Page 93 of Amnesty

It was like a whole new world back there. Large sacks of flour, mixers, ovens, and more filled the small space. There was a tall, long table with the most beautiful-colored counter Joline called marble. It was white with veins of dark grey running through it.

Jeremy appeared out of what looked like a stockroom, carrying a huge sack of flour over his shoulder, a white apron covering his chest.

“You got a coveted invite into the back?” he asked, raising his eyebrows when he saw us there. “Oh, ho-ho, that’s a high honor. Jo never lets anyone back here!”

“I let you back here, and you’re nothing but trouble!” she retorted.

He laughed. “That’s ‘cause you can’t carry these bags of flour.” As if to prove his point, he swung it down onto the end of the table, and a large white cloud puffed out around him.

I giggled.

“Men,” Joline muttered. “Jeremy, man the front. I’m about to put Amnesia here to work.”

“Well, kid, it was nice knowing ya,” he said, stopping beside me on his way out front. “Once she gets a hold of ya, you’ll never want to come back.” Then he laughed as if it were the funniest thing he heard and disappeared around the corner.

“Forgive him, hun. He’s clearly not as charming as your Eddie.”

My Eddie.I liked the sound of that.

“I think he’s great,” I told her.

“I heard that!” he yelled.

Joline rolled her eyes. “Now he’s going to have a big head for days.”

I smiled and took the apron she offered. “Better put this on. It’s about to get messy.”

Joline wasted no time getting back to work but at the same time bringing me right into it. Before I knew it, my hands were covered in dough, my face dusted with flour, and the intoxicating scent of sweets clung to my skin.

She played a radio while we worked. I had no idea what kind of music it was or who sang, but I loved it. The overall energy of the bakery was infectious. It was almost like getting lost in a good TV show; between the music, the company and the constant activity, there was no room for thought.

She taught me how to grease the muffin tins (hers were a little larger than most muffin pans sold at stores) so the monkey bread didn’t stick. She shared secrets, like putting the bread dough in a warm spot to help it rise better and keeping a damp towel draped over the top of the bowl to keep the top from drying out.

I learned measuring was much more important in baking than cooking. With Maggie, we were guided by taste—a pinch here, a spoonful there—but in baking, you had to be more precise.

We made two dozen monkey bread muffins. Half of them had apples and raisins; the other were just cinnamon. Both were buttery and sugary, making my mouth water before they even went into the oven.

As they were baking, she got out everything we needed for the glaze that would be drizzled overtop. After piling everything on the counter, Joline stepped back and just told me what to do, and I made it all myself.

“You’re really enjoying this,” she remarked as I was adding the simple ingredients into the bowl to whisk it together.

“Oh yes,” I practically gushed. My cheeks felt flushed from the warmth of the ovens and the happiness I felt. “This really has been so fun. Thank you so much for sharing this with me today.”

“You’re a fast learner. You should come back again. I can teach you even more. I’m usually stuck here with Jeremey, and sometimes he can just be an insufferable bore.”

I laughed.

“I heard that!” he yelled from the front.

“I wasn’t whispering!” Joline yelled back.

We both snickered as I began whisking the powdered sugar with the cream, turning it into a shiny, sweet concoction.

All of a sudden, I saw a cloud of white out of the corner of my eye, and Joline made a strangled sound.

I spun around as she was gasping and slapping at her apron. The action was only creating a larger cloud. “You didn’t!” she swore, staring straight past me. I spun again to see Jeremy standing just at the corner, his hand covered in flour.

“Who’s the insufferable bore now?”

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