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He followed her instructions, feeling remarkably like a boy in school. While he stirred the butter, she became a flurry of activity, mixing and measuring with no tool other than instinct. He’d never seen her like this. Completely serene, in the center of a tornado of action. Her nerves seemed to have dissipated. As she worked, she explained what she was doing, like it was second nature. Perhaps it was. Perhaps she’d had apprentices working under her at the bakery. Whatever the case, he didn’t say anything because he liked listening to the sound of her voice.
Despite her preoccupation, she was at his side the moment he’d removed the saucepan from the stove. She piled flour on top, sprinkled baking powder in, and gestured for him to stir. Lastly, she added a dash of vanilla, then scraped the batter into a baking tray she’d greased while he’d been keeping an eye on the butter. She eyed the uncooked brownie critically, nodded once, and slotted the tray into the oven.
“That should be ready to come out in twenty-five minutes,” she told him. He set a timer. “Do you know how to make butter cream frosting?”
“About as well as anyone.”
She winced, and he tried not to take offense. “Hmm. How about you take over making this pound cake, and I’ll work on the butter cream?”
He shrugged. He could manage a simple pound cake. “Works for me.”
He took up where she’d left off, but paid little attention to the cake batter, instead watching as she tested the firmness of a stick of butter, then diced it, added it to an electric mixer, and turned the power on. For a good few minutes, neither of them spoke, the sound of whirling beaters drowning out any other noise.
When she switched the mixer off to add icing sugar, he took the opportunity to ask, “What part of Auckland did you live in?”
“Ponsonby.”
“Go figure.”
Her hands went to her hips, leaving floury handprints on her shirt. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve just got that look.”
“And what look is that?” Her tone indicated he was treading in dangerous waters. It was the first time he’d heard her be anything other than one hundred percent sweet, and he had to admit, he liked it. Nice to know she had a little fire in her soul.
He kept his head down so she couldn’t see the smile that wanted to crawl across his face. “Well-off white girl from a good family in a respectable neighborhood.”
She turned away and heaped icing sugar into the butter, then switched the mixer on again. He wondered if he’d gone too far, but when she paused the machine, she took up where they’d left off, adding icing sugar as she spoke. “I don’t know exactly what you mean by ‘good family.’ I don’t come from old money. And yeah, maybe my family has a reasonable standard of living now, but there was a time when we barely scraped by.” She started the mixer again before he could reply.
He waited patiently, working on the pound cake in silence, until she took another break. “I remember you telling me about that. I’m sorry for what you went through. Did your mum ever remarry?”
“Actually, she will be in a few months.”
“Good for her.”
“It is.” She nodded. “Joe is a good guy. He’ll treat her well.”
He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like when she was growing up in a house silenced by grief. There had never been a quiet moment when he was young. They’d spent most of their days at themarae, where hiskuiawas the caretaker, and there was never any shortage of family—whanau—to share stories with.
The mixer whirred. He was beginning to resent that damned machine and its tendency to interrupt their conversation. He added the last ingredients to the cake batter, stirred, and split it between the two tins she’d laid out on the counter.
When it was quiet again, he asked, “Are you ready for these to go in the oven?”
“Yes, thanks.”
He donned mitts and positioned the tins evenly in the oven, then leaned on the counter and crossed his ankles, watching her whip up the buttercream.
“Who are you running from?”
Her hands faltered, but she didn’t acknowledge the question. “Do you have raspberry or strawberry jam?”
“Both.”
“Great. Can you get the raspberry out, please? What about white chocolate?”
His lips twitched. “White chocolate jam?”
She shot him a look. “White chocolate chips.”
