Page 47 of Spit Screen

“Mom was supposed to make them,” Vicki reminds me. “But she’s not here. Just buy some from the store.”

I stare sadly at the burnt cookies on the counter, feeling defeated. “It’s like that stupid souffle all over again.”

Vicki gives me a confused look. “Huh?”

“Forget it,” I grumble.

“Why don’t you call Grandma?” Vicki suggests with a mischievous glint in her eye. “She makes the best cookies.”

I pick up one of the chocolate chip cookies and try to break it in half, but it’s harder than a rock. Frustrated, I press harder, but it doesn’t budge. Vicki bursts into uproarious laughter, doubling over and holding her sides as tears of amusement stream down her face.

“What on earth is going on in my kitchen?”

I spin around to see Emma standing there with a confused expression.

“Em?”

“Last I checked,” she says as she places her bag on the floor. “Nice to see you, too.”

“Mom! Thank God!” Vicki exclaims.

I grumble under my breath again.

Emma arches a brow at me. “Do I even want to ask?”

“Mom tried to make cookies,” Vicki explains with a smirk.

Emma steps closer and peers over my shoulder at the failed baking attempt on the counter. “I see.”

“Can you make them?” Vicki asks Emma.

“Well, I could if you called Grandma and asked her to bring me some cookie sheets.”

“Okay,” Vicki agrees.

I shake my head and mutter a few curses under my breath.

“It’s no big deal,” Vicki tries to comfort me. “You do other stuff.” She looks up at Emma and smiles. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“Mm, happy to save your bake sale, Vicki,” Emma says with a chuckle.

“Me too,” Vicki says as she hugs Emma before leaving the kitchen.

Emma turns back to me and wraps her arms around my neck, kissing me softly. “Mm,” she hums against my lips. “You sampled the cookie dough.”

“Yeah, if it wasn’t for fear of salmonella, I would have sent a bowl of that to the bake sale instead.”

“Why didn’t you ask Mom to bake?” Emma asks.

I let out a heavy sigh. “Because it always happens like this when I try to do something in the kitchen.”

“Honey, it’s just cookies.”

“No, it’s not,” I say, feeling frustrated.

Emma tries to calm me down. “Okay?”

“When I’m not here, you handle everything the kids need just fine,” I remind her.

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