Secrets and Scones

by Laurel Remington

  “I see you’ve got your blog up and running,” he says. “I think it’s a great idea.”

  “Well, I did what you said. But I still need to figure out all the different pages, and I’m not sure the layout is quite right—”

  He beams at me, and my heart almost stops. “You’ve already got twelve followers. Not bad for less than a day, don’t you think?”

  “Twelve?” I lean over and scroll down the screen. The little counter at the bottom that Nick inserted shows twenty-two people have visited my blog, and twelve of them have signed up to follow it.

  “It’s real, then.” My fingers on the keyboard begin to tingle with something like excitement. It strikes me that this is what Mom must feel every time she makes a new connection with a total stranger.

  “Yeah,” Nick says. “It is.” He helps me add the four additional pages: “Yummy Cakes and Bakes,” “Healthy Bites for Home,” “Home-Cooked Dinners,” and “Recipes for Sharing,” and add some boxes for uploading photos.

  “Now,” he says, when all the pages are up. “There are some things we can do to increase your following. Sign you up for some other social media sites and then link everything together. You’ve got to build your online presence—strike while the iron’s hot.”

  “Okay.” I sit there watching him as he goes about setting things up for me. I know I ought to be paying more attention to the stuff he’s doing, but instead I’m transfixed by his long fingers typing expertly on the keyboard, and his chocolate-brown eyes as he concentrates on clicking, linking, adding icons, and creating my profile as the “Little Cook” on other sites.

  “What password do you want?” He turns to me, and I sit back, startled.

  “Oh…” I think for a minute. “How about ‘buttercream’?”

  “‘Buttercream’ it is.” He types it in. “Speaking of which, are you still okay for cooking on Monday after school?”

  “Monday?”

  “My mom’s cake.” He flexes his fingers. “I can’t wait to get started on it. I can count on the Secret Cooking Club, can’t I?”

  “Of course.” I smile. “After all, I owe you one.”

  “Well, I’m happy to accept payment in baked goods.” He gives me a sly little smile.

  “So it’s true then—the way to a boy’s heart is through his stomach…?”

  “Something like that.” He holds my gaze for a second.

  My insides quietly melt. OMG.

  The Secret Cooking Club

  October 10

  Thanks to everyone who’s signed up to follow my new blog. I look forward to cooking lots of delicious things together.

  Last time I told you about my neighbor—she had an accident and was taken to the hospital. I went to her house to feed her cat and found a very old, very special handwritten-recipe book dedicated to “my little cook”—which turned out to be her daughter. So, I thought, “Why not give cooking a try?”

  The first thing I made was cinnamon scones. They were so fluffy and spicy and delicious—you just HAVE to try them. Here’s the recipe, by the way.

  Oh, and be careful with the oven and the knife. You might need a grown-up to help.

  Cinnamon Scones

  Makes 14 to 16 scones

  • 3 cups self-rising flour

  • Big pinch of salt

  • 7 tablespoons butter

  • 1/4 cup sugar

  • 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  • 1 cup milk

  For the tops

  • 5 teaspoons sugar

  • 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  Preheat the oven to 425°F and lightly butter a baking sheet. Sift the flour and salt into a mixing bowl, add the butter, and rub it in with your fingertips until the mixture looks like breadcrumbs. Stir in the sugar and cinnamon, then add the milk, and stir the mixture together quickly using a rubber spatula.

  As soon as the mixture comes together into a soft dough, put it onto a lightly floured work surface and divide the dough in half. Try not to handle the dough any more than necessary. Lightly shape each half into a block shape, then very gently roll each half into a rectangle about 9 inches long, 3 inches wide and 3/4 inch thick. Using a large chef’s knife, cut each rectangle from one end to the other into triangles that measure about 21/2 inches across the base. Transfer the triangles to the baking sheet.

  To make the topping, mix the sugar and cinnamon, and sprinkle the mixture generously over the tops. Put the tray into the hot oven, on a middle to high shelf, and bake for 10 to 12 minutes, until the scones are puffed up and turning golden on top. Place the tray on a wire rack to cool a little.

