Page 26 of Henhouse
“Indubitably,” he asserted. He leaned in close like he was about to tell Effie a secret, and whispered, “I was a Boy Scout.”
The moment stilled. Butterflies flitted through her chest. He didn’t pull away instantly, maybe this was her opening. She blurted, “My real name is Effie, by the way. Thought you should know that before I . . .” She leaned in closer, going for the kiss, the courage bubbling up from her toes.
But Schilling pulled back. “Effie Thatcher?”
Embarrassment and rejection hit her like the stench of burnt croissant as she deflated. “Yeah, why?”
“I was dating your cousin. I’m Brayden.”
15
Effie, flour-dusted with tendrils of hair falling into her eyes from the messy bun atop her head, eased a pan of hot raspberry tarts from the oven and placed them on a waiting iron trivet. She worked in near darkness, the dimmed chandelier over the breakfast table the only light on in the whole house. It was after midnight, and the cocoon of quiet was heavy with her unspent feelings.
The pastries, perfectly puffed squares with heart-shaped centers filled with homemade raspberry compote, felt like they were taunting her. It would have been wise to use a different cookie cutter. Still, she lifted a tart from the parchment on her pan with the tenderness of a mother cradling her newborn baby and placed it on the cooling rack beside. Halfway through her task, she turned to the oven on instinct. Guided by scent alone, she knew her scones were perfectly browned. She retrieved their pan from a secondary compartment in the oven and set them on a separate trivet.
Effie pivoted again, grabbing a small bowl from the counter filledwith a simple icing glaze of milk, confectioner’s sugar, and vanilla. The warm scones melted the icing as it drizzled over top. It would cool like a sugary crust on the decadent lavender and honey confections. There was something peaceful in the predictability of a pastry. Unlike the torment of the evening.
When the tarts were cool enough, Effie wielded her shaker of confectioner’s sugar high above them and tapped the side so that a perfect dusting, like a featherlight snow, covered the golden-brown crusts.
She dropped any lingering embarrassment to pick up her favorite plate, one painted with a smattering of red and pink roses, and placed one of each treat atop its porcelain surface. At the breakfast table, a small pot of mint tea steeped atop a pot warmer with a single tea light burning beneath. The teacup and saucer that waited for her there matched the plate. She sat before her tea party for one and poured her cup full to the brim. Effie held it daintily between two hands, blowing off the pillows of steam before taking a sip.
Her shoulders relaxed and her eyes closed as she found respite in her rituals. Much as it seemed her emotions were felt and handled with care as they arose, they had the unfortunate habit of lingering, bottling, and fermenting before bubbling over in messy waves. A lot had transpired over the last weeks, and Effie’s feelings demanded the stage. That’s why she had started baking, to quell the tide and ride the current in solitude.
Effie took a bite of the raspberry tart, the flaky crust depositing crumbs on the tabletop. She glanced directly at the photo of Herman. Gramps. He held her gaze as if daring her to be braver than the voice in her head. The one that said that she’d never find love. That it was hard. Difficult. A fool’s hope. The voice that soundedan awful lot like her mother’s.
She swallowed hard as her throat constricted and her eyes burned. The quiet started to feel an awful lot like loneliness as Effie chewed on her lip, her vision blurred behind her tears. She only let a few escape before she steeled her resolve at the sound of footsteps in the hall.
Effie composed herself the best she could as Hope rounded the corner into the kitchen rubbing sleep from her eyes. “I thought I smelled something delicious.”
She padded farther into the kitchen as Effie discreetly wiped her nose on the back of her hand and smiled. Hope helped herself to a scone and some tea, taking the seat to Effie’s right.
“Why are you baking in the dark?” Hope whispered, but Effie was certain her cousin knew that she was better at sharing her life as a series of activities and not so good at telling people how she felt. But her baked goods could always handle her moods.
“I had a bad night,” Effie confessed, even though it was so much more than that. She had been trying to work out all night how to bring this up to Hope, how to convey all that she’d learned. Effie, however, felt rather sorry for herself and kept getting hung up on her own disappointments. On the fact that she’d literally gotten excited over the man who’d picked Hope first. It was unnerving how small it made Effie feel, knowing that she now scored zero for two in her social experiments, playing second fiddle to first Talia and now Hope. She didn’t want to envy them, but she did.
Effie hoped that baking would clear her head. Give her the time to lick her wounds, shed her embarrassment at the almost not-really-even-in-the-realm-of-possibility kiss, and organize her thoughts well enough to broach the Brayden subject with Hope. She apparentlylanded on a quick and dirty approach, because she bit out, “I met Brayden, he’s been separated from his wife for two years.”
Hope nearly choked on her scone, her eyes big as moons. “What? How? Effie did you go and find him—”
“Of course not!” Effie snapped, and she let the sting reflect on her face. “I’ve been trying to take your advice . . . Aunt Bea’s advice . . .”
Effie looked to Hope whose face was a bundle of confusion. She looked ready to puke. “Effie, could you spit it out? I’m freaking out over here.”
Effie bridled her irritation and continued. “During my class last week, this guy I met doing a safety check on the store pity invited me out with him and his girlfriend after he spilled wine on my bag. While we were at the bar, his friend Schilling showed up. They only ever used that name, and there was a bit where I was being called Eggplant so he didn’t know my name either . . .”
“Huh?”
Effie backtracked and filled her in on her first encounter with Theodore, how her synesthesia got in the way, and how it came back up in class. She brought her up to speed on the candle-making request, the follow-up inspection, and the ensuing incidents that brought her to revealing her real name. Hope, seemingly satisfied that this was all evidently an act of God, settled into her chair. But her gaze turned sharp as she asked, “How did he know I met his wife?”
Effie swallowed hard, bile rising in response to the anger she felt simmering off Hope’s vampire-white skin.
Effie didn't tell him about the baby, didn’t tell him that Hope had already decided to cut him off, didn’t confess or meddle as best she could. But when he slumped onto the stool, his eyes brimming withtears, and asked how Hope could keep ignoring him when the last time they spoke they’d saidI love you, Effie couldn’t bear it.
“If you had seen him, you’d understand why I told him,” Effie explained, straightening her spine. “All I said was that you’d gone to find him that afternoon at the house and met his wife. He went into a colorful string of curses, a bit of manic laughter, presumably because Chloe is insane, and then he explained everything.”
“Everything?” Hope asked, and Effie thought she’d be relieved, but instead, she looked like she wanted to rip Effie’s head off. “Good to know he’ll confess his whole sordid backstory toyou, and not the woman he supposedly loves.”
It was Effie’s turn to stare wide-eyed. She understood Hope feeling like he should have told her about Chloe, but how could she make this a bad thing? It was good. He loved her, he was dedicated to her, he was doing everything in his power to be with her, all the while trying to keep Chloe away from her. “I think he was trying to spare you from Chloe. The divorce has been dragged out because she virtually married him for his money and now she won’t go quietly.”
