The Best Things in Life

by Kate Sweeney

  For a moment, she looked down at the bowl. “I have no idea how much is in there.” She thought of starting over, but that was all the yeast she had. “I assume I should use all three packets anyway. Why would Betty have them? Damn, I am not calling her this soon.” She wiped her hands on her apron, then read the directions again.

  “Mix flour one cup at a time. Okay, that’s simple.” She opened the stubborn bag of flour, sending flour flying all over the table in a white snowstorm. “Damn it.” She wiped the flour off the index card and continued.

  After adding all the flour and stirring, she had a dough formed, which she was very proud of. “Okay, knead dough on lightly floured surface until smooth. Well, I have that already.” She swiped some of the flour away, knowing later that was going to be a mess to clean up.

  She dumped the dough onto the table and had no idea how to knead. She remembered watching a cooking show once and replicated that. After a few minutes, she had no idea if it was smooth enough, but her upper arms were killing her.

  “This is better than a workout.” She wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks. “What’s next? Place in a well-oiled bowl and coat the dough. Well-oiled? How much is that?” She shrugged and poured some of the oil into the bowl. She stopped, then poured more. “There, well-oiled.”

  She placed the dough in the bowl with a plop that had oil splashing out all over her apron. She made a mental note to thank Betty for the suggestion. She then placed a towel over the bowl and put it on the back of the oven. She loved the handwritten recipe. It looked worn and spotted with ingredients.

  “I wish I could have known Morgan’s grandparents,” she said, reading the card. “Okay, so let it rise for an hour.”

  In an hour, she checked the bowl. The dough was at least three inches over the bowl.

  “Oh, my. It’s alive. Well, she said it should double, but that looks way more.” She shrugged and punched it down as instructed. Then she kneaded it again, feeling the ache in her forearms and triceps.

  “I am way out of shape if kneading bread is this painful.”

  Once she had the dough in the pan, she set it to rise one more time.

  “This is easy! If not exhausting.” She looked down at her apron, covered in oil and flour. How she got it all over her forearms, she had no clue. The table was a hot mess, full of flour. But she was pooped. She sat and stretched her legs out.

  “I have no idea how women do this every day. You really have to love what you do. Or love who you do.” She stretched her neck back and forth.

  She looked up to see Morgan leaning against the doorjamb.

  “Geesus!” She jumped up. “Damn it. You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Sorry.” Morgan frowned deeply. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  “I…what are you doing here? Betty said you weren’t coming home till five.”

  “Home?”

  Cara didn’t know what to say.

  “My father was intent on keeping me at the office for no reason. He even suggested we go out for a beer, which he has never done. He told me to go home and not ask any questions. So, here I am. What are you doing?”

  “I-I’m making bread and…and dinner.”

  Morgan walked into the kitchen, looking at the table. “It looks like you had help from a monkey.”

  Cara tried to be indignant, but it was true. The table was a mess. There was flour everywhere.

  When Morgan walked up to her, Cara stiffened.

  “Why are you making bread and dinner? And why are you here?” Morgan asked quietly.

  “Well, I… That is, I wanted to come back because I didn’t like the way you ran off. Why did you do that?”

  Morgan didn’t move. “You made it clear how you felt. I didn’t see the point in staying. I thought I explained it in the letter. You did get the letter?”

  “Yes,” Cara said, looking at the table.

  “So, why are you here?”

  “I had vacation time to take, and I thought I’d see how you are and your parents.”

  “You came all the way up here to make bread?”

  Cara frowned, looking at the mess on the table. She backed up when Morgan stepped toward her.

  “You’ve got flour in your hair.” Morgan gently brushed her hair from her forehead. “And on your face.”

  Cara ran her fingers through her hair. “It got away from me when I ripped the bag open.” She laughed nervously.

  “What have you got on the stove there? Is that bread or are you smuggling the Hindenburg?”

  “What?” Cara turned around to see…well, she really didn’t know what she saw.

