Page 42 of Prized Possession

She would bake her own bread early in the morning, usually before everyone else had woken up, so from the moment we opened our eyes, that smell of freshly baked breadfilled the house.

She would cut me a still-warm slice and add some butter, telling me all about how much better things taste when you make it yourself.

Although she was a great cook, and could make just about anything she tried her hand at, baking was her passion. She would bake cakes, desserts, pies, anything she fancied that day, and they would always turn out better than the pictures in the recipe books.

Every time I stayed at her house, she would fetch a little step so I was tall enough to stand next to the counter with her, and I’d help with whatever cake she was making that day. I’d watch in amazement as we mixed the ingredients together until they formed the smooth, creamy batter.

She’d laugh whenever she caught me sticking my finger in the bowl, so I could taste the batter without her knowing. And even though she’d tell me off, once the cake was in the oven, she’d always give me a spoon, so I could eat whatever mix was left in the bowl.

I’d stare at the oven, watching with amazement as the thing we created together started to harden and grow, until it finally took the shape of a cake. Not many little girls would sit there for almost an hour watching cakes rise in the oven, but I was mesmerised.

The thing I loved most was watching her transform the almost boring-looking cake into a masterpiece. How had I forgotten that my Momma used to enjoy decorating cakes?

Every birthday, we would always have the most beautifully decorated cake, like it came from an expensive bakery, when really, Momma had just stayed up for hours making sure it was perfect.

She only made cakes for family and friends, for fun, and I used to love watching her mould the fondant into little designs.

I still remember her teaching me how to make roses, and I’d help her when she had lots to make for a flower cake she was doing for one of her friends.

I don’t recall ever being as happy as I was in the kitchen with her, and my heart breaks that until this moment, I’d forgotten all about it.

Momma died when I was nine-years-old, and I felt like a piece of me died with her. She was the first person I had really lost, and I’d never really known grief before, but even at a young age, I knew the pain I felt wasn’t one that’d ever go away. It may diminish until things are easier and memories are more distant, but it never goes away.

Nobody else in the family liked to bake or cook. Mum definitely didn’t. She hates doing anything that might be considered manual labour, or beneath her. I don’t think we even own any baking equipment in our house.

We have a private chef who cooks all our meals for us, and I can’t remember the last time I was in our kitchen.

As thoughts of my Momma fill me, I look around Marcus’ pantry, smiling when I find exactly what I was looking for. I promised not to go outside, and I’d hate to break it so early on, but I would have done if he didn’t have everything that I needed.

Using the memory to guide me, I start baking a vanilla cake. I have no idea how I still remember the ingredients and the quantities off by heart, but I do. I get lost in the moment, and for the first time in forever, I follow my heart.

By the time Marcus comes home, he finds me right where he left me, in his kitchen, only the sight before him is very different. There are used pots and pans littering every surface, and I’m pretty sure I look like I’m in the middle of the war zone. I have flour all over me from where the bag exploded in a plume as I tried to open it.

But the smile on my face isn’t one that will be dimming any time soon. “I baked,” I state the obvious.

His lip tilts up, as does his eyebrow. “I can see that.”

I point to the baked goods on the island between us. “I baked some bread, and used the excess dough to make a couple of little bread rolls. Then I made a Victoria sponge cake with cream and jam… I had to use pre-made jam as we didn’t have the ingredients for me to make my own, but I can grab them another time, as it’s much better when you make your own.

“I then made these shortbread biscuits, and both the chocolate chip and white chocolate cookies. I’m quite pleased with how soft the cookies are. You can have one now, if you want, they’re probably still warm.

“Oh, I also made an apple crumble, but that’s got about another ten minutes left in the oven. It’ll be really nice with the custard I made,” I add, pointing over to the pan that’s sat on the stovetop with a lid covering it.

“So, you bake?” he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

I nod my head enthusiastically. “When we’ve had the security talk, I’m going to look at hopefully taking some classes. I’d like to learn how to make celebration cakes.”

The smile on his face grows, and it’s not even a fraction of the one on my face. “It looks like you’ve found something you enjoy.”

“I used to bake with my Momma. I’d just forgotten all about it until you told me to forget all the shit with my family. I was looking around the kitchen, and when I found the mixer, it all came flooding back.

“She used to love making big celebration cakes for us, and she was great at it. She was teaching me everything she knew when she died. Nobody else in the family bakes, and I wasn’t allowed to take lessons as my mother said baking wasn’t a skill men valued in a high-society wife. I was told I’d have a chef and wouldn’t need to know how to do something as menial as cooking.”

“I think your mum is very wrong on this one. Everyone knows the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and I happen to love apple crumble,” he says with a wink, and my heart races.

“Well, you’re in for a treat then as I’m going to cook us a meal tonight too. It’s the least I can do to thank you,” I tell him, leaving no room for him to shoot me down.

I want to cook for him, and the idea of sitting down for a meal with him, almost like a date, sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine.

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