  You can eat them warm or leave them to cool completely, but they are best if you eat them on the same day. My favorite way to eat them is warm, cut in half, spread with a little butter, and sprinkled with leftover cinnamon sugar.

  Oh, and definitely don’t forget to preheat the oven. It works much better that way.

  Thanks for reading this, and I hope you enjoy making the scones. And maybe you can do what my friend and I did—we left them in the cafeteria at school without telling anybody who made them. Just say: “Free samples from the Secret Cooking Club.”

  Happy baking!

  The Little Cook

  Chapter 37

  The Showdown

  When I’m finished writing, I upload one of Violet’s photos of the scones we made. So far, blogging is kind of fun—not as fun as cooking, but I can see why Mom likes doing it. It’s a way to connect with people—something that seems a little easier to do on the internet than in real life.

  As I look around my bedroom, I think about how much my life has changed since I started the Secret Cooking Club, not to mention a day ago when I sat in the library and actually flirted—flirted!—with Nick Farr. And even though he had to leave to go to his soccer practice, knowing that I’ll see him again makes all the good things seem real.

  • • •

  Monday afternoon, as I walk home from school, I’m still excited (and only a little nervous) at the prospect of Nick joining the club. I just know we can make his mom an amazing birthday cake. But as I turn on to my street, my good feeling fizzles away. The black Mercedes is parked in front of Mrs. Simpson’s house—it’s Mr. Kruffs!

  I quicken my steps as I head toward the sound of loud voices coming through Mrs. Simpson’s open door.

  “This is the last straw, Rosemary. I can’t go on worrying like this.”

  “But I phoned you on Friday. You didn’t have to come here, and you don’t have to worry about me.”

  “But I do worry—you know that. I need to know you’re safe. Now get your things and come with me.”

  “No, I won’t. I’m not going anywhere.”

  My heart jolts in my chest. Mom said she would take care of Mrs. Simpson and deal with Mr. Kruffs. Where is she?

  Then I remember. She had a meeting with Superdrug today over the final packaging of her Mom Survival Kit. And now Mrs. Simpson is all alone to face him!

  I march up the steps to the house.

  “It’s for your own good, you know that! I’m just trying to help. Please come and have a look. It’s a lovely place, I swear—”

  “What’s going on here?” I try to make my voice sound older.

  Mrs. Simpson is slumped on her sofa, her nephew pacing the room in front of her. Her face is a mask of defiance.

  “You?” Mr. Kruffs gives me a glare that could melt glass. But just then, I have an idea. I reach into my pocket and take out Mom’s old phone. Before anyone even moves, I’ve snapped a photo.

  “Yes, me.” I smile grimly. “Scarlett.”

  “What are you doing with that?” He nods at the phone in my hand.

  “Just a picture that the ‘senior vote’ might be interested in,” I say. “Since you’re acting for your aunt’s own good like you
said.”

  Rosemary lifts her cane almost like a thumbs-up gesture. “Scarlett,” she says. “You always seem to be in the right place at the right time.”

  “I try.” I grin at her.

  Mr. Kruffs checks his watch. “This is ludicrous, Rosemary. You know I have to travel out of town tomorrow.”

  “She’s not stopping you,” I say, trying not to let my voice squeak with nerves.

  “Stay out of this.” He waves his hand like I’m a pesky fly.

  “But Emory…” Mrs. Simpson’s voice gains strength, “I’ve been trying to tell you. You don’t have to worry about me anymore. I’ve found people to look after me. New friends. Scarlett and her mother.”

  “Oh? Friends that set your kitchen on fire? And I don’t see any mother—where is she then?” he says. “When I came here just now, you were out wandering in the street. Why did your ‘new friends’ let you do that?”

  “I wasn’t out wandering,” she protests. “I was coming back from the corner store. I needed more flour—we’re baking a cake.”

  “Baking a cake?” Mr. Kruffs dark eyes look ready to pop. “Since when do you cook again, Rosemary? I thought all that died with Marianne.”

