How true that was. It didn’t hurt that time at the Homestead Inn seemed to run on a magical clock of its own. It was sacred ground, blessed by the very heavens above, she was sure of it. When the good times came, things like worries and doubts moved to the outer perimeters of the place, unable to dwell in areas so joyful and good.
Time slowed, allowing guests to notice the cheery little faces at the kid’s sundae bar as they topped their culinary masterpiece with colorful sprinkles. Or to appreciate the beauty of a young-at-heart couple in their golden years, shuffling and swaying to a song that reminded them of the time they fell in love.
The Homestead Inn was a world of wonder. One that God in all His goodness and mercy had seen fit for her. What a humbling truth that was.
Richard eyed the rearview as they neared the inn. He took one hand off the steering wheel, reached for Ava’s, and gave it a squeeze. He checked the rearview again. It seemed to be a habit, a cautionary part of his driving routine. The truth was, this particular stretch of road didn’t lead to any place outside of The Homestead Inn, save Trenton and Betty’s properties. She guessed that, living in hiding as they were, it made sense to be cautious.
But cautious didn’t mean fearful. Richard wasn’t on edge when they were cozied up on blankets during hot summer nights. He wasn’t looking over his shoulder while they cuddled close beside the bonfire and roasted marshmallows among cheerful guests and their growing families.
He was alert when he needed to be. Grounded, as Andie might say. But Richard, so far as she could tell, was not living in fear. Ava was glad; living in fear was no way to live.
“Before the party starts tonight, I arranged a little date for us,” Richard said, breaking into her musings.
“You did?”
He was pulling alongside the back of the inn. “Yep. And we’re supposed to meet Mable in the kitchen just about…” He glanced at his watch after shutting off the car. “Now.” With that, Richard unlatched his seatbelt, flung open the door, and climbed out. Seconds later, he was opening her door and taking her hand.
“You ready?”
“Sure.”
He led her through the large, industrial kitchen. Staff in white aprons bustled about as a blend of tart and tangy aromas wafted through the air. A large dining area sat just beyond the kitchen, this one for staff only. At the bar stood the head chef herself, Mable, wearing a colorful apron and a wide grin.
“Greetings,” she said. “Come on in, grab an apron, and wash up. We’re going to make bread.”
Ava’s eyes widened as she shot a look at Richard.
“Youdidsay it was one of your happiest memories,” he said with a shrug.
Ava melted a little. “You’re right, I did.”
They were quick to pull aprons over their heads and wash up at the sink before meeting Mable at the other side of the counter.
“I hear you used to make bread with your grandmother,” Mable said to Ava. “I was so pleased to hear that. I’ve been baking this same recipe since my grandmother taught me,” the woman explained.
Ava felt a deep kinship brewing between them. “That’s wonderful,” she said.
Mable nodded. “I’ve made this with my own children, and now I bake with my grandchildren too.” She reached for one of the three bowls resting on the counter. “This one has our dry ingredients, this one has the wet, and this one,” she said, scooting the final bowl toward Ava and Richard, “has a batch that’s ready for kneading.”
“I’m going to let you two get started on the kneading part, and then I’ll walk you through the whole process. Perhaps this will be the recipe you end up sharing with your own grandkids one day.”
Ava liked the sound of that.
“Richard, why don’t you split this ball of dough and give half to Ava,” Mable suggested. “I’ve got to grab a few things, so I’ll be right back. Oh, and don’t forget to flour your hands first.” With that, she darted through the back exit.
Richard looked at Ava. “Flour our hands?”
She grinned and nodded to the white, powdery pile of flour on the counter. “Like this,” she said, patting her palms into the soft mound.
Richard did the same before clapping a few times. “Okay, I’m splitting this up…” He dug his hands into the bowl and began tearing it in two. Ava took a moment to admire the big, strong man who’d planned a bread baking date for her. The apron was small compared to his broad build, and already, he’d managed to get a flour smudge along his jaw.
“Alright, I think I’ve got it.” He lifted a big chunk out of the bowl and proceeded to tuck the torn edges beneath. “I’ve got to make it look all smooth for you,” he said as he went.
Ava prepared the spot in front of her by sprinkling a pinch of flour over it and smearing it with her palm. She did the same to the space in front of Richard.
Once the dough ball was roughly the size and shape of a spaghetti squash, Richard set it gently on the spot before Ava. “Okay, show me how to knead this stuff.”
He plopped the second portion onto the floured space, and Ava reached for his hands. “This part,” she explained, brushing fingers over the lower half of his palm, “will do the pushing. The top of your fingers,” she said while tracing over his fingers with hers, “will pull it back in.” A wave of warmth washed over her; the feel of Richard’s skin on hers never failed to affect her.
