The timer on her mobile rang out, and she took out the pie from the oven. Now she just needed to wait for it to cool. She thought to make herself busy as she strode around the kitchen, blindly choosing the ingredients she could use for the contest.
Eliza couldn’t explain it, she just followed her baking intuition. She’d inherited this trait from her nan, who always said intuition was half of what made an excellent baker. When all other wells of inspiration ran dry, she always knew when to trust her gut. And her taste buds.
From the top shelf, she pulled down cranberries. Good, that would be one of her flavors. Bonus points for its visual appeal and texture. For her other flavor, she chose orange slices, for the way it complemented the cranberries.
Scones, she thought.Perfect.
She plucked a pie off the rack for herself, the steam rising into the air. Her mouth watered, eager to taste, but also to test if she would have another memory.
In the first bite, she tasted the sweetness of the sugar mixed with the bite of bitterness, brief but still present. She blinked, and in an instant, she was taken back. Another time, but the same place.
A Christmas tree sat in the corner, the smell of fresh evergreen and sap filling the cottage. Balancing on a stool was the same girl with onyx hair.Isadora.
Today, she was dressed in a bright 1950s red gingham midi dress. She looked like a cottage princess with half of her hair pulled back in a matching bow.
Like last time, Ernest approached from behind. He lifted Isadora at her tiny waist and twirled her down to the ground. Somewhere in the background, a vintage-sounding “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” played over the record player in a slow melody.
“Hey now,” her husband said, giving her another playful spin. “Told you I would hang the star on the tree.”
“I know,” Isadora smiled. “But I was eager to see it all come together.” They swayed together like this, looking into each other’s eyes. They didn’t speak much. They were together. They let their bodies do the communicating as they swayed around and around, the only light coming from the tree.
Isadora smiled up at Ernest, gazing at him like he’d hung the moon. “You came back from your walk at the perfect time. I have a surprise for you.”
“Oh?” Ernest’s eyebrows raised in anticipation, searching Isadora’s tiny frame for any physical changes. “Any news yet?”
Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second:
The oven chimed a familiar ding, and Isadora’s smile flashed bright again. She floated into the kitchen and pulled on a pair of oven mitts.
Instead of matching her excitement, Ernest rolled his eyes when Isadora wasn’t looking. He reluctantly followed after her into the kitchen, leaning against the counter. “Another sweet? Really, honey?”
Isadora opened the oven and set the pie down on the island. It smelled of baked surprises and hopeful dreams.
“Mince Pie!” she chirped. “Your favorite.”
She didn’t seem to catch his hesitation to join her at the table. After cooling, she cut a slice and brought it over to the table. He just stood at the counter, nursing a cup of coffee. He’d picked upa stack of newspapers and began reading. Eliza caught the date: December 20th, 1945. Eighty years ago.
“Come sit with me, dear,” Isadora pleaded, “all this dancing must’ve made you hungry, yeah?”
He lowered the newspaper just a touch to see over it. He gave a distant smile. “Thank you, but I think I’ll pass. I’m still full from your last baking escapade.”
She blinked, her arms extended with his plate. “But you didn’t have any of those, either.”
“Sure, I did, honey. Just a few were plenty for me.” He chuckled, but his tone was dismissive.
She withdrew, her thoughts turning pensive. “I’ll just wrap it up for you, then … We can have it?—”
“I said I didn’t want any. What I want is a child!” Ernest’s tone suddenly changed, and he slapped the paper down in his lap with a crunch. Isadora flinched back, covering her face. It was a subtle gesture, but both Eliza and Ernest caught it.
He didn’t apologize for his outburst, only corrected it with a smile. Like that’s all he would need to do to make everything else he did beforehand go away. “Let’s not fight, honey. We came here to escape all of that, remember?”
Isadora’s face fell for only a fraction of a second, but she caught it before Ernest could say anything. She sank on the sofa, looking at her hands with contempt.
On the record player, the lyrics began to slow as the memory lulled ...
“I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams ...”
A hollow silence hung between them, heavy and palpable. Then the song came to an abrupt end along with the memory. Eliza was back.
