Page 28 of Cackle

“Uh, yeah. I’d imagine. You clean it yourself?”

She nods. “Mm. Sometimes I invite in some woodland creatures. They sweep. I sing.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll give you the tour some other time,” she says, “when I know it’s clean. Kitchen is this way.”

We make a left through one of the many archways. She leads me down a long, bright hallway. A collection of mirrors hangs on the walls, each a different style and shape. Some have thick decorative frames; others are simple, understated. They’re all placed in various spots along the walls. There’s no discernible pattern, but there is an order about their placement. Everything is where it’s meant to be.

“These mirrors are beautiful,” I say, trying not to stare at my own reflection. My hair is disheveled from the walk. I pluck a small leaf out of my tangled ends and quickly tuck it into my bag.

“I’ve accumulated them over the years,” she says. “Seems narcissistic to collect mirrors. But I think there’s something special about mirrors. Art that frames you. They tell you the truth, if you look hard enough, for long enough. Do I sound completely pretentious?”

“No,” I say. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

“Forgive me. I’m old,” she says. “I’ve had a lot of time to think.”

How old could she possibly be? She couldn’t be over fifty. Not possible. I need this friendship to work, mostly because she’s warm and fun and funny and I love her, but also, I need to know what products she uses.

Probably La Mer.

“The kitchen is right over here,” she says. We duck through a low doorway. We walk down two steps and through another hallway, which opens up into a giant kitchen. Literally. A kitchen for giants.

Every piece of equipment, every appliance, every utensil, is gargantuan. There’s a stove the size of a Mini Cooper. A fireplace I could walk around inside. Copper pans hang from the ceiling. The floor is alternating black and red tiles.

Sophie glides over to the counter and sets the bag of berries down, then spins around to turn the oven on.

She begins to rummage through the cabinets and procure things. Bowls. Wooden spoons. Sieves. Canisters of flour and sugar. A set of tin measuring cups. A rolling pin.

“Would you like anything? Coffee? Tea? I have some lovely floral teas,” she says.

“Sure,” I say. “What can I do? Put the water on?”

She shakes her head, and in a swift motion, she turns the stove on, shifts a copper kettle over the flame and returns to setting up on the big butcher-block island.

She makes the dough, talking me through the process as she goes. I’m watching her closely, but I’m not listening to what she’s saying. It’s too hard to pay attention. She’s so mesmerizing. The sound of her voice. The grace and precision of her movements. She presses the dough into a white ceramic pie dish, pinching along the edges.

“Now,” she says, sliding the dish into the fridge, “the berries.”

“I’m useless,” I say as she begins to stir them with sugar and the juice of two lemons. “You’re doing everything.”

“You’re good company, Annie. I’m enjoying your company.”

It’s such a nice thing to have your presence acknowledged as something of value. For a moment, everything glitters.

“What is it?” she asks. “Something on your mind?”

“I was just thinking that this is nice,” I say. “You’re fun.”

“Really?” she asks, smiling like I just named her Miss America.

“Yeah,” I say. “Why are you so surprised? You’re a very chic and fun person.”

“I don’t know,” she says, bashful. “Some people find me . . . I don’t know. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.”

I lift my literal cup of tea to her. We’re drinking rose-and-pear tea, a blend she made herself. It’s delicious. “You’re my cup of tea.”

“And you’re mine,” she says.