’ve got some things to finish.”

  “That’s okay, Mom. I’m sorry you’re so tired.”

  “Well…” She shrugs. “I guess that goes with the territory.”

  “I was thinking…maybe I could help you. With some of your blog stuff. I could answer emails and post updates, maybe even respond to comments if you showed me how.”

  Mom gives me a suspicious frown. “You’ve never shown an interest before.”

  “Well, we’re learning about computer stuff at school. So I could use some practice.”

  “Is this a new club you’ve joined?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “It’s just that everyone else knows how to use computers and social media. I should learn it too.”

  “You’re probably right.” She purses her lips in thought. “Social media is important. I guess maybe you are old enough to use it responsibly. But we’d need to set strict controls.” I can sense her blog-cogs whirring: “Help! My Daughter Wants To Be Online. Is This Payback?” For once, I don’t let it bother me.

  “Of course, Mom,” I concede. “And if I helped you, then you wouldn’t have to work so hard all the time.”

  “Hmm. I’ll think about it.”

  “I…um, could start now?”

  “I’m too tired to show you right now.”

  “Okay, but once I’ve had a little practice, I’ll be able to do a bunch. You’ll need all your energy for your launch in Superdrug.”

  “Well…I’ll sleep on it.” She closes the laptop and sets it on the coffee table. Her mouth opens into a big yawn. “Don’t stay up too late.”

  “Okay, I won’t.”

  • • •

  I haven’t exactly gotten permission, but Mom’s not one to turn down an offer of free help—even from me. We both go upstairs, and as soon as I hear her bedroom door shut and the water running in the bathtub, I creep back downstairs. I go to the living room and open her laptop. It turns on immediately, but it asks for a password.

  Determined not to fall at the first hurdle, I go into the kitchen and try the door to the Mom Cave. It doesn’t open. I push harder, thinking the door must be stuck, but it still doesn’t open. It must be locked. I’ve never known Mom to lock it before.

  I try the kitchen junk drawer to see if there’s a spare key. As I’m digging through the pieces of paper, old bills, and yellow sticky notes, there’s a loud thump from behind the door to the Mom Cave. I go back over and put my ear to the door. Everything is quiet—I must have imagined it.

  I look again for a key, but find instead a yellow sticky with the name and number of a computer repairman. On the back, Mom’s scribbled her password: scarlettkelsie1. I’m surprised and even a little bit touched that she’s used our names as her password. I return to the computer and type it in. The screen flickers to life.

  Okay, I’m in…now what? I pull up the blog website. From there, it takes me a confusing and slightly nerve-racking half hour to set up an account. I have to sign up for an email account on another site, verify my address, choose my template, and figure out how to move around text boxes and photo layouts. Finally, I open a new text box, and slowly and carefully so I don’t make too many mistakes, I type in my first blog post as the “Little Cook.”

  When I’m finished typing, I look over what I’ve done. It’s fine—I guess—but on the screen, it seems
kind of dull and boring. I realize almost immediately what’s missing. Mom always uses lots of cringeworthy pictures in her blog—irritating 1950s moms in aprons vacuuming or doing laundry—with little sayings like “If only you’d do what I say, Mommy wouldn’t have to LOSE HER MIND” or making up not-so-funny award badges for things like “Today I Survived Washing My Daughter’s Gym Clothes.” All of her friends and followers always comment on how good they are. For my blog, I need some pictures too. Gretchen and Alison have both taken photos with their phones of some of the things we’ve made. That should work for a start.

  I spend the next half hour trying to add some empty boxes with the cursor where the photos will eventually go. But everything I’ve written ends up on the wrong lines or disappearing half off the page. Frustrated, I save what I’ve done as a draft and shut it down before I can make it any worse.

  I’ll just have to ask Nick. Poor me!

