Hallie tore a paper towel off the roll hanging from an upper cupboard and got it wet. “Let’s not make a mess, okay?”
She’d never been a messy baker. In culinary school, when her fellow students’ stations were a disaster of mixing bowls and spatulas, with batter smeared all over their countertops, her station was always pristine, even by the end of class.
Except, this kitchen hadn’t started out immaculate. A small pile of salt was gathered along one edge of the stove, with something sticky on the counter. And what was that crusty burnt spot on the front left burner?
She thought back to the times she’d baked with Mom, finally appreciating the difficulty of baking with a small child. Yet Hallie only remembered the feeling of love present in the kitchen during those special times. Perhaps there were worse things than making a mess.
“You know what? We’ll clean it up later.” She tossed the paper towel in the garbage.
The next few minutes saw them measuring ingredients and mixing them together.
In between whisking the dry stuff and creaming the butter and sugar, Isla abandoned her perch on the living room couch. Hallie smiled at her when she entered the kitchen, wanting her to feel welcome but not overwhelmed with a grand show.
Isla still wore a frown as she sat down at the table to eat her snack, though the rest of her face had softened to wary curiosity, and she darted occasional glances at the bakers.
The electric mixer whirred to life and Hallie beat the ingredients together. A small clump of sugar-coated butter escaped the bowl, landing on Penelope’s cheek.
“Whoops,” Hallie said over the noise, scrunching her nose at the child. “How did that happen?”
Penelope giggled, reaching her tiny fingers to her cheek to wipe off the smear. Popping it in her mouth, she shimmied her shoulders as she swallowed. Adorable.
“Now what?” she asked after they’d mixed the eggs in with the butter and sugar.
“We need to add the two bowls together.” Hallie picked up the flour mixture. “Can you help me dump this in?”
Together, they poured the dry ingredients into the wet ones.
Isla appeared at their side just then. “Can I mix?” Her expression turned wary as though afraid Hallie would say no. Nothing in her posture spoke of the monster Carrie had made her out to be. Only a sweet child in need.
Hallie didn’t know how to help beyond deciding right then that she wouldn’t put stock into any of Carrie’s “warnings.”
She smiled down at Isla. “Sure. It’s a little tricky, so let me help you keep it stable.”
Isla placed both hands underneath Hallie’s on the beater. Her lips tucked around her teeth as she concentrated on keeping the base steady while moving the beater around the glass bowl.
“There you go,” Hallie encouraged as the mixture turned from a powdery-topped goo to the consistency of raw cookie dough. “I think that’s good. Who wants to lick the beaters?”
Their eyes grew wide. “We can eat it?” Penelope asked.
Hallie scoffed. “You’ve never eaten cookie dough from the beater? It’s the best part.”
“Daddy never makes cookies,” Isla stated matter-of-factly. “And Grandma says the eggs could give us fish flu.”
Fish flu?Once she’d interpreted the meaning, Hallie bit down on a laugh. “You mean salmonella?”
Penelope scrunched her nose. “What’s salmon-lella?”
Hallie brushed the flour from her hands into the sink. “It’s a bacteria caused by food. But I’ve been eating dough off the beaters my whole life, and I’ve never gotten sick from it. Here.” She handed each girl a beater.
While they happily licked the metal tools, Hallie covered the bowl with the plastic wrap she found in a bottom cupboard. As she slid it into the fridge, her phone buzzed in her back pocket. An unfamiliar number scrolled across the screen. She swiped to answer it. “Hello?”
“May I speak with Hallie Abernathy please?” the woman asked.
“I’m Hallie.” She used the professional tone she always adopted when clients called. “What can I do for you?”
“This is Melanie from Crème de la Crème Bakery.”
Hallie’s breath caught. Before getting trapped down the rabbit hole of Christian’s ballroom videos several hours ago, she’d called the bakery to check on the status of her job application. No one had answered, so she’d left a message. “Thank you for getting back to me.”
