doodling, sculpting, papiermâché, or
anything in any way attempting to re-create nature or abstract themes with
artistic methods (traditional, modern, electronic, or postmodern
“interpretive”).
That
was the “no arts and crafts” rule.
Didn’t
this banner count?
Beyond
the swinging door to the kitchen, Eliot heard humming and detected the odors of
baking bread, caramelized sugar, and citrus wafting into the room. Cee was
cooking.
He
glanced down the hallway. No one had yet seen him. He could dart back to his
room, pretend he’d overslept, then run off to work—before he had to eat
whatever “special treat” Cee had whipped up for them.
Fiona
set her hand on his arm and whispered, “Don’t. She tries so hard.”
He
exhaled. Cee did try . . . and he loved her for it. He wouldn’t disappoint her.
The
kitchen door swung inward and diminutive Cecilia backed into the room. Today
she wore her good white dress with lace cuffs and petticoats that rustled under
the wide skirt. She turned and they saw the triple-layer strawberry shortcake
in her withered hands. She beamed at them and set it unsteadily on the table.
Cee
was a sweet old lady, but her sense of smell and taste had dried up sometime
around the Second World War, and as a result the things she cooked could taste
like anything: limes, sea salt, or with equal probability Worcestershire sauce.
“Happy
birthday, my darlings.” She presented her culinary creation with a flourish. “I
found this recipe in the Ladies’ Journal and made it especially for you.”
Cecilia shuffled closer and hugged Fiona and Eliot together.
“Thanks,
Cee,” they said.
She
released them. “Oh, dear,” she whispered. “I forgot the pineapple and walnuts.
And the candles! Stay right there.” She trundled back into the kitchen.
Eliot
and Fiona stared at the cake. It was lopsided.
“You
try it,” he whispered.
“No
way. It’s your turn.”
Eliot
sighed and took a tiny step closer. Pink and purple icing oozed from the cake’s
layers. From the lower edge he scooped a fingerful.
The
icing was gritty. Strawberry seeds? The cake part had the spongy consistency of
cake . . . but you could never be too careful with Cecilia’s cooking. He
smelled it: citrus and something else his nose couldn’t identify.
He
braced himself and popped the bite into his mouth—quickly before he chickened
out.
Thankfully
the grittiness in the icing was strawberry seeds. It tasted good, tangy and
sugary the way it ought to be . . . but then the icing melted, and his face
involuntarily puckered. The cake was salty and sour: unmixed baking soda and a
chunk of orange peel.
Cecilia
pushed through the kitchen door with two bowls balanced on one arm, and a
fistful of birthday candles and a box of matches in the other.
Eliot
had no choice. He swallowed and smiled.
“Can
I give you a hand?” Fiona offered.
“No,
no, no.” Cecilia shook the box of matches at her. “Just stay there while I
finish. No cheating and eating.” She dealt slices of pineapple onto the cake
and sprinkled crushed walnuts over that. She then punctured the frosting skin
with candles, carefully counting out thirty. Fifteen for Eliot. Fifteen for
Fiona.
Cecilia
could have skimped and just put one set of candles on the cake, but she was
always trying to make them feel that they both got what they deserved.
“Thank
you,” Fiona said.
“Yeah,”
Eliot added, clearing his esophagus as best he could. “Thanks, Cee.”
“Now
fire.” She slid open the box of matches, fumbled one out, and struck it with a
shaking hand. The flame reflected in her dark eyes.
Eliot
said, “Maybe you better—”
“Let
me do it,” a voice behind them commanded.
Eliot
and Fiona turned together as Grandmother entered the room.
“Good
morning, Grandmother,” they said in unison.
Grandmother
looked
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