  Chapter 32

  An Unwanted Visitor

  Before I leave for school the next morning I go over to Mrs. Simpson’s house. Treacle is inside, meowing at the door, and there’s no sign Mrs. Simpson has been home. My stomach knots with worry. Maybe she came home and Mr. Kruffs had her old-lady-napped. Or maybe she tried to get somewhere on her own and was hurt or injured. When we’re cooking with her, she doesn’t seem old and frail at all. But I remember the other times: in the hospital and the night of the fire…

  Violet sees my face when I meet up with her in the hallway. Her smile fades to worry. “She’s not back yet?”

  “No. What can we do?”

  “I don’t know. Are you free after school?”

  “Um, yeah.” I hesitate. “But I’ve got a couple of questions for Nick—about the blog.”

  Her eyes light up in amusement. “I bet you do.”

  I give her a nasty look and walk off to class.

  • • •

  It takes me the whole morning to psych myself up to talk to Nick at lunchtime in the cafeteria. He’s talking with one of his soccer friends, but looks up as I come over to his table. I shift awkwardly from foot to foot.

  “Hi,” I say, my voice croaky. “Thanks for your help yesterday. I’ve, uh…got a few follow-up questions.”

  His friend raises an eyebrow across the table.

  “Yeah, whatever.” Nick shrugs. I’m immediately sorry I came up to him in front of his friend. “I can’t do it today—maybe tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?” I repeat dumbly. “Yeah, that would be great.”

  Before I can embarrass myself any further, I quickly turn and make a beeline for the girls’ bathroom. I practically slam into Gretchen and Alison, who are standing at the sink painting their nails with rainbow stripes of pink and purple polish.

  Gretchen gives me a disdainful look for the benefit of another girl who’s at the sink washing her hands. As soon as the girl leaves, Gretchen shrugs apologetically. “Hi, Scarlett,” she says. “What’s up?”

  “I need your photos for the blog,” I say. “All the stuff we’ve cooked.”

  “I can upload the photos and help out with the website if you want,” Alison offers. “You’re going to need some help.” She gives a little smirk. “Unless you and Nick want to do it all yourselves.”

  “No,” I say. I see in the mirror that I’m blushing. “I can definitely use some help. Besides,” I lower my voice, “we also need to find Mrs. Simpson.”

  “What?” Gretchen says, looking concerned.

  “She’s not back yet,” I say.

  “And you have no idea where she is or who this ‘friend’ is she went to visit?”

  “None at all. It’s like she’s vanished.”

  We agree to meet at Mrs. Simpson’s house after school as usual. But everyone seems a little preoccupied. It’s not as though Mrs. Simpson was around at the start, but already she’s become just as important as any of the other members. More important, considering she’s teaching us, and we’re using her kitchen and special recipe book.

  The house is still empty when we get there. Treacle meows plaintively like he’s lonely—and maybe a little unhappy with us for rescuing him. Which he probably is. We find a recipe that we all agree on: Peter Piper’s Pepper Pasta. Gretchen and Alison go out to the garden to pick tomatoes while Violet and I mix up the fresh pasta dough. But my heart isn’t in it. It takes forever before the pasta is ready to use: We have to roll the dough and cut the pasta, draping long strands around the kitchen. Gretchen and Alison have made a big bowl of salad and started stirring the spices into the sauce. It all smells delicious, and my stomach is growling. Now, if only Mrs. Simpson would come back—

  All of a sudden, there’s a loud knocking on the front door.

  “Aunt Rosemary! Open up!” a voice calls out.

  The four of us freeze, looking at each other in horror. It’s Mr. Kruffs. We’ve been caught red-handed!

  “Aunt Rosemary, you know we need to talk. You’re only making things worse for yourself by not answering my calls. I’m coming in.”

  A key rattles in the lock. The door bangs open. Instantly, I’m roused into action.

  I head him off at the kitchen door. “Hello, Mr. Kruffs,” I say, faking a pleasant smile. Violet comes up silently beside me.

  “Where is she?” he says accusingly.

  “She?” I give Violet a puzzled look. “I thought the cat was a boy cat, didn’t you?”

