She laughs, shaking her head. “In the great war between me and sourdough, I think we know who’s winning.”
I want to tell her she isn’t losing. That she’s just messy brilliance still finding her way. But I don’t. Emotions are surfacing, but the mission claws at the back of my thoughts, a constant reminder.
I grab a rag from the sink and set to work cleaning the chaos. She joins me, shaking flour from her hair, muttering and laughing at herself. The domestic ease of it hits me subtly. We move around each other without thinking, shoulder to shoulder, passing rags and bowls.
An hour later, she measures out more flour, carefully this time, and I catch myself watching. She’s trying. A rhythm ofinstinct, of feel, inherited maybe from the aunt who left her this place.
She glances sideways at me, mouth twitching. “You organize the spice jars, don’t you?”
Her laugh bursts bright, cutting through the powdery air. “Called it.”
I catalog the scene like I catalog everything: the oven door hinge squeak, Milly’s system that works for her even if it threatens my sanity. I tell myself it’s just another environment to control. But when I catch her humming under her breath as she kneads, I know it’s more than that.
I take a picture in my head, not the counters, not the mess, but her. Flour dusting her hair, grin cheerful, eyes bright. For a man who lives by records and systems, it’s a detail I know I’ll carry with me.
Milly frowns at the recipe card, lips moving as she reads. “It says, ‘knead until it feels right.’ What does that even mean? If you’ve never made bread, how do you know what ‘right’ is supposed to feel like?”
She dips her hands into the flour. “Feels right” is vague, and vague doesn’t belong in her world of lists and sticky notes.
Speaking of sticky notes, half a dozen are scattered across the counter: Call Browne. Check goat fence. Figure out how to bake bread. I gather them into a single neat stack and place them by the toaster. She glances at me, amused.
“Those are my reminders.”
“They’re still reminders. Just… stacked.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “You can’t stack chaos.” She shakes her head again. “You’d alphabetize them if I let you.”
I smirk.
The dough comes together slowly and sticky. She kneads it and forms it into a ball, then sets the timer for the final rest and starts cleaning up the kitchen a little. Brows drawn inconcentration, I catch myself watching the freckles across her cheekbones. When she looks up, her cheeks are flushed.
Inspector leaps onto a chair, tail flicking, his gaze fixed on the counter like a critic.
When the timer goes off, Milly looks at the dough with doubt. “All right,” she says, dusting her hands. “Moment of truth.”
She puts the dough in the oven and bakes it for the 25 minutes of what she calls a “point of no return.” The scent fills the kitchen with warmth and nostalgia, a smell I haven’t breathed in since my grandmother was alive. Patience isn’t one of Milly’s virtues; she paces, taps the oven door every few minutes, and keeps flicking on the oven light to watch it.
“Why don’t you feed the chickens while you wait?” I try to distract her.
“I can’t. Not until it comes out. I don’t want to miss the timer. What if it burns?” I can see her stress.
“Ok, fine. You can still hear the timer from the living room, right? Why don’t we move the couch like you wanted?”
Milly thinks about this for a second, then concedes. Until the timer goes off, and she jumps.
“It’s done, it’s done, it’s done.” She shimmies and dances. She removes the loaf from the oven, and the crust crackles. It’s a beautiful shade of golden brown and smells divine. I smile and nod when she looks at me.
“Now we wait, again.” She sighs and looks slightly defeated.
“Nope, we work. Come on. While the bread cools, let’s feed the chickens. There is no timer for cooling.” I tug her outside, and instantly her frown turns to a smile.
Thirty minutes later, when I can’t distract her any longer, we are back in the kitchen. She saws off a slice, bites her lip, and holds it out to me with exaggerated ceremony. “To the bravest taste tester.”
I take it. Chew, careful not to grimace. It’s a brick masquerading as bread.
Her eyes narrow. “Well?”
I swallow. “I’m thinking that it could break a tooth.”
