Secrets and Scones

by Laurel Remington

  Chapter 7

  The House Next Door

  The street is quiet as I slip out the front door. I walk up the weedy stone path to Mrs. Simpson’s house. I tell myself that it’s not really breaking and entering when there’s an old woman in the hospital and a cat that needs feeding. And a recipe book that needs returning. It’s a no-brainer, really. And if, by some chance, Mrs. Simpson is already home from the hospital, I’ll tell her I came over to look after the cat.

  No one answers when I knock on the door. The key is still under the mat. With a quick glance around to make sure no one’s watching, I let myself into Mrs. Simpson’s house.

  The first thing I see are those two yellow eyes again, shining like twin moons. The cat meows impatiently as if it’s been waiting for me and I’m late. “Hi,” I say. “You still here by yourself?” The cat swishes its tail. It gets to its feet and leads the way to the kitchen.

  I get down to business—scoping out where everything is so I can get on with my plan. Just being here again has made up my mind. I’ve found a special little recipe book and the perfect kitchen. And now…

  I’m going to cook something.

  One by one, I open the cupboards. It’s like exploring a supermarket baking aisle. There are dozens of little jars and cans of herbs and spices. There are bags of flour: stone-ground, buckwheat, spelt, malted wheat grain; and sugars: demerara, powdered, icing, muscovado—who knew there were so many different kinds? Even though everything is labeled, it’s still kind of overwhelming. The cat rubs against my leg and stands in front of one of the cupboards.

  “Okay, okay, I get it. You’re hungry again.” I open the cupboard and find a large supply of cat food. I dig around some more until I spot a can opener in a drawer, along with a complete set of baking utensils and electric appliances, most of which I have no idea what to do with, and some of which look like scary dentist instruments.

  Once the cat has its head contentedly in its bowl, I take out the little recipe book and set it on the book stand. It practically falls open to the recipe for cinnamon scones. I read over the instructions: Mix everything together, then roll out the dough, and cut out little triangle shapes that are to be dusted with more cinnamon and sugar. Then they’re supposed to rise and become all fluffy in the oven. It sounds straightforward enough, but suddenly I feel nervous.

  What business do I have breaking and entering and using Mrs. Simpson’s things? And worse, what makes me think I can possibly bake anything? I’ve never really tried before, except once. I wanted to surprise Mom with a cake for her birthday, so I bought a cake mix at the corner store. It turned out I didn’t have enough eggs, and the butter was as hard as a rock. The mixture ended up all powdery and lumpy. Then I left it in the oven too long, and it came out charred and smoky. I threw it in the trash before Mom even knew I’d tried.

  I take a deep breath. I’m here now, so I may as well give it a try. Most of the ingredients I need—flour, butter, baking powder, salt—are already sitting on the counter, along with a jar of Ceylon cinnamon. Strange that I didn’t notice them last night. It’s as if Mrs. Simpson had been getting ready to bake scones. It makes me feel a little creepy, almost like she’s here with me in the kitchen, looking over my shoulder, making sure I do it right. I peek quickly behind me. There’s no one there.

  “Silly,” I say out loud. Everything seems normal again. Finished eating, the cat curls up in its basket next to the oven and begins licking its paws. I wash my hands and grab a rose-patterned apron from a hook by the fridge. Before I can lose my nerve, I put it over my head and tie it around my waist. I’m ready.

  I’ve never been one of those kids who liked playing in the sand, making mud pies, finger painting, or generally making messes. So, that might be why I had never guessed how satisfying it could be to measure out ingredients, put them into a bowl, then stir them together. Peering out of its basket, the cat keeps an eye on my progress.

  At first the mixture is lumpy and dry, and all my worries come back that I’ve done something wrong. I think about adding more milk, but I decide, just this once, to trust the recipe. I keep on stirring. The smell of cinnamon goes to my head, and for some reason I feel happier and calmer than I have in a long time. When the dough is a soft mass in the bowl, I sprinkle some flour on the counter to start rolling it out.

