The kitchen door opened and closed, and Amy looked up at her new husband. It felt strange seeing him in daylight after what they’d done in the dark the night before, but she refused to look away. “Hungry?” she asked.
He sniffed the air and washed his hands quickly. “I am as hungry as any man who hasn’t had a decent meal in a year.”
Amy shook her head. “From now on, we’ll shoot for decent meals three times per day.” As he sat, she put his breakfastin front of him and served her own. “Does anyone else need anything before I start my own meal?”
When no one responded, Amy took her plate to the table and ate. Nothing tasted better than bacon and coffee in the mornings.
“What do you have planned for the day?” Tim asked.
“I’m going to get laundry on the line, bake cookies with Beatrice, bake a cake for dessert tonight, and I’ll figure out a meal I can make. Do some mending and cleaning as I have time.”
“That sounds like a lot right there. George and I are usually home for lunch around noon, and supper around five. I prefer to milk at five in the morning and five in the evening.”
“Sounds good to me,” she said. “I’ll make sure I have meals ready at those times.”
Within minutes, both Tim and George had finished eating and were out the door. Amy took the laundry that had been brought down, quickly realizing that Beatrice hadn’t brought hers down, but she wasn’t sure if the girl had been in the kitchen when she’d asked for laundry.
Amy hurried up the stairs to the door that was closed. It had to be Beatrice’s room. She knocked and waited. Beatrice came to the door, the same sullen look on her face that had been there at breakfast, but it was obvious she’d been crying. “What?”
“I need your laundry. Anything dirty or that needs mending.”
Beatrice turned around, walked into her room, and came back with a huge mound of clothing. “There. Happy now?”
“I’m always happy,” Amy said with a smile, taking the laundry.
Doing the laundry took a lot longer than Amy had anticipated. She’d expected it to take a fraction of time it took at the foundling home, but this family had a lot more clothes per person than the orphans did, and it seemed everything they owned was dirty.
As soon as it was all on the line, she fixed a simple lunch. She served it at the table in the dining room, hoping that was where they ate their lunches. School was out for the summer, and she was grateful for time with the children.
When the lunch dishes were done, and her two small helpers were off to play, Amy told them to ask Beatrice to come to the kitchen.
Beatrice scrunched her nose as Amy laid out the ingredients on the kitchen table. “I don’t see what’s so great about cookies,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “And I doubt you can bake them as well as Mama did.”
Amy brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “Well, every batch is unique, just like the person who bakes them,” she replied with an unwavering smile. “Why don’t we give it a try together? You might find you have a knack for it.”
“Me? Help?” Beatrice scoffed, eyeing the sugar and flour sacks. “I’d probably just mess it up.”
“Everyone starts somewhere,” Amy said, picking up a measuring cup and offering it to Beatrice. “How about you measure the flour while I get the eggs? We’ll take it one step at a time.”
Reluctantly, Beatrice uncrossed her arms and took the cup, her fingers brushing against Amy’s. “Fine, but only because you look like you need all the help you can get,” she muttered.
“Thank you, Beatrice. I’m sure you’ll be a tremendous help.” Amy’s voice was earnest, her eyes kind. She guided Beatrice’s hand to the flour sack. “We need two cups, leveled off just right.”
Beatrice dipped the cup into the flour. She squinted, trying to level the top as Amy had instructed.
“See? You’re a natural,” Amy encouraged, her tone light and cheery. “Now, could you pass me the butter? We’ll need to cream it with the sugar next.”
With a hesitant nod, Beatrice slid the block of butter across the table. The kitchen was warm, the air filled with the scent of potential sweets. She watched Amy work the mixture and found herself leaning in, curiosity edging out her reluctance.
“All right, your turn again,” Amy said, handing Beatrice a wooden spoon. “Do you want to stir for a bit?”
“Sure,” Beatrice replied, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “But if this turns out bad, it’s not my fault.”
“I’ll take any blame needed,” Amy said. “But I have a feeling these cookies are going to be something special, just like us.”
Beatrice’s arm moved in steady circles, stirring the butter and sugar mixture while Amy greased the cookie sheets. The clinking of the spoon against the bowl set a rhythm in the cozy kitchen.
“Does it always take this long to cream together?” Beatrice asked, glancing over her shoulder at Amy with an impatience that was beginning to give way to intrigue.
