“Already done,” Mom said. “I put a sign in the window last night letting folks know we’ll open at lunchtime this month. Now your dad and I won’t have to worry about rushing around to get there.”
I clamped my mouth shut, processing the news. I hadn’t slept in—or had breakfast out—in years, because I felt obligated to open the store at nine. But as soon as I took a few weeks off, Mom just taped a sign to the window, and poof! The hours were now more convenient?
Did she even care about sales? Was her store wholly my problem now?
“You know,” Mom said. “It’s not too late for you to come home if you’re bored or lonely. I can’t tell you how much you’re missed. By us. By Annie. By the store and customers. They ask about you every day.”
My eyelids fell shut, and I swiped a frustrated tear from the corner of one eye. The possibility she only wanted me home to run the store replaced sentimentality with anger. “I can’t,” I said, forcing the words through a tightening throat. “I’m not done here yet.”
If I gave up, all the trouble I’d caused by leaving and all the little obstacles I’d already faced would have been for nothing. “I have to go, Mom,” I said. “I hope you have a good day. Tell Dad and Annie I love them.”
I disconnected and tucked the phone back into my pocket with a soft growl. I had work to do in Amherst before I could worry any more about the state of affairs in Willow Bend. Even if my parents were messing things up.
It was afternoon when I dragged myself and my shopping bags through the manor’s front door and into the kitchen. I’d taken my time browsing the shops and created haiku as I went.
Alone, not lonely
Enjoying a pretty day
Learning to be fine
The best part of going about my day was seeing several familiar faces from my letter-writing class, and each of them had recognized me too. We traded smiles and waves, then a few casual words that made me feel like part of the town.
I’d forced myself to text Davis on my walk home. He’d responded to say he’d visit after he finished at work. I wasn’t sure how I felt about seeing him again when I was lonely at the manor and he was unfairly attractive. So I concentrated on the moment at hand.
I heaved my bounty onto the countertop and unpacked the newly purchased baking supplies into orderly rows on the counter.
“Black cake, coconut bread, or gingerbread?” I asked the empty kitchen. I’d found three recipes from the 1850s, and all sounded delicious. Gingerbread felt a little too Christmassy, however, so I set thatone aside. I loved coconut, but the black cake involved cognac and hazelnut liqueur. “Black cake it is.”
I made a cup of coffee and checked the clock. Not that time had any meaning in a world where I had zero responsibilities. I dosed the coffee with liquor, then hummed and sipped as I prepped the pan.
The oven made a number of questionable sounds as it preheated, but the appliance appeared to be about my age, so I assumed it was doing the best it could.
“All right. What’s next?” I asked, examining the recipe I’d propped against the backsplash. “Raisins and a bunch of dried fruits chopped into raisin size. No problem.” I grabbed a knife. “Currants, apricots, prunes, pears, dates. Yeesh.” I finished my coffee and sampled the brandy as I worked.
The process was a lot more labor-intensive than all those cupcakes and brownies I’d made from boxes. Being required to do all the extra steps felt a little like being held hostage.
I hated tedious tasks.
I sagged in relief when I’d finished the chopping, then checked the clock.
When Davis had stopped by after work on the night of my arrival, it’d been dark. Based on that, I reasoned I probably had time to finish the cake and my minigarden project. As long as I kept moving.
I took another look at the recipe. “Flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt, cinnamon, cloves, mace. Good grief.” I was going to need a larger bowl.
“Nutmeg, cardamon, ginger, butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla.” I groaned miserably.
I tested the cognac again, which helped.
Maybe Emily only thought she enjoyed baking because she was drunk.
Eventually I had the batter mixed and ready for the oven. Understandably, the pan weighed about fifty pounds. I hadn’t packed enough stretchy pants to eat this on my own.
I set the timer on my phone because the ancient oven didn’t seem to have one; then I gave myself a short break and read Paul’s letter once more. I never imagined how much I’d enjoy receiving notes from friends and classmates. I hoped my letters made Cecily and my parents smile too.
Next, I moved on to Project Protect the Garden. I set the letter on the table, then collected my supplies before heading outside with stakes, twine, scissors, and aluminum pie plates in hand.
I gritted my teeth at the condition of my garden. Several plants had been completely ruined; leaves were shredded on some, missing on others; and two carrot buds had been fully removed from the ground. I silently cursed the bunny.
