Page 19

After work, Sage kept her promise to Ricky about baking snowball cookies. She stopped off at the store and purchased all the ingredients she’d need. With due diligence, she read over the recipe several times, and, for extra confidence, watched a YouTube video. YouTube was her best friend. The video had made it all look so easy.

Ricky was excited. He hurried through his dinner and then pulled a chair up to the kitchen counter. While shopping, Sage had bought herself an apron and got a kid-sized one for Ricky, too. He loved that they were matching. Sage wished she’d been able to find a chef’s hat to complement their attire, but it was not to be.

Sage took a selfie of the two of them and texted it to Saffron and her parents, letting them know all was well.

Now it was time to get down to business.

“Is the butter soft?” Ricky asked, standing on the chair in front of the kitchen counter.

Sage had taken the two cubes out of the refrigerator when they arrived home. “They should be by now.”

She retrieved the mixing bowl and measuring cups, all of which were new and washed. She taped the recipe to the cupboard door for easy readability.

“Remember to turn on the oven first,” Ricky reminded her.

“Right.” She set the oven temperature and then got busy opening the bag of flour. She’d measured out the required amount when Ricky said, “Something smells funny.”

He was right. The kitchen had a strange odor.

“Auntie Sage, Auntie Sage,” Ricky said, covering his nose. “The oven is smoking.”

Sage whirled around to discover smoke billowing out the sides of the oven.

“Stand back,” she cried, doing her best not to panic. She grabbed hold of two oven mitts and pulled out the rack where she’d stored several pairs of shoes. The smoke was even worse now.

The kitchen fire alarm started blaring at the same time as the phone started to ring.

Sage was in panic mode. She waved at the smoke, hoping to dissipate it, and discovered it was a lost cause. A neighbor knocked on the door and Sage grabbed her phone and raced to answer the door. As soon as she did, the smoke entered the condo hallway, setting off yet another alarm.

“It’s not a fire,” Sage cried, before her neighbor could ask. “It’s my shoes.”

“Your shoes?” the retired attorney who lived next door asked, gazing at her like she was a crazed woman. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No, sorry. It’s hard to explain.”

The flashing light and the piercing alarm made it impossible to hear what her neighbor said next. Ricky followed her into the hallway, looking anxious.

“What’s happening?” he asked, grabbing hold of her hand.

“We need to evacuate the building,” Sage told him, and led him toward the stairwell with the other residents on her floor.

Fire engines sounded in the distance as she started down the steps with Ricky close at her side.

Sage didn’t know if she’d ever be able to look her neighbors in the eyes again.

An hour later, Sage stood with the fire chief in the middle of her kitchen. The melted shoes were now part of the oven rack. A fan had been set up to help with the smoke.

“I have to say, this is a first,” the fire chief said. “Never heard of a woman storing shoes in an oven.”

Sage was unable to meet his gaze. What could she say? Living in a condo, there was never enough storage room. Her closet was minuscule. It didn’t help that Sage had a shoe habit. Seeing as she never used the oven, it seemed like wasted space. Six pairs of her best summer sandals had been ruined.

Because of the toxic fumes and smoke damage, Sage and Ricky had to evacuate the premises.

“I’m so sorry, Ricky,” Sage said, once they were situated in their downtown hotel room. Sage sat at the edge of the mattress with her hands over her face. She found it difficult not to dissolve into tears.

“It’s okay, Auntie Sage,” Ricky said, to comfort her. “You tried really hard.”

Sage removed her hands from her face. “Are you sure Santa would object to store-bought cookies?” she asked, in one final effort to convince Ricky to forgo baking the cookies themselves.