“Promise.” She interlocked her pinky with his. “Goodnight.” She gave a half-hearted parting, and was surprised when the kitchen let him exit. Granted, the living room was only about twenty feet away, but Eliza had a suspicion it had something to do with Lachlan’s confession—and what she held in her hands now.
Eliza eagerly openedIsadora’s Memory Baking Cookbookand flipped to the next page, where the recipe,Silent Night Soufflé, was.
She read off the ingredients: eggs, milk, cream, sugar.
They sounded promising enough, but the steps were more fragmented than usual, like Isadora had jotted the notes down quickly. Even the handwriting was scratchy and uneven, and the words looked like they were formed from a shaky hand. It wasn’t like her usual, romantic font.
Still, Eliza got to baking, trusting the house. She cracked two eggs, folded in the sugar and dairy products … She noted that there wasn’t any sort of spell like the recipes before, and the batter didn’t shine like the others. Instead, it was dull and gray, despite the yellow yolks that should’ve made the custard appear a pleasant cream.
She did as the rest of the instructions insisted, preparing and baking the entire time in complete silence. She preheated the oven to 180 degrees Celsius, baked the dessert for thirty minutes, and set it out to cool for ten minutes.
Immediately upon taking the first bite, she was transported. She stood near the hearth, the fire weak and dim inside. The record player wasn’t playing anything, and the lights from the tree that once glistened in the corner weren’t even plugged in.
In the kitchen stood Isadora, alone. She was hunched over a bowl of batter, her once bright smile now bleak. The air smelled of burnt sugar, scorched biscuits, and crushed dreams.
Thick smoke rolled from the oven. Isadora opened it, the trembling of her hands even apparent through the oven mitts. Tears swam in her eyes, her makeup streaking down her face.
There was no husband. No laughter. No hands to sweep her off her feet.
Just a letter signed off by Ernest’s name at the end.
Isadora,
I’m not quite sure how to do this other than to just come out and say it. I believe it’s time for me to move on. When I married you, I didn’t expect you to be like this. I thought that maybe we simply were unlucky in our efforts, but now I know that it will never happen because you simply cannot. I only wish you’d told me sooner. You only baked to keep your heart at bay, but baking doesn’t fix everything. I’ve met someone. Please know that I didn’t want this. I never wanted this. I only wanted to start a family.
Sincerely,
Ernest
The dessert was black around the edges, charred and dry. She watched it cool with dull eyes, but didn’t try to eat it. She reread the letter several times, the look of utter devastation marring her beautiful features. Then, Isadora collapsed on the kitchen floor, buried her face in her hands, and wept.
The scene faded away, and Eliza was swept back in the present, the same kitchen swelling with the scent of vanilla and spices. But the scorched notes of Isadora’s memory still bled into the present.
Eliza stepped away from the counter, her heart aching.
The recipe book was no longer showing her sweet beginnings—it was showing their burnt and bitter ending.
And all Eliza could ask herself waswhy. Why would it show Isadora’s joy only for it to end in such heartbreak? Why wouldit show these memories if there wasn’t something she was supposed to change about them? Butwhatwas she supposed to change about them? This was eighty years ago.
Eliza pressed her palms into the counter. The magic tonight didn’t feel light and whimsical anymore. It felt heavy and full of sorrow, like even the cottage remembered the night of Isadora’s heartbreak, and it’d slipped back into that solemn quiet, too.
To take her mind off the tragic scenario, Eliza quickly whipped together a batch of sugar biscuits. She popped them in the oven, her mind still tangled up in the memory
Was the house playing some cruel joke on her? Or did the house know that Eliza knew pain like this all too well? That no matter how sweet the love may be at the start, it always has the potential to burn you? She still smelled the lingering scent of charred dessert, a ghost of Isadora’s grief. She suddenly felt cold despite the fire roaring over in the hearth.
When she checked on her chocolate chip biscuits, her eyes widened. “Biscuits,” she muttered under her breath. She’d burnt them.
She gawked at the biscuits, bewildered. They hadn’t even been in there longer thanfive minutes. How could they have possibly burned?
Before she could make sense of it, Puffcake let out a choking noise, startling Eliza. Tiny clouds of white sugar burst from his nostrils.
“Shhh!” Eliza hissed, rushing over to him. She placed a finger over his tiny, frosted snout, “Don’t youdarewake up Lachlan, or else I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Puffcake paused his coughing spell and narrowed his gumdrop eyes at her.
“I’ll remove my finger when you’re done with your theatrics,” she said.
He simply stayed quiet.