  The loaf pan, covered with the towel, had risen to monstrous proportions. She casually walked over to the stove and peeked under the towel. It looked like a high school science experiment gone terribly wrong. The dough had not only doubled in size, it was overflowing the sides of the pan. She glanced over her shoulder, then moved to block Morgan’s line of sight. She gently touched the squishy balloon. She then took the towel off and quickly placed the pan into the oven. She wasn’t sure if it should bother her that the pan was heavy.

  “There,” she said, dusting off her hands. “Bread in an hour.”

  “Great,” Morgan said and picked up the chicken.

  Cara tried not to laugh. “It was your mother’s idea.”

  “Mom? Why?”

  “Because, apparently, to satisfy your cast-iron stomach, baked chicken is your favorite. Along with fresh-made bread.”

  Morgan closed the distance between them. She reached up and wiped the flour off Cara’s cheek. “And why should you care what my favorite food is?”

  Cara backed up, wiping her cheek with the bottom of the apron. “Foods, in the plural. Other than caviar, I haven’t been able to figure out what’s not your favorite.”

  “I do like to eat.”

  “I hope you do. I hope I don’t kill you.” Cara scooted out of her way.

  “Is that my mother’s apron?”

  Cara closed her eyes and counted to ten. “Yes. And as you can see, I needed it. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing. It looks better on you than it does on my mother.”

  “Can we please keep your mother out of this?”

  “We can try, but her ears are probably ringing as we speak.”

  “I have to clean up.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Oh, no. I-I made the mess.” She scratched her head. “Now would be a good time for a dishwasher.”

  Morgan groaned and rolled up her sleeves. “You’re like a dog with a bone. Sit down.”

  Cara allowed Morgan to gently push her into the chair. She watched as she cleaned the blizzard of flour on the table, then swept the floor. Cara hadn’t seen that.

  “In the future, if you’re going to cook, remind me to get the tarp out of the shed.” Morgan emptied the dustpan into the wastebasket.

  “Is there going to be a future?” Cara wiped the table with her hand.

  “I suppose it depends on how this turns out. If you poison me, then no.”

  Cara grinned. “I deserve that one.”

  “I’m sure it will be delicious. But just in case, the emergency number is by the radio.”

  “Your mother told me where the fire extinguisher is, so no promises.”

  Morgan started washing the bowls. “Boy, you can make a mess. So, what does my mother have to do with all this? I mean, I understand the baking.”

  When Cara didn’t answer, Morgan turned away from the sink. She dried her hands and waited.

  “She called me,” Cara admitted quietly. She looked up to see Morgan’s curious look.

  “Why?”

  That was a logical question; now she needed a logical answer. She was beginning to feel foolish. She absently looked at the oven, trying to see what was going on with the Hindenburg.

  “Cara?”

  “What? Oh, she told me about you and Jean.”

  Morgan cocked her head. “Me and Jean? Je
an Savard?”

  Cara looked around the kitchen. “Yes. How many Jeans do you know?”

  “What about Jean?”

  “Are you going to make me say it?” Cara sat back, folding her arms across her chest in a protective gesture.

  “Make you say what?”

  Morgan sounded completely confused, which now confused Cara.

  “That you’ve been seeing her this past week.”

  “Jean? My mother told you that?”

  “Yes. And don’t you dare get mad at her. She said you’ve been seeing each other every day since you got back.” To Cara’s surprise and irritation, Morgan started laughing. “What is so funny? Is it true?”

  Morgan stopped laughing. She scratched her chin. “Yes, it’s true. I’ve seen Jean every day.”

  Cara’s heart sank. “Is it serious?”

  Morgan sighed thoughtfully. “I think so. We have a lot of things to consider. She lives nearby for one.”

  “Well, there you go. How convenient.” Cara fought back the tears. She stood, grabbed her coat, and struggled into it.

  “Where are you going?”

  Cara threw the back door opened. It was snowing, not just snow, a near blizzard. “Where did this come from?” Perfect. And now she remembered she didn’t have the rental. Damn it, Betty.

