“Patience is key in baking,” Amy replied, wiping her hands on her apron. “Just like when I was at the foundling home. We’d all gather ‘round, each taking turns, telling stories while we waited for our turn to mix.”
“Sounds...fun,” Beatrice said, though the word seemed foreign on her lips.
“It was,” Amy smiled, watching the younger girl work. “We didn’t have much, but those moments made us feel like we had everything.”
“Everything?” Beatrice repeated, her voice softening.
“Yep, every laugh, every burnt cookie—it was ours. Made the place feel like home.”
The wooden spoon paused mid-stir as Beatrice mulled over Amy’s words. Then, with a slight shrug, she resumed her task. “What else did you bake?”
“Everything from bread to biscuits. But cookies? They were my favorite.” Amy’s eyes twinkled with the memories. “They were easy enough for us to try out different things—raisins, nuts, sometimes even bits of candy if we were lucky.”
“Did they ever turn out strange?” Beatrice’s lips curled into a genuine smile.
“Strange and wonderful,” Amy laughed. “Like the time we mixed in too much salt instead of sugar. We couldn’t stop laughing, even though they were awful.”
“Guess that means these could be worse.” Beatrice glanced down at the dough with a new sense of possibility.
“Exactly,” Amy agreed, rolling up her sleeves. “Now, how about we add some cinnamon? Gives them a nice warmth.”
“Sure,” Beatrice nodded, reaching for the spice herself. “How much?”
“Let’s start with a teaspoon and see how we feel.”
Amy handed Beatrice a wooden spoon, the handle worn smooth from years of use. “Here, why don’t you do the honors? You need to spoon the cookies onto the pan.”
“Like this?” Beatrice asked, her fingers curling around the spoon as she put a spoonful of dough onto the pan.
“Perfect,” Amy praised, watching the girl’s careful movements. She leaned back against the counter, observing Beatrice come alive in the warmth of the kitchen. “You’ve got a good touch. Your mama must have spent a lot of time with you in the kitchen.”
Beatrice paused, her eyes lingering on the golden batter. “She did...before.” Her voice trailed off, lost in the bittersweet tang of memories.
“Before?”
“Before she got sick.” Beatrice dropped her gaze, focusing intently on the mixing bowl.
Amy reached out, laying a gentle hand on Beatrice’s shoulder. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for you.”
Beatrice shrugged. “It was fine. I mean, I had to learn to help with my sisters and all.”
“Fine isn’t the same as easy, though, is it?” Amy’s question hung softly between them.
“Nothing’s been easy.” Beatrice said.
“Change never is,” Amy said, her voice a soothing balm. “But sometimes, it brings something good too. Like new friends, or...new family.”
“Is that what we are now? Family?” There was hope mixed with the skepticism in Beatrice’s tone.
“If you want us to be,” Amy replied earnestly. “I know I’m not your mama, Beatrice, and I don’t aim to replace her. But I’d like to think she’d be happy knowing her girls were loved and cared for.”
“Maybe.” A single tear rolled down Beatrice’s cheek before she hastily wiped it away.
“Hey,” Amy said gently, tilting Beatrice’s chin up to meet her eyes. “It’s okay to miss her. And it’s okay to be scared. But I promise, you’re not alone anymore.”
“Promise?” The word was a whisper.
“Cross my heart.”
