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“My publicist thinks it would be a great idea to put together a children’s cookbook, pair it with small kitchenware, and it’ll apparently sell like crazy.”
“Well, that sounds lovely. Why do you look like you sucked a lemon?”
“I can’t cook to save my life. Show me a pot of water, and I will find a way to burn it,” I admit.
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. What have you there?”
“Baking supplies. I’m going to attempt simple sugar cookies and homemade icing. Got me some cute little cookie cutters, and if all else fails, the pictures will be great ‘cause I’m taking them with this bad boy.” I set my grocery bag down and pull my new Nikon from my purse.
“So fancy. Look at it this way, if your food is rubbish, no one but you will know because your photos will be so stunning,” Sylvia says to cheer me up, but worry still sits heavy in my gut. If the publishing house doesn’t like my book, this could be my last gig with them, and then it’s back to square one. Part of me has considered self-publishing, and with my large trust fund, it wouldn’t be a problem, except I’m a big fat scaredy cat who’s not ready to take everything on all by myself.
“Ha-ha. Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I really need these recipes to be not only edible but easy enough a kid could make and still want to eat it.”
I take a long gulp of my delicious latte as my friend gives me a sympathetic smile. The bell over her door chimes, and she gets busy with a rush of caffeine-starved hipsters, so I wave goodbye and head up to my condo.
***
Ok. Flour, check. Salted butter softened. Hmm.
I take the stick of butter and place it on a plate, and pop it into my microwave. Taking a deep breath, I continue reading the recipe Fitzy, my landlady slash mentor, gave me to tweak. Obviously, I don’t want to copy anyone’s recipe for a recipe book, so I got to get creative. I bought some icing sugar, brown sugar, and every different color sprinkles the store had available.
Eggs. Check. Almond extract check. And Baking powder check. Is there a difference between baking soda and powder? I shrug.
Feeling a little more confident, I set to work mixing all the ingredients and folding them together. I throw in the softened butter and stir. When I have it spread out on the counter, I take another picture, then use the cute little Christmas tree cutter to shape the dough before putting the trees onto the cookie sheet. Then I slide them into the preheated oven, and when I close it up, I do a little happy dance shuffle all the way over to my waiting Christmas cocktail.
Dancing around to jingle bell rock, I enjoy the delicious taste of my homemade white Russian celebrating my victory. I jot a few notes down and then make my way upstairs to change into my favorite Christmas pajamas…for inspiration, obviously.
A few songs later, I’m walking down my stairs to check on the cookies when the fire alarms throughout my house go off…blaring so loud I have to cover my ears.
Panic sets in as I rush down the remaining stairs. Black clouds of smoke bellow up from my oven.
“Oh no!” I yell even though no one can hear me, then push the off button and grab a hand towel, waving it around like a crazy lady under the ringing alarm in my kitchen.
I vaguely hear a knock at my front door and assume my guest roommate Ivy is coming home until it continues incessantly. Oh, great, I’ve pissed off the new neighbor. I heard them moving in, but we haven’t met yet, and I was hoping introductions would be over mimosas at the pool or a friendly wave as we passed each other at the mailboxes. But with my luck, they’ll be there outside my door right now, ready to chew me out for attempting to burn the building down. Which I am not trying to do, by the way.
Pulling the door open brings a gush of warm air, and with it, some kind of holiday magic because standing in my doorway is a ghost from Christmas past. Someone I thought I would never see again.
Chapter Four
Oliver
I stand frozen in the doorway. She looks the same as I remember. Not that I could ever forget the woman. She’s been haunting my dreams since the night we met. Part of me wants to barge inside and wrap her in my arms, but this isn’t the reunion I thought we would have. I didn’t know she lived here in the same building I was just assigned. Being in hiding, locked away from the people of the world for a year, has changed me. I would be lying if I said it didn’t. I’m not as carefree or naïve anymore. But my feelings for her are the same.
A gust of wind blows behind me, almost as if it too, wants to push me through the door and into her warm body.
“Hi,” she whispers. Clearly just as surprised to see me…well, probably more since my plan has always been to find her.
God damn, she is so beautiful, and after several months of longing for her, it’s surreal that she’s really standing in front of me.
The fire alarm keeps sounding and effectively shakes me from my musings. I clear my throat.
“Hi,” I reply weakly. “Need some help?”
I point past her, indicating the alarm sounding inside.
“Oh, right.” She hurries back into the kitchen, leaving the door open. I hesitate for a moment, not wanting to assume I’m welcome.
“I was trying to bake cookies, but alas, anything involving this contraption ended up black and un-edible…inedible? Whatever. It all turned out gross,” she says with a nervous laugh, pulling a tray of something from the open oven. More smoke rises, but there doesn’t appear to be any fire, so no real emergency, which leaves me standing awkwardly at the door just watching her run around her kitchen. The cabinets are white with a teal accent, and every surface I can see seems to be decorated for Christmas.
