“I dohome cooking,” Fred said, a little testily, but that hadn’t been true for a few months now.
Her aunt tsked. “Low fat, low carb, low flavor, no doubt.”
Moments later, Aunt Aggie—who, these days, was almost completely spherical in appearance—stomped into the hallway, dressed in a royal-blue velvet maxi-dress (though at just over four feet six inches tall, most dresses were maxi on her) with appliqué moons and stars all over it. She had pale blue eyes, a cherubic face full of freckles, and long gray hair that fell like a waterfall down to her bottom.
“Greetings and salutations!” she boomed, leaving a trail of mud behind her. “What magnificent joy!”
Fred was squeezed and kissed by the secondoctogenarian aunt—Aggie, as ever, smelled of a heady mix of rose talcum powder and cigars—before being ushered into the kitchen.
“Have you eaten?” asked Aunt Cam.
“I had breakfast at the inn.”
“But not second breakfast,” Aunt Aggie trilled, with a note of triumph.
“We’re not hobbits, Aunty,” Fred retorted. “Is Mum working?”
“Yes, love,” answered Aunt Cam. “Let’s get you in, and breakfast on, and we’ll call her.”
Fred settled herself at the chunky Victorian pine table that dominated the large kitchen. The sun streamed in through the windows and fell across the scratched and pitted surface, highlighting its many years of service.
Aggie dumped a mug of coffee in front of her and she took a big gulp. She recognized the nutty roast and bitter chocolate richness.
“Is this Coast Roast?” she asked, incredulous.
“It is,” said Aunt Aggie, holding up the bag of coffee. “You’ve got a good nose.”
“I drink this at home. My old home. But I could only get it in my local deli.”
“Ah, you’re surprised we have access to such fine artisan products up here in the back of beyond.” Aunt Aggie gave her a sidelong look. “Coast Roast is a local business—big cities aren’t the only birthplaces of innovation, as you well know, being a Hallow-Hart.”
She didn’t answer, thinking indeed of the Hallow-Hartcrackers; they graced the pages of all the glossy magazines in the run-up to Christmas. She might have left her family home far behind her, but it was impossible to outrun the family legacy, especially living and working in London around the festive season.
Fred cast her eyes around the kitchen. The old Aga on the back wall was still the main source of heating in the house, though they had invested in a second oven for cooking. Either side of the Aga, and running the whole length of another wall, were fitted dressers hailing from the Georgian era with ample cupboards below and open shelving above. These were painted a chalky white and held a mishmash of crockery, mixing bowls, books and glass jars containing homemade preserves, buttons and dried herbs.
In the last decade she had only visited home a handful of times. Though her family was a persistent source of contention between her and Tim, she hadn’t needed much of an excuse to stay away. And then, in those last couple of years with him—when she was equal parts terrified of losing him if she left or losing herself if she stayed—she’d known that being here would seal her decision that she needed to leave him; and back then, she couldn’t conceive of a worse fate than failing at the perfect life she’d invested so heavily in.
After Tim, it was her pride that kept her away. But there’s a fine line between pride and stupidity, and even Fred could see that becoming homeless, rather than asking for help, was crossing that line.
There was a hiss as Aunt Cam slapped thick rashers ofbacon into an iron skillet, and the smoky smell of searing meat infused the kitchen.
“Here,” said Aunt Aggie, plonking down a large loaf of bread and a knife in front of Fred. “Fresh from Eadie’s bakery this morning, her granddaughter Bettina made this one. My godmothers, she’s a witch with the sourdough. Now, cut it into slices, and don’t be mean.” She pushed a butter dish toward her. “And don’t skimp on the butter either, I want it so thick you can feel your teeth sink into it, we’ll have none of your city-spreading in this house.”
Fred shook her head but stayed quiet.City-spreading?
After adding butter to another pan and waiting for it to turn brown and bubbling, Aggie carefully added ten fat scallops.
“Ahh, a bacon and scallop butty, my favorite,” said Fred dreamily.
“I remember,” said Aunt Cam, turning from the stove to give her a wink. “Fresh off the boat this morning. Do me a favor when you’ve finished slicing, and call your mother in.”
Fred piled the last buttered slice onto the breadboard and moved to the deep butler sink below the picture window that looked out over the garden.
On the wall above the drainer a walkie-talkie hung from a hook. Her hand hovered over it. She’d vowed to be the antithesis of her mother, to leave Pine Bluff and make her own life, fully independent of her family and its name. All she’d wanted was a perfect relationship with a perfect man, a perfect career, and one day some perfect children to fill her perfect home. Was that so much to ask?
Of course, those plans had all rather gone to hell in a handbasket, but she had made peace with that. What concerned her now was that one look at her mum would unravel the tightly plaited resentment she’d so carefully woven into her resolve. She knew it wasn’t healthy to rely on old peeves as a means of drawing strength, but she had used them for so long that she wasn’t sure what would happen if she simply “let it go”—as both her therapist and Elsa fromFrozenhad repeatedly suggested.
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, counted to five slowly and then picked up the walkie-talkie. “Hey, Mum, are you there? Second breakfast is almost ready.”