  She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Her lips begin to quiver.

  “That’s so cruel!” I blurt out, stepping forward. “Talking about her daughter like that. That’s just awful.”

  “All right, all right.” He backs down. “I shouldn’t have said that. But you don’t seem to have a clue why I’m here.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “Mrs. Simpson told you to go—so why are you still here?”

  “Please stop, both of you,” Mrs. Simpson says sternly. “This isn’t helping.”

  Mr. Kruffs and I both look at her, then at each other. In an instant, he pulls himself back into politician mode. I swallow hard, trying to think about how Gretchen would act.

  “You seem to think I’m some kind of monster,” he says to me, his voice quieter, “when really all I want to do is get my aunt somewhere safe. I called in a few favors and found her a place at a fantastic assisted-living home. It’s only about fifteen minutes from here. She’ll have her own room, with around-the-clock care. There are lots of social events, and even a kitchen where she could cook if she wants. This is her one chance—places like this don’t open up very often. I only want her to go over there this evening and have a quick look. If she likes it and then sells the house, she could be settled there for the rest of her life. She wouldn’t have to worry about anything ever again.”

  I breathe out slowly. “She doesn’t want to go. She wants to stay here, in her own home. And we’re going to look after her. Between Mom and me and my friends, and maybe hiring a caretaker to help out—we can do it. And she’s going to look after us too. Kind of like a grandma.”

  Mrs. Simpson hobbles forward and takes her nephew’s arm. “It’s true, Emory,” she says. “Catch your train tomorrow and don’t worry about me. I’ll phone you, and you can join us for dinner sometime later this week.”

  He shakes his head in temporary defeat. “All right, I’ll go…for now. But I think you’re all living in a fantasyland.”

  I step aside as he charges out the door and slams it behind him.

  • • •

  It takes me a second to realize I’m shaking. I steady myself against the door frame. Rosemary sinks back on to the sofa like a tired, wounded animal. We look at each other.

  “He’s awful to you,” I gulp.

  She closes her eyes and rubs her temples. “He only wants to do the right thing,” she says. “But I’m so tired of fighting. Maybe I should just—”

  “No, Mrs. Simpson, don’t give up. You can’t. It’s too bad Mom wasn’t here. She would have straightened him out.”

  “You did a pretty good job yourself.” She opens her eyes. The fire seems to be relit in them.

  “Thanks.” I smile. “And don’t you worry about a thing. I’ve got this.” I hold up the phone. “Evidence that he’s bullying you. He won’t want that getting out.”

  She squeezes my hand. “Keep it if you like, but I don’t think you’ll need it. Now, where are those friends of yours?”

  I check my watch. “They should be here any minute,” I say. “And by the way, that new member I told you about is going to be joining us tonight. His name is Nick. Are we still okay to help him make a cake for his mom?”

  “By all means,” Mrs. Simpson says, giving me a little wink. “There’s no reason why a boy shouldn’t make a cake, or benefit from what else you’re learning if he’s interested. Though in my experience, we’d better start tripling the recipes…”

  Right on cue there’s a knock at the door. My heart lurches for a moment as I worry that maybe Mr. Kruffs has come back. To my relief, I open the door and find it’s the Secret Cooking Club there in force: Violet, Gretchen, and Alison—and standing behind them, Nick Farr. “Hi, Scarlett,” he says. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I am now.”

  Chapter 38

  Hundreds and Thousands

  “Wow, this place is amazing,” Nick says, on entering Rosemary’s Kitchen.

  “Thank you, young man,” Mrs. Simpson says. She smiles at him and then at me, a twinkle in her eye. “Now, I understand that today we will be baking cakes.”

  “Yeah,” Nick says. “It’s for my mom. She’s turning forty.”

  “A spring chicken,” Mrs. Simpson says.

  “Mom went to art school before she had kids. She used to be a painter. I’m thinking we could make a cake with lots of different colored layers. Is that kind of thing possible?”