  She whirled around and asked with all the dignity she could muster, “Would you please drive me to the airport?”

  “If that’s what you want, I would. But Mom stopped by. She had Andy take her car to the mechanic and took my car. Pop drove me home.”

  Betty…

  “Oh, man. It’s really snowing,” Morgan looked past her. “There’s the storm they predicted. Looks like the one we’re having.”

  Cara let out a helpless sigh. She looked ridiculous with her winter coat on with the bottom of Betty’s apron showing underneath. She took her coat off and sat once again.

  “So, where were we? Oh, yes, Jean lives nearby and…she needs me.” Morgan added.

  “And you need her?” Cara asked, looking at the table.

  “Well, yes, to get paid.”

  Cara’s head shot up. “What are you talking about?”

  Morgan offered a slight grin. “What are you talking about?”

  Cara narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on here?”

  “You’re asking me?” Morgan sounded confused again. “I come home to find you in my kitchen making an unusually large loaf of bread, and I’m not sure what animal is in that package. And to top it off, you’re wearing my mother’s apron, which is a little disturbing.” She picked up the recipe card. “And my grandmother’s recipe.”

  “I told you, the apron was your mother’s idea. So, what’s going on? Are you dating Jean Savard or not?” Cara tried to swallow—arrythmia, arrythmia.

  Morgan opened her mouth, then closed it. “What if I were? What would that matter to you?”

  Cara’s eyes bugged out of her head. “Well, I’m here in your mother’s apron! That should mean something!”

  “Yes, but I may need a therapist to explain it.”

  “Don’t be flippant about this, Morgan. Are you dating Jean Savard?”

  Morgan shook her head. “No. I don’t think Curt would approve.”

  “Curt?” Cara asked, trying not to pull her hair out. “Who the f—”

  “Ah, ah.”

  “Who the hell is Curt?”

  Morgan’s grin spread across her face. “Jean’s husband.”

  “Husband?” Cara repeated in a weak voice. “She’s, um, married?”

  Morgan nodded slowly. “That’s what husband means, yeah.”

  It dawned on Cara then. She closed her eyes. “Does Betty know that Jean is married?”

  “She does.”

  “This is beginning to make sense.” Cara shook her head.

  Morgan grabbed two beers from the fridge, setting one on the table, then slowly sliding it toward Cara, who laughed and snagged the bottle.

  “So, tell me exactly what my diabolical mother did.”

  “She had me believing you were dating Jean, knowing…” Cara stopped and took a drink.

  “Knowing what?” Morgan sat back.

  “I’m not sure I like that smug grin.”

  Morgan chuckled. “Sorry. Go on. Knowing what?”

  Cara sighed. “Knowing that it might bother me.”

  “And did it?”

  Cara looked up. “Again, I’m here, wearing your mother’s apron.”

  “So, you’ve changed your mind?” Morgan picked at the label on the bottle.

  “We live in different states.”

  “Before it was different lives, we’re getting closer.”

  Cara’s heart would never be the same.

  “Cara, do you care for me? And please don’t say I’m a good person. You know what I mean.”

  “Yes.” It surprised Cara how quickly she answered. By Morgan’s stunned look, it surprised her, as well.

  Cara had to laugh. “Wasn’t expecting that, were you?”

  “I was hoping.” Morgan reached over, taking her hand. “It doesn’t matter where we live or what we do. As long as we care for each other, as long as we’re honest. It’s a good start. I don’t expect you to drop everything and live with me. But we need to admit that we’re quite possibly falling in love.”

  “Falling in love.” Cara looked into her eyes. “Is that what’s happening?”

  “Well,” Morgan said, “you are wearing my mother’s apron.”

  When they both laughed, Cara felt as though a weight had been lifted.

  “I smell bread!” Morgan jumped up and went to the oven.

  Cara was right behind her. She opened the door, and they just stared into the oven.

  “I’m no expert, but I don’t think it’s supposed to look like that,” Cara said, peering closer.