  Violet giggles. “I never looked.”

  “Not the cat!” Mr. Kruffs snaps. “I’m looking for my aunt.”

  “Oh.” I shrug dramatically. “Sorry, haven’t seen her today. She left a note—she’s visiting a friend.”

  “Friend? What friend?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  He crosses his arms. “And what, may I ask, are you doing here if she’s not in?”

  “Like I said the last time, I’m Mrs. Simpson’s neighbor,” I say. “And her friend. We all are.” I’m relieved when Gretchen and Alison come up to the door behind me. Now it’s four against one.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he says. “You’re trespassing.”

  I put my hands on my hips, feeling suddenly brave. “So, call the police. They might find it interesting that you’re bullying an old woman—taking her cat away from her and trying to force her out of her own home. And even if they don’t want to listen to us, I’m sure your voters might.”

  Mr. Kruffs takes a step forward. I grip Violet’s hand and stand my ground. OMG.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “My aunt can’t keep living here on her own. It’s my responsibility to make arrangements for her.”

  “What, so that you can sell her house and get the money for your campaign—is that it?” Violet says. I squeeze her hand gratefully.

  He actually looks puzzled for a second, and then starts to laugh. “Is that what you think? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Well, I don’t know.”

  “No, you don’t,” he says firmly. “And we’re done with this conversation. Go home.”

  “Okay, girls,” Gretchen says breezily. “You heard the man. Let’s go.”

  “But what about the—”

  Gretchen cuts me off with a raised hand. “We’ll just have to leave Mr. Kruffs to do the cleaning up.” Gretchen turns back to him. “We were cooking supper. The kitchen’s kind of a mess.” She smiles wryly. “Could you make sure the oven and burners are turned off when you go?”

  “You were using the kitchen?”

  “Of course,” I answer. “Your aunt is teaching us how to cook. She’s not here right now, but we have to practice. We can’t let her down.”

  “She’s teaching you to cook—” He stops abruptly, looking genuinely startled.

  “Yeah,” Alison chimes in. “She’s a great teacher—the best. And she knows so much
about cooking—she even wrote a special recipe book that we’re using. The only thing wrong with her is that she’s a little old, that’s all.”

  “Rosemary hasn’t cooked in years. Not since Marianne died.”

  “Marianne?” I say.

  “Her daughter. But since you’re such good ‘friends,’ I would have thought you knew that.”

  To my little cook— May you find the secret ingredient. I swallow a lump in my throat. Mrs. Simpson wrote the special recipe book for her daughter, Marianne. A daughter who died.

  Mr. Kruffs raises his hands in a gesture of futility. “Aunt Rosemary heats up canned soup and barely eats that. A year ago she lost so much weight that she was wasting away. She had to be put on electrolytes and fiber.” He looks at me pointedly, like I should know what that is.

  “Sounds awful,” I mutter.

  “Yes,” he says. “Not eating properly is one of the reasons she can’t stay here by herself.”

  “But her fridge is always full of food,” I protest. “She has an amazing kitchen and all these cookbooks. She wrote a cookbook by hand for her daughter. It’s obviously her passion.”

  Mr. Kruffs laughs gruffly. “And do you really think my aunt goes out to the stores and brings all the food back herself? Or do you believe there’s a baking fairy that crawls out of her special cookbook at night and hides out in one of the cupboards?”

  “No, of course not.” I don’t tell him that actually, we’ve all wondered why the kitchen is always well-stocked with food.

  “Well, think about it. She doesn’t drive, and the supermarket is too far away for her to walk there.”

  “So?”

  “So I have food delivered to her, or, at least, my personal assistant takes care of it. Every week, like clockwork. And not just from the local supermarket, since I know how my aunt appreciates real food. It’s from a gourmet market—they even put everything in the cupboards where it belongs, or out on the counter, in case it might encourage her to try cooking something again. It’s not cheap, believe me. But I don’t want my aunt to starve, now do I?”