  But before I can work on the dough, disaster strikes. The doorbell rings, and then a key turns in the lock.

  Chapter 8

  A Taste of Cinnamon

  Someone’s here! Panicking, I look around. I could run out the back door, but I’d be trapped in the backyard, and besides, the kitchen’s a mess and it’s obvious what I’ve been doing. The cat jumps up from its basket as if it’s trying to figure out how to cover for me. I pull off the apron and start trying to clean up—for all the good it’s going to do. And then I hear a woman’s voice: “Look, I’m sorry if you’re bored, but I have to do this. You said you wanted to come. Next time, stay at home.”

  I don’t hear a reply because the front door closes and something—a purse maybe?—thumps to the floor. Then there’s the sound of heels clicking in the hallway. I look around for a place to hide—the broom closet? The fireplace? Inside the oven?

  The knob on the door turns. I stand there paralyzed, my heart thundering. The cat comes up beside me, the fur on its back standing up. The door opens. I come face-to-face with just about the last person I was expecting to see…

  Violet.

  “Oh, you scared me!” Her hands fly to her mouth. “I…I didn’t know anyone was here.”

  “Um, yeah.” I smile through my teeth. “I was just…just—”

  “Violet? Is there someone in there?”

  Frantically, I gesture at the cat.

  “No, Aunt Hilda. Just a cat.” Violet gives a fake-sounding sneeze for effect.

  “All right,” Aunt Hilda says. “I’m going to start with the upstairs. Don’t touch anything, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  The high heels click up the stairs.

  “Thanks for that,” I say. My heart slows to a fast jog.

  “What are you doing here?” She eyes the kitchen and the mess I’ve made.

  “I was making scones,” I say sheepishly. “Cinnamon.”

  She sniffs the air. “It smells good in here. Not cinnamon, though, but something else?”

  “I don’t know—butter maybe? Or the dough? But dough doesn’t really smell like anything, does it?”

  “It’s nice.” She smiles. “But you don’t live here, right? My aunt said the house belongs to some old woman.”

  “Mrs. Simpson,” I say. “Rosemary. She’s a neighbor. We live next door.”

  “Oh. It’s cool that she lets you use her kitchen.”

  “Yeah…it is.”

  “Violet?” The aunt’s voice comes closer. “Did you say something?”

  “No, Aunt Hilda,” Violet calls out.

  “Okay, but I need to see the…”

  The aunt appears at the kitchen door, the clicking of her heels coming to an abrupt stop. She’s about Mom’s age but much taller in her heels, and she has the same blue-black hair as Violet. She’s wearing a stylish gray suit and a floral scarf.

  “…kitchen,” she trails off, her mouth gaping open. “Wow,” she says. “It’s…big.” She glances around. “What a fantastic space. And look at the oven—it’s enormous.” She gestures toward the cast-iron oven that’s as big as a small car. It was a double-wide with several stoves and hot plates.

  “It’s huge,” I agree.

  Her eyes come to rest on me. “And who are you?”

  “I’m Scarlett. From next door. I…uh, came over to feed the cat.”

  “Looks like you’re feeding yourself too.” Frowning, she gestures at the mess of flour and dry ingredients sprinkled on the counter and the floor. “If you’re here without permission,
then you’d better be gone when Mr. Kruffs arrives.”

  “Mr. Kruffs?” The name sounds vaguely familiar. “Who’s he?”

  Violet’s aunt sizes me up as if she’s debating whether to answer. “Emory Kruffs. He’s running for city council.” She wanders over and examines the oven. “You may have seen his name on posters.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m a real estate agent. He’s arranged for me to give him an assessment of the house. He’s supposed to meet me here.”

  “Is it his house?” I ask.

  “Well.” She frowns. “Not exactly. I think he’s the nephew of the owner.”

  “Rosemary Simpson,” I say. “She’s the woman who lives here. Do you know if she’s okay?”

  She shrugs. “No idea. Sorry.”

