The memory clung to her like the steam of the pies—fresh and warm yet laced with an undertone of bitterness.
Ernest had wanted a child. Was Isadora unwilling to give him one, or was she unable to? And if she’d wanted them, was it more complicated than that?
What if she were nervous about what kind of mother she’d be? Or was it that she was more nervous about what kind of father Ernest would be?
She couldn’t help but feel sorry for Isadora, knowing that this was exactly how it started. The distance. The avoidance. The silent betrayals. The way someone you loved deeply seemed to slowly drift away while seated right beside you.
She knew it all, and watching it play out for someone else was like watching a sad film where you know one of the characters is betrayed at the end. You can’t stop it from happening. You can only watch the tragedy unfold.
Eliza sighed; so many questions about this woman’s life plagued her. She’d have to bake the rest of the memories to find out what happened in the end.
That’s how, she guessed, it felt now, thinking back to her relationship with Davis. Everyone knew it was over before it even began unfurling. It was only a matter of time before he broke her heart and left her stranded trying to pick up the pieces. Piper had even tried to warn her, saying that he seemed too into himself, too absorbed with himself to truly care for anyone else.
Piper was right. She was always right.
Eliza drew in a breath, wiping a tear from her eye. She reached for her notepad, already tired of grieving over her own heartbreak. She didn’t need the weight of someone else’s too, even if it happened eighty years ago.
She rounded up each of her ingredients she’d chosen earlier: cranberries, orange zest, nutmeg, and a touch of cinnamon, and scribbled the title down onto the page.Winter Hearth Scones. It sounded comforting and bright, yet warm and, of course, delicious.
She hoped that if she could bake anything into this recipe, it would be hope. For herself. For Isadora. For Nan. For Honeycomb.
Lachlan snored softly on the couch, blissfully unaware of the spiritual breakthroughs happening in the kitchen right next to him. Even Puffcake stirred inside the bowl, letting out a tiny puff of powdered sugar.
Then, Eliza began baking, allowing the steady rhythm to calm her. She didn’t know if she would win the contest, didn’t know how things would end for Isadora. Didn’t know if she was ready to love yet, or ever again. But she knew this: she believed in new beginnings.
Her scones would be proof of that.
Eliza could’ve baked all evening, but with the contest looming, she thought that getting a good night’s rest was more prudent.
She woke to the rich smell of fresh coffee and bacon. Her stomach grumbled, and she allowed her hunger to carry her down the steps. Lachlan stood in the kitchen, his dark hair tousled from sleep, cooking with her mint green Christmasapron. He made it look like a festive hand towel wrapped around his tall, muscular frame.
At first, he didn’t notice her, so she just stood watching from behind as he flipped the bacon, the frying pan popping and sizzling under the heat.
Eliza quickly whipped out her phone to take a picture of him. The snap of her iPhone camera gave away her presence, and he turned, frowning at her. She grinned and snapped another, this time catching him full on and staring right into the camera, looking heavily amused.
“Like what you see?” he said with a smirk.
Eliza’s cheeks reddened, not knowing how to answer. “Maybe. You do kinda look like someone from one of those sexy Christmas commercials. You know, like the ones where the male model is shirtless outside in the snow advertising for some restaurant?”
He raised a brow, leaning against the counter and mischievously popping out a hip. “So I’m a male model to you?”
Eliza realized her grave mistake a second too late but recovered it quickly, hiding the blush deepening on her cheeks by taking a sip of her coffee he had generously laid out on the table for her. “Don’t let it get to your head. It’s the apron doing all the heavy lifting.”
He laughed, a warm melody that flooded her ears. It sounded like Christmas bells. He crossed his arms over his chest, biceps flexing. “Is that so? Maybe I’ll lean into the whole culinary heartthrob angle. Pick myself up a hot model girlfriend along the way …”
Her attention snagged on thegirlfriendpart. So he was single?
Not that Eliza was interested.
“Please,” she snorted into her coffee. “I’ve seen better.”
“Just admit it,” his smile grew, teeth gleaming as white as marshmallows. He reached over her head to grab a plate. “You’re going to be thinking about this long after Christmas.” He gestured to the apron with his hands.
A dramatic retching sound came from the corner of the kitchen. Eliza jumped, sloshing her coffee. Puffcake peeked his icing-covered snout over the top of the mixing bowl, hanging out his tongue in disgust.
Lachlan chuckled, loading three plates of food. “The apron’s a hard pass from Puffcake.”
Puffcake breathed, and white powdery sugar sprang from his nostrils. He lowered his head back in the bowl.