  “I’m not, either, but I think you’re right. Let’s get it out of there. The poor thing.”

  Cara took the hot pads, placing the loaf on the stovetop. At least it was golden brown. But it was split in several areas, and the moment she touched it, it started to deflate.

  Both women backed up.

  “Watch out,” Morgan said, shielding Cara with her arm. “It’s about to blow.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Cara said from the safety of standing behind Morgan. “Should I call Betty?”

  “No, we’re adults. It’s just bread.” She looked at Cara. “It is just bread, right? I mean, you’re not trying some demented science project.”

  Cara laughed. “I just followed the recipe.”

  The loaf had deflated in the middle.

  “It looks so sad,” Morgan said. “Let’s look at the recipe.”

  “I followed the recipe,” Cara insisted.

  “I’m sure you did. Oh, but before we go any further.”

  Morgan quickly pulled Cara into her arms. Unexpected as this was, Cara threw her arms around Morgan’s neck.

  “To hell with the bread.” She kissed Morgan as if she’d never kissed anyone before. And she hadn’t—not like this.

  It was Morgan who pulled back, completely breathless. She backed up to the kitchen table.

  “Well,” she said, licking her lips. “That was wonderful.”

  Cara walked up to her. “Yes, it was. Let’s do it again.”

  So, they did. Again and again.

  Chapter 27

  “You’re sure this isn’t a huge mistake?” Cara asked breathlessly. She took all the wood that Morgan handed her; she felt as though her arms would break.

  The snow and wind whirled around them while Morgan struggled with her arms full, as well.

  “We have to get this inside. If the power goes out, we’ll have to rely on the fireplace alone.”

  They made their way back to the cabin. The blizzard pelted Cara’s face; she couldn’t see a thing in front of her. So, when she bumped into Morgan at the back door, the firewood flew out of her hands.

  Morgan opened the back d
oor. “Get inside. I’ll get it.”

  “I can…”

  “Cara, sweetie, go in. I got it.”

  Cara scooted inside while Morgan already had the firewood in the bin next to the fireplace. Without a word, she walked past Cara and picked up the wood.

  “I need to get more.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, no. You take this and stack it in the bin. I’ll be right back.”

  By the time Cara had the logs in the bin, Morgan was right behind her. Cara couldn’t believe how much Morgan carried.

  “Man, it’s cold,” Morgan said, shivering. “This will last us for a little while.”

  Cara looked down at the mound of firewood. “A little while?”

  “It’ll burn fast, trust me.” Morgan ruffled the snow out of her hair before taking off her coat. “It’s not like your gas fireplace with fake logs.”

  Cara struggled out of her coat, as well. “Very funny. Just because you’re Nanook of the North.”

  “I think I like to tease you.” Morgan kissed her. “I like getting to know you better.”

  She kissed Cara once more before tending to the fire. Cara sighed happily and looked out the front window. The snow piled up with the blizzard-force winds.

  When Morgan dusted off her hands and turned around, Cara looked at her. The familiar heart pounding in her ears started again.

  “I think we need to talk about the elephant in the room,” Morgan said. “We have to talk about it.”

  “About what?”

  “The Hindenburg bread loaf in the kitchen. Don’t you want to taste it? I sure do.” She gleefully rubbed her hands together, then ran into the kitchen.

  Cara rubbed her temples. “What am I getting into here?”

  Morgan returned with the loaf of bread, butter, a bottle of wine, and glasses.

  Cara laughed. “That thing looks like it has a disease.”

  Morgan laughed, as well. “Doesn’t matter how it looks but how it tastes.”

  Cara watched her cut a couple of slices of the deflated loaf. “What happened to it, do you think?”

  Morgan examined a slice. “I have no idea. I’m not a baker. Ooh, take a picture of it, and we’ll show it to Mom. She’ll know.”

  “Good idea.” Cara took a photo with her cell. “I can’t believe I’m taking a picture of a loaf of bread.”