Starting From Scratch (21 page)

“Hey, what’s going on?”

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Max looked up and grinned at me, and I got such an

unexpected glimpse of his mother in his face, it was as if

she had poked me in the ribs. “We’re just sitting here,” he

said matter-of-factly.

“Well, you know, I was thinking…” I tapped my

forefinger against my lips as though contemplating

something very important. “It feels like a day that needs

chocolate cupcakes. Don’t you think so?”

His eyebrows raised and he nodded, his head bobbing

rapidly enough to flop his bangs into his eyes.

“I could use a little help from an assistant chef,” I

added, suddenly feeling like I wanted nothing more than

to spend some time with him and wondering what the hell

was wrong with me. “You up for it?”

“Okay,” he said, scrambling to his feet, his excitement

obvious. I helped him over the fence and we headed inside,

Steve following right behind Max, tail wagging and eyes

bright.

“First, we need to call your mom and let her know

you’re here. We don’t want to get in trouble like we did last

time, do we?”

“No way.”

“Okay.” I picked up the handset and asked if he knew

his number. Surprisingly, he did. I helped him dial and

then let him have the phone.

“Mommy? Hi. I’m at Coach King’s house. We’re

gonna make cupcakes! Chocolate ones!” He paused. “I’m

not. No, I promise I’m not.”

“Not what?” I whispered to him.

“Making a noose of myself,” he whispered back.

I could hear Elena’s voice in the handset saying,

“Nuisance.
Nuisance
of yourself.”

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“Tell her if she comes over in an hour, she can have a

warm cupcake and a glass of milk.” I winked at him and he

repeated my words.

When he was finished, I pulled one of my kitchen

chairs over to the counter for Max to stand on. Folding

down the top of my extra apron a couple times, I tied it

around him, explaining, “If you’re going to be my assistant

chef, you’ve got to look the part.” e pride on his face told

me he liked that idea.

I got ingredients out, batching them on the counter.

His eyes scanned them.

“Where’s the box?” he asked.

“What box?”

“e box the cupcake stuff comes in.”

After a second or two of brow furrowing, I realized he

meant the box of cake mix. “Oh, no, little man. We make

this from scratch.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know why it’s called ‘from

scratch,’ but it means we use all our own ingredients and

we don’t use a boxed mix. A boxed mix is really just a lot of

this stuff here,” I waved a hand over my ingredients, “put

together ahead to save you time. But my grandma always

told me that scratch is better. A box is faster, but scratch

tastes better.”

I don’t know that he understood my explanation, but

he gave a curt nod and looked ready to begin.

I set the chocolate and butter to melting in a double

boiler on the stove and then helped Max crack eggs and

measure sugar into the mixing bowl. I even managed not

to cringe when he stuck his thumbs through the shell and

got egg whites all over the counter.

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“What’s your mom up to today?” I asked him, trying

to be nonchalant in my questioning as we watched the

KitchenAid go to town.

“Cece’s over. ey’re fighting.” His eyes never left the

bowl.

“ey fight a lot?”

He shrugged.

“What were they fighting about?”

He shrugged again.

“Max?” I squatted a little bit so I was level with him.

“Hey. Look at me.” He did, reluctantly. “You know Mom

and Cece love you very much, don’t you?”

is time it was just a half-shrug. “I guess.”

“No,” I said firmly, hating the uncertainty in his eyes.

“No, there’s no guessing. ey
do
love you. You’re the most

important thing in the world to them.”

“ey yell a lot,” he said softly.

“At you?”

“No, at each other.”

I blew out a frustrated breath for him. I hated the idea

of Cindy yelling at Elena. Did she yell back? She didn’t

seem like a woman who raised her voice often, but I knew

it was not uncommon to partner with somebody who

could bring that out of you. And was it even possible to

explain something like this to a six-year-old? Max may

have seemed wise beyond his years at times, but he was still

a little boy, and there were things about his moms that he

just didn’t need to know.

“You know, Max, sometimes grown-ups don’t even

know they’re yelling. Sometimes, after we’ve been together

for a while, we get so used to yelling that we just do it all

the time. And it doesn’t necessarily mean we’re mad at you

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or each other or anybody else. We’re just loud because we

think that’s the only way the other person will hear us. We

have to learn how to be a little calmer, a little quieter, that

sometimes people listen better when you don’t shout at

them.”

He seemed to absorb this, roll it around in his little

head. “Maybe I should tell ’em next time. Tell ’em not to

yell so much.”

“Maybe you should.” I put my arm around his

shoulders and gave him a little squeeze. Part of me felt bad

for him, having to deal with his moms. Another part

wondered what it would be like to have your parents

around, even if all they did was argue all the time.

We left that topic and focused on the cupcakes. Max

was adorably precise in his measuring of flour and cocoa

powder, taking an exorbitant amount of time to get them

just right in the measuring cups, an almost equal amount

ending up on the counter, on the chair, on the floor. My

own patience with him surprised me; I somehow managed

to keep my hands to myself and let him do the work. I also

somehow enjoyed it. We finally got all the ingredients

mixed together and then slowly added the melted

chocolate.

“We don’t want to stir this in, we need to fold it,” I

told him.

He looked puzzled. “Fold it?”

