Léo fetched the bowl and brought it to the central island, then removed the tea towel with a flourish. Juliet couldn’t help herself letting out a delighted squeak.
‘Oh! It’s risen, look at that.’
‘It’s like magic, huh?’
‘It really is! Can I touch it?’
‘Not just touch it, you have to knead it again, I’m afraid, until it is firm. Come now, Juliet, roll your sleeves up at the same time you’re rolling your eyes so hard. It will only take a few moments, and we will be ready to create the owl.’
Without comment, Juliet washed her hands, dusted flour around liberally, then lifted the fat ball of dough out of the bowl and resumed her kneading, breathing in the fresh, yeasty smell as she did so. Ignoring Léo’s dig and focusing just on the task in hand felt soothing, and she was surprised when Léo broke her reverie.
‘That’s five minutes, let me see if it is ready.’
He leant in and began pulling and pressing the dough, his hands brushing hers, which she snatched away as if she had been burnt. He was standing very close to her, but looking only at his work and, for once, the normally confident Juliet felt confused. His proximity was discomfiting, but only in that it was making her blood run faster, her heart beat harder. Part of her wanted to stalk off around the kitchen island to safety, another part wanted to slip an arm around his broad shoulders, press herself into his warm body, feel his lips on hers…
‘Bon.’
She jumped guiltily.
‘It is ready.’
‘Oh, er, good, good. Right, I’ve looked into this a bit. We have to divide the dough more or less in half – half for the basic shape and half for the decoration. I’ve got some pictures, hang on.’
Soon the owl began to take shape on the baking tray as they added feathers and other features to it. Juliet forced herself to concentrate on the job, rather than allowing herself to become mesmerised by Léo’s strong, skilled hands as they gently shaped dough into feathers and curved claws. When it was finished, they stepped back to admire their work.
‘Now,’ said Léo, ‘it just needs a short time to prove, and we have to hope that we have got our quantities right so that the shape is not lost.’
During the second proving and the baking, they cleaned up and prepared the ‘nest’ on a large tray, and when the timer sounded, Juliet had a rush of excited anticipation; better, she thought, than any thrill she had felt at the prospect of yet another boozy night out with her London friends.
‘Please,’ she said to Léo as he handed her the oven gloves, ‘you do it. I feel too nervous. What if I drop it?’
‘What ifIdrop it?’
‘You are not remotely worried about that, so don’t pretend you are.’
‘Oui, c’est vrai.’
With steady hands, he slid the tray from the oven and placed it on the cooling rack.
‘Oh, it’s fab! Aren’t we clever?’
‘We have created something beautiful together, yes.’
They stared at each other, delighted with the perfect, golden-brown loaf that had emerged. The shapes had all been maintained beautifully, and the feathery owl gazed back atthem from round eyes. Suddenly, Léo scooped Juliet into an embrace. For a moment, the euphoria of the successful bake swept through Juliet and she hugged him back, but it was quickly followed by a rush of other feelings, which confused and dizzied her. Being so close to Léo, so suddenly, the sensation of his rough cheek against her face, his arms around her body, his woody scent mixing with the smell of the bread…she was thrilled but also panicked. As they pulled away, his hands lingered on her shoulders and those deep brown eyes looked intensely into hers. Juliet knew that she could kiss him, right then, and felt her body propelling her towards him, longing for nothing else than to feel his mouth touch hers. But then she felt the doors slam shut within her and she pulled away with a sharp inhalation of breath. She turned back towards the bread, trying to cover her confusion.
‘I suppose it needs to cool a bit, then let’s get it into the nest, and then I want to take some photos before it goes down to the village. The vicar must be wondering where on earth we are.’
Léo turned away, too, and busied himself tidying oven gloves and spatulas; Juliet wondered what he was hiding, what emotions were being put back in place before he gathered himself and returned to their work.
The next hour was spent professionally as they cooled, arranged and photographed their masterpiece. At last, it was time to carry it down, and Juliet texted her sisters:
Come on you two, it’s lunchtime, time to get dressed and come to the church for the Lammas celebrations. You promised, remember?
The replies were typical: a winking face with a sticking out tongue from Frankie, who probablywasstill in her pyjamas, and an apologetic essay from Martha, who had been ready and waiting for hours, sorry, she’d just got caught up in her latest portrait, wouldn’t be a sec, promise.
They met at the front of the house, Léo carrying the bread which was now carefully wrapped. Rousseau and Sylvia were there too.
‘Good to see you baking the Lammas bread again, darling,’ said Juliet’s father. ‘Can I have a look?’
