If it weren’t for the sparkles left over on the mahogany rug, Eliza would’ve thought she imagined the whole encounter.
Lachlan had stayed in the kitchen with her, mostly because the gingerbread house made him. This time, however, it was kind enough to allow Lachlan to use his laptop.
They worked in silence, but Eliza felt his eyes on her. It made her more clumsy than usual.
She became acutely aware of how she moved, and what kind of expressions she made while she measured and whisked and poured. His comment earlier about her legs had created a deeper sort of complex within her than it needed to be, but she still couldn’t seem to get it—or him—out of her head.
He watched Eliza across the island, her blonde hair tied back, brows furrowed as she shifted flour into a chilled bowl. She stopped mid-sprinkle to cut her eyes at him. “Is there a problem?” she asked.
“Not at all,” Lachlan said back. His expression softened. “It’s just, you look so much more grown-up when you bake.”
She lifted a brow, still trying to concentrate on the task at hand. “Are you calling me a gran-gran?”
“No!” he backtracked. “It—isn’t a bad thing. You just look wise and … timeless.”
“Timeless?” she repeated.
Lachlan shrugged. “The opposite of old.” Then, he reached up and brushed a strand of blonde hair away from her eyebrow. “Stunning, actually.”
“Hmmm,” she thought, not entirely sure how to respond. Her hands shook at his comment. “Well, be careful with your words next time, or else I might start demanding you call me ‘nana.’ And this doesn’t get you out of doing the dishes tonight, even if it was a good attempt.”
“What was your nan like?” he asked.
Eliza paused her mixing for a fraction, wooden spoon hovering mid-air. The question caught her off guard. Not because she felt like he was prying, but because she felt like it was rare. No one asked about Nan anymore. None of her hometown acquaintances, her ex, or even her own mother, brought it up to her for fear she might snap on them and start crying.
It wasn’t right, but no one knew how to properly grieve with her. She realized, throughout her nan’s treatment, that the world preferred silence. As if pretending the loss didn’t exist and somehow made it easy to carry.
Eliza wasn’t like that. She could never be like that.
“She was wonderful,” Eliza’s words spilled out more in a whisper of a confession. Her throat tightened at the thought of her. She closed her eyes, and for a moment, she could almost picture it: her nan, standing right here beside her, apron tied crookedly and humming along to some tune on the record player.
Eliza’s voice trembled as she spoke. “If she’d been here, she’d be standing in this cottage, in this very kitchen, whipping up truffles and little sweet treats to tuck in each of our stockings.” She gave a soft, wistful laugh. “She used to do that each year. Everyone always had at least one thing that was different from all the rest. My dad always got orange peels dipped in white chocolate because he swore it was ‘healthier,’” Eliza air-quoted.
“And I would always get raspberry creams because I always tried sneaking those when I thought she wasn’t looking.”
He smiled, leaning in a little closer. “She sounds lovely.”
“She was.” She stared into the mixing bowl. Her eyes glimmered with fresh tears. “She made the holiday feel enchanting, in a way. I still marvel at the magic of this place, but I know the real magic of the season was always her.”
“You miss her.” There wasn’t room for questioning in his voice.
Eliza just nodded several times, her throating bobbing. “Every day.” She wiped a tear. “But when I’m baking, it feels like she’s righthere. Watching. Maybe even helping.”
“I think she’d be proud.”
Eliza met his eyes. “Thank you,” she choked out. She went back to stirring, as if she repeated the circular motion in the batter enough times, she might be able to summon her nan’s laughter just to hear it again. “I hope so.”
Lachlan stretched a yawn as he looked at the clock. One thirty in the morning. He shut his laptop. “Snow, I’m going to have to call it for tonight.”
Eliza laughed, “Well, you’d better hurry now before the cottage barricades you in here again with me. I’m afraid there isn’t a large enough mixing bowl for you to bum like Puffcake.”
As if on cue, Puffcake let out a snore from inside his copper sleeping chamber.
“Oh, I wasn’t in here tonight because I had to be,” Lachlan said. The truth hung in the air between them, thick as whipping cream. “By the by, I think you’re going to smash this baking contest. You should get some rest, too, instead of stressing about it.”
“You sound like my mum,” she shook her head. “I have one more recipe in mind, and then I’ll retire.”
He stuck out his pinky finger. “Promise?”