  Mrs. Simpson beams. “I’m glad I bought two extra bags of flour if that’s what you want.” She waves her cane. “And if you want color, try the bottom cupboard by the oven. I’m sure this young woman”—she points her stick at Violet—“will be happy to help you with the decorating.”

  Smiling proudly at the compliment from our teacher, Violet goes to get the icing colors.

  We mix, color, and bake, mix, color, and bake. Six layers in different flavors and rainbow colors, three separate cakes. A big cake for Nick’s mom, a small cake for us, and a big rectangular rainbow cake for school. It’s hard work, and even Nick the star soccer player is sweating before long. The first layers come out of the oven to cool, and Mrs. Simpson oversees the decoration assembly line led by Violet and Alison. They’ve made three different kinds of icing—fondant, royal, and buttercream, and have filled at least a dozen different piping bags to decorate the cakes. Rosemary’s Kitchen looks like a cross between an artist’s studio and a fancy bakery. I take one set of cake pans to the sink to wash them out.

  “Here, let me help with that,” Nick says.

  “Sure,” I say, handing him a cake pan.

  “I can’t believe how much fun this is.” He picks up a sponge and scrubs the pan. “It’s kind of like science class and my junior chemistry set all rolled into one.”

  “It is fun,” I say. “And I’m so glad you joined us.”

  Just then, our sudsy fingers touch under the water, and my whole body starts to tingle. Nick looks at me, and I blush. The moment is over, but it happened. Me, touching a boy’s hand!

  Two hours later, our special cakes are finally finished. We cut open our small cake, and everyone marvels at the rainbow layers in vivid colors. And more importantly, it tastes delicious.

  Nick has brought his camera, and when we’re done sampling our creations, he sets it on the automatic timer. We all cluster behind the table around Mrs. Simpson. The cakes look fantastic—white icing, decorated with rows and swirls of rainbow icing, glitter flower petals, and multicolored sprinkles called “nonpareils.”

  “Smile!” Nick says. The camera flashes. We’re all sticky and messy and happy, and there are sprinkles everywhere—hundreds and thousands of them. />
  “You girls—and boy—have a real flair for baking,” Mrs. Simpson says. It’s high praise coming from her, and we all look at each other and smile. The problems of the day seem long banished into the cloudy night outside.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow to collect the one for school,” I say.

  “Are you selling it?” Mrs. Simpson asks.

  “No,” Violet says. “We’ll give it away. Free samples from the Secret Cooking Club.” She smiles.

  “You have a good heart,” Mrs. Simpson says. “All of you.”

  “Thanks,” I say. At that moment I feel as though I can do anything.

  • • •

  When I get home that night, I find Mom upstairs in her room. She’s sound asleep, and while she’s kicked off her shoes on to the floor, she’s still dressed in a beige linen suit, slightly wrinkled.

  I kiss her forehead, and she stirs in her sleep. “Scarlett?” she murmurs.

  “Yes, Mom, it’s me.”

  Her eyes open. “I’m sorry I wasn’t downstairs earlier. I was just so tired.”

  “That’s okay. I texted you that I was going to be late too.”

  “Oh, I should have checked. I guess I’m not very good at being a mom.”

  “It’s okay, Mom.” I take her hand and give it a quick squeeze. “How was your meeting with Superdrug?”

  “Good, thanks for asking. They liked my ideas for the marketing campaign, and they’re going to run with it.”

  “Great, Mom.” I let go of her hand and turn to leave.

  “How’s Rosemary? Did you see her?”

  “Um, she’s fine.” I go over to the bed and sit on it. “But Mr. Kruffs came over. He was really angry—a total bully. I tried to help Mrs. Simpson stand up to him, but it was really hard.”

  Mom props herself up on one elbow and pushes her hair from her face. “I should have been here. Rosemary needs someone to watch over her. But…” She sighs. “I don’t even spend enough time with you and your sister. How can I look after Rosemary too?” She breathes out wearily. “I had no business promising her anything really; it might mean I’ve only gone and made things worse.”