  “Well, someone needs to feed the cat until she gets back,” I say firmly. “I mean, I’m sure Mrs. Simpson wouldn’t want it to starve. And I live right next door.”

  “The cat…” she muses. “I see your point, but if Mr. Kruffs sees this mess, then I don’t know. I wouldn’t let him catch you here—”

  “I was just leaving,” I say. “That is, after I cut out the scones and put them in the oven.” I wince. “And, you know…um…take them out again. Is that okay?”

  “Cool,” Violet says. “Can I watch?” She looks doubtfully at her aunt.

  Something beeps loudly, startling us all. A text message. Aunt Hilda takes out her phone and stares at the screen. “This must be your lucky day,” she says. “Mr. Kruffs just canceled our meeting.”

  Violet and I look at each other and grin.

  Aunt Hilda checks the time. “I’m going to finish looking around and draft the email for the assessment,” she says. “You two had better make sure this kitchen is spotless when you’re done.” Her heels click away to the front room where she switches on a table lamp.

  I turn to Violet. “Thanks for staying,” I say. “I mean, it was kind of creepy being here by myself. Especially if that Mr. Kruffs had turned up.”

  “No problem,” Violet says. “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do. And I’ve always liked scones—that is, if you’re sharing.” Her smile grows wider.

  “I’ll think about it.” I laugh. We both look into the bowl of mixed-up dough. I breathe in deeply. It smells delicious and…doughy. I put the soft ball on the counter and gently roll it out. The rolling pin sticks a little to the dough, so I sprinkle more flour over it, trying to look as though I know what I’m doing.

  “Did your mom teach you how to cook?” Violet sounds almost impressed.

  “No.” My mind whirls, trying to think of something cool—like my grandma was a Cake Wars finalist—or anything like that. But I don’t want to lie to Violet. I point to the recipe book. “Actually, I’ve never made scones before,” I say. “I’m teaching myself.” Flustered, I turn away from her and concentrate on cutting the dough into little triangle shapes. I check the recipe again and sprinkle a sweet-smelling mixture of cinnamon and sugar on the tops.

  “You’re kidding.” Violet giggles in amazement. “You have cooked before, though, right?”

  I stand a little straighter. “Well, I guess I have. I can make a grilled cheese sandwich. Does that count?”

  “Yes, it does! I can’t even make toast without burning it.”

  “Well, I can barely even plug in the toaster!”

  We look at each other and both start laughing. It’s not as if it’s really that funny, but I’m so out of practice my side begins to hurt. I get the idea that maybe it’s the same for her.

  Violet helps me cut out the rest of the scones, and we put them on a buttered baking tray. As we work, I tell her about the ambulance taking Mrs. Simpson away, and about the cat, and how I broke into the house and found the recipe book and the kitchen. “I had no idea it was here,” I say. “Right on the other side of our house.”

  “It’s awesome,” Violet says. She picks up the recipe book and flips through it. “And this book—I can’t believe someone took the time to write all this out by hand.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I wonder who the little cook was.”

  Violet reads the inscription inside the cover. “And the secret ingredient… What’s that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She goes back to the page with the scone recipe. “Well, I can see why you wanted to try making these scones,” she says. “They look so delicious.”

  “Yeah.” My brow furrows in concentration. We’ve cut out all the, scones and I can’t put off any longer the thing I’ve been dreading—tackling the oven.

  “Ever used one of these things before?” I ask futilely.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever even seen one.” We both burst out laughing again. She helps me carry the trays over.

  I look inside one of the cast-iron doors. Luckily, there are some wire racks—it looks like a normal oven once you open it. “Look,” Violet says, “there’s a temperature dial. What should I put it on?”

  I put the trays down and check the recipe in the notebook. “Put it on four hundred degrees.” I decide not to spoil the moment by mentioning we were supposed to preheat the oven. Oh well. “They should be ready in about twenty minutes.”

  “I can’t wait to try one,” Violet says.

  My stomach growls in agreement.

