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“When?” I asked, hating that I sounded pushy. But damn it, he’d put me in this situation.
“Soon.” His tone was tinged with finality—the topic was closed.
I believed he would follow through, but his idea of “soon” might be much different from mine.Damn it.
“Okay,” I said, keeping my tone light. I’d let it go for another few days to give him a chance to keep his word.And then what?
***
CARMEN GASPED ANDknocked Stephanie’s hand away from the mixing bowl, causing white powder to fly everywhere. Luckily, I was just outside the range of the chalky dust.
“Eeep!” Stephanie shrieked. Her eyes wide, she stared at Carmen, still gripping the offending tablespoon.
“Sorry!” Carmen didn’t look the least bit apologetic. “But there’s a big difference between baking powder and baking soda.”
Stephanie peered down at the recipe she had pulled up on her phone then at the containers of baking supplies. “Well, that’s just stupid. The names are similar, and they look almost identical.”
Carmen shrugged. “I didn’t name them.”
Stephanie ran the back of her hand over her forehead, leaving a streak of white powder. “Whew. I almost messed that up again.”
Over the past several days, Carmen had been giving Stephanie baking lessons. Stephanie had gotten it in her head that she wanted to bake Phil a birthday cake next month instead of ordering from the gourmet bakery like she normally did.
“It’s an easy mistake to make,” Carmen assured her.
I took a sip of wine. “It might be easier if you print out the recipe. Then you could mark it up and make notes.”
Carmen beamed at me. I’d mostly been an observer during these baking lessons, but I’d picked up a thing or two. Her recipes were covered in notes.
Stephanie pursed her lips and shot me a dirty look. “They didn’t have a printer at the grocery store where I picked up the rest of the ingredients.”
I put my hands up. “Just trying to be helpful.”
My sister sighed. “I know. I’m just tired of screwing up. It shouldn’t be this difficult to follow a recipe.”
The trouble was that Stephanie was easily distracted, so it didn’t take much for her to forget to add an ingredient or to add it twice.
“You’ll get it,” I said encouragingly. “You just need more practice.”
My sister and I hadn’t been taught to cook or bake as children. It wasn’t until I was living on my own in college that I learned how to do more than heat up a can of soup, my new skills coming courtesy of the Food Network, which I used as background noise while I studied.
“And a system,” Carmen said. “If you print out the recipe, you could even check each item off as you add it.”
“I hate that you have to dumb it down so much for me.”
Carmen frowned. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it, though? Not that I blame you. I need it dumbed down.” Stephanie took a huge gulp of wine.
“Knock it off,” Carmen said sternly. I was glad she said it so I didn’t have to. “No getting down on yourself. Everyone has their struggles. Like, I could never put that outfit together.”
Stephanie looked down at her outfit, which was nothing out of the ordinary for her—a cropped sweater, fitted leggings, and ankle boots. I studied her objectively. She was stylish, but I’d never paid much attention because she’d always dressed well.
“This is nothing special,” Stephanie said. “Pants and a sweater.”
“Yeah, but you’re all—” Carmen waved her hands in a dramatic fashion. “And I’m all—” She gestured wildly up and down her own body, which was adorned in jeans and a long-sleeved tee. Not the cutting edge of fashion, but who cared?
“Well, that explains it,” I managed to say with a straight face.