“When you stir something fast, what actually happens

is that you’re taking all the air out of the batter. at’s what

makes it smooth and dense. When you fold something,

you’re keeping the air in, which makes the batter fluffy and

light. We don’t want this batter to be smooth and dense or

it won’t bake right. We want it to be fluffy and light. So

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folding is really a fancy way of saying stirring really slowly

and really carefully, from the bottom and over the top, like

this.” Damn if the kid wasn’t hanging on my every word. I

showed him how to fold and then let him do the rest. His

concentration was so deep, I wondered if his face might

turn red from the intensity. It took an effort on my part,

but I forced myself not to chuckle at his determination.

He did a great job, I had to admit.

His next task was putting paper liners in the muffin

tin and then I poured the batter and into the oven it all

went.

“Now for the best part,” I said and handed him a clean

wooden spoon. “My grandma always said that my payment

for being the assistant chef was that I got to lick the bowl.”

Max’s eyes lit up so brightly, I was surprised there

wasn’t light pouring out his ears. “I
like
your grandma.”

at earned him a ruffle of the hair, then I set him up

at the table with the spoon, the bowl (in which I’d left a bit

of extra batter to make it worth his while), and a smile. I

used heavy cream and chocolate chips to make the frosting

while he licked happily, chocolate outlining his mouth as if

he were a clown who’d used brown makeup for his smile

instead of red.

ere’s nothing quite like the smell of warm chocolate

and it only took about fifteen minutes for my kitchen to

emanate the scent. Max was savoring every last drop of the

batter, taking his time to make it last. When the knock on

the door came, he hadn’t budged from the table.

“Hi, there,” Elena said with a smile. She wore black

workout pants that reached just below her knees, a

turquoise tank top, which gave me a mouthwatering view

of her shoulders, and white Nikes with ankle socks. She

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was beautiful and I tried not to look at her chest, tried to

forget that I’d had my hand in her bra the night before,

tried to ignore how warm and perfect her flesh had felt

cradled in my palm.

She squatted down to give Steve a scratch, then

turned into the kitchen where her son was doing his best

to cover himself in cake batter. She burst into laughter.

“We made cupcakes,” he said proudly.

“Yeah? Did you get any batter in the cupcake pan or

just all over your face?”

“Mom,” he said, drawing the word out, its tone saying

she was embarrassing him, and went back to the bowl.

I peered in. “Huh. at might be able to go right back

into the cupboard. I might not even have to wash it.”

Max giggled adorably and Elena took his hand to help

him off the chair. “Come here, you. You’re a mess. Let’s

wash your face and hands before you get chocolate all over

Coach King’s house.”

I watched as Elena wet a paper towel and cleaned her

son. I picked things up and moved them to the sink, trying

hard not to inhale deeply whenever Elena’s scent hit my

nostrils. How could one woman smell so divine all the

time?

Max took up residence at his usual spot: in front of

the oven door, watching the cupcakes bake. Steve sat down

next to him and they looked like a Norman Rockwell

painting. I shook my head with a grin and turned to find

Elena watching me.

“ree more minutes,” I said, hoping my sudden

nervousness didn’t show in my voice, “and you can have a

cupcake and some milk. If you’ve been a good girl.” I

winked.

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“I’m really sorry about last night,” she said, her voice

barely audible. I got the clue that she didn’t want to talk

about it in front of Max (who was carrying on a

conversation with Steve), and I felt a little hamstrung, not

sure what was okay to say and what wasn’t. I gave her an

unconcerned grimace-shrug-dismissive wave combination,

the universal sign for “it was no big deal.”

I must not have been all that convincing to Elena,

because she jumped in with, “We can talk about it later, if

you want to, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

e timer saved me from having to come up with any

kind of reply. I liked having something to do that kept me

from squirming under Elena’s gaze. In a couple minutes, I

had all three of us set up at the kitchen table with

deliciously warm cupcakes on plates, dripping melted

frosting, and glasses of milk all around.

It was very domestic and I was shocked to realize how

comfortable I was with the arrangement.

“Okay, buddy, time to go. Let’s let Coach King have

the rest of her Sunday in peace.”

“Oh, wait,” I said. Quickly, I slapped some frosting on

six of the cupcakes and put them in a square Tupperware

container that was deep enough to allow me to snap on the

lid without smashing the contents. I handed the container

to Max. “Remember? Assistant chefs share in the fruits of

our labor.”

“Did your grandma say that, too?” he asked, his face

serious.

“She did.” I walked them to the door. “See you later.”

“See ya, Coach,” Max said over his shoulder as he ran

ahead down the sidewalk.

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“Bye, Avery. See you soon.” Elena’s voice was low,

almost intimate as she tossed me a little wave. “Max, you

wait for me, please,” she said, raising her voice to Stern

Mom level.

“Bye,” I said, and watched them go, trying to

understand the swirling emotions in my head, while at the

same time, trying to ignore them.

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me about her, that

I’m just now hearing about all of this.” Maddie could pout

with the best of them and she seriously worked it that

Friday night at dinner.

“All of what?” I’d talked quite a bit about Elena once

Maddie prodded me. At the same time, I tried to downplay

how taken I was with her but apparently, I hadn’t done a

very good job.

“You
like
this girl. It’s obvious. Why didn’t you tell me

sooner? I don’t understand, Avery.” She pouted some more.

“My feelings are hurt.”

J.T. was in the kitchen doing the dishes. She could

hear the conversation just fine and hadn’t leapt to my

defense, so I could only assume she was miffed at me, too.

I sighed, knowing she’d get it out of me sooner or

later. “I was mad at you, Maddie. Did you forget that part?

You crossed a line with me and I was angry with you.”