  Chapter 9

  The Scent of Childhood

  When I get home, I’m surprised to see Mom sitting at the table helping Kelsie read her phonics book. “Where have you been?” she asks me without looking up. “No, Kels, there’s an l—it’s ‘pool,’ not ‘poop.’”

  “I went to the library to do some homework.”

  “Oh.” She sounds disappointed. There’s very little blogging material in me going to the library, but I’m sure that my sister’s “pool” versus “poop” confusion will figure prominently in the next post. “Well, next time let me know, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And I hope you’re hungry because I made baked macaroni and cheese. It’s on top of the stove.”

  “Really?” I raise an eyebrow. Even though I’m completely stuffed with the most delicious, fluffy cinnamon scones I could ever imagine eating—let alone making myself—I feel kind of bummed I missed what, in our house at least, passes for a real meal.

  “I’ll have a little,” I say. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were cooking.”

  “I wasn’t going to.” She leans forward on her elbows. “I mean, me? Cook?” She gives a little laugh. “But it was the oddest thing…”

  “What?”

  “I was in my office, and there was this smell.” Her brow furrows. “Some kind of spice—cinnamon, maybe. It reminded me of something. I don’t know what really. Something from my childhood.”

  “Your childhood?” I try not to sound surprised. One thing Mom never talks or blogs about is her childhood, before she got to her teenage years anyway. Sometimes I wonder if she was ever my age.

  She shrugs. “I guess a neighbor must have been cooking. It was as if I was back in my grandma’s kitchen. They do say that smell is one of the strongest senses for triggering memories.” She stares at the oven for a second.

  “That’s interesting,” I say. “What was your grandma like? You never really talk about her.”

  She blinks quickly. “Oh, I don’t know.” She waves away my question. “I guess my nose is just extra sensitive today. You’d think I was pregnant or something.” She stands and puts the kettle on, twisting her hands in what I recognize as her I’ve just thought of something to blog about way. “I mean, when I was pregnant with you girls, I was throwing up left and right. For all nine months of it, each time. Everything tasted like salt and”—she laughs—“seemed to smell like dog poop!”

  “Mommy, you said poop!” Kelsie says triumphantly.

  “Oops, I meant ‘pool’ of cou
rse!” Mom points back to the book, and she and Kelsie both giggle. Even I have to smile, though we are all far too old for that kind of joke. I serve myself a small bowl of macaroni and cheese, mulling over what Mom said about how she could smell the cooking through the wall. It’s kind of odd she’s never mentioned it before. I mean, before her accident, Mrs. Simpson must have cooked all the time.

  I sit at the table with the bowl and take a bite. I’m so surprised I almost choke. “It’s good, Mom,” I say.

  “I made the sauce myself.”

  “You did?”

  She narrows her eyes. “Don’t look so surprised. Believe it or not, Scarlett, not everything is made in the microwave.”

  • • •

  Later that night, as I’m lying on my bed staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling, I think about everything that’s happened over the last two days—from the yowling cat, to the kitchen and cookbook—from meeting Violet unexpectedly, to Mom’s homemade cheese sauce.

  Most of all, though, I think about making the scones. My mouth waters as I remember their comforting doughy taste. Because I hadn’t preheated the oven, we left them in for much longer than they should have needed. I was kind of worried they would be burnt. But when we took them out, they were nice and golden brown on the bottom. To me, they tasted perfect.

  They looked perfect too—Violet even snapped a few pics of them on her phone.

  She and I each ate two, and Violet’s aunt ate one. I wrapped the rest up and stored them in a plastic container; they’re still downstairs in my bag, fourteen of them. I feel a little bit mean for not sharing them with Kelsie and Mom, but I don’t want to explain where they came from.

  When I hear Mom’s bedroom door close, I tiptoe downstairs, unwrap the scones, and leave two of them out on a plate on the kitchen table. Let Mom and her followers try to figure out who made them. She’ll never guess in a million years it was her boring daughter. I climb back in my bed and drift off to sleep, still breathing in the phantom smell of cinnamon.

  Chapter 10