Page 81 of Fire and Icing

“I tried to bake a few times,” Dustin says, with this impish look that makes me picture him as a boy. “Mother’s Day. My sister’s birthday. Things like that.”

“That’s pretty sweet,” I admit out loud.

“I made awful concoctions. Always forgot something or maybe I put in the wrong things. I don’t really know. My baked goods turned out like rocks or goo.” His brows raise.

“Maybe you didn’t know what the measurements were supposed to be. Or you overmixed.”

“Or I put cream instead of cream of tartar.”

I giggle. “Yeah. That’s a definite possibility.”

“But you always baked,” he says with this note of awe in his voice. “Your whole life?”

“I did. I grew up baking with Gran. I loved it from the very first experience, or at least the first I remember. It was magical how you could mix all these ingredients and end up with something delicious. Think about it. Flour? That’s like powderand it doesn’t have much taste. Eggs. You’d never eat them raw. Butter. Well, butter’s awesome. But baking soda? Baking powder? You put all these together and depending on how you do it, you get a cake or cookies or muffins … basically the same ingredients make all baked goods.”

“That’s incredible.”

“Yeah.” I yawn. “I baked simply to experience that magic for years.”

“And now?”

I don’t answer him right away. Instead, images of me fulfilling orders, balancing spreadsheets, taking inventory, greeting customers, and cleaning up after we’re closed flood my mind.

“Now I bake for the customers. Part of that has its own magic. A cookie to a child who had a bad day at school, a cake to celebrate fifty years of marriage, donuts on teacher appreciation day. What I bake spreads joy and makes people feel good. And I still love the early morning hours when the bakery is dark and silent, and I flick the switch on our kitchen wall and get busy creating.”

“You’re the best baker in the world,” he says it so earnestly I’d almost buy what he’s selling.

“I’m so not! You should travel to France … Belgium … New York. I’m good. But I’m not great.”

“Beg to differ. You passed the scrutiny of six snooty judges today in a competition with highly skilled bakers from around the country.”

“I’m good. Not great.”

I don’t know what it is about him, or this moment, the exhaustion, the ease between us … but I find myself sharing my heart as if I’m on one side of a confessional. “I don’t know what I’d do if I ever stopped baking. It’s really the only time I feel in control.”

Now I want to bury my face again. But I’m so glad I don’t because Dustin stands up, treads the few steps to the edge of the bed and sits down so he can look right at me when he says his next words.

“Everyone feels out of control, Emberleigh. That’s part of being human. How do you think I feel running into a fire when humans are literally wired to run away from danger? I’m so out of control at that moment, but I’m also more focused than any other time in my life. I have no illusion of control in that setting, and I think running into danger on a regular basis has taught me to be fully okay with my own humanity. I am what I am. And I can’t be more than that.

“Life’s risky—riskier than running into a fire. But if you don’t run in, you’ll miss all the action.”

There’s something in his voice—like maybe he’s speaking from more than just firehouse wisdom. Like he’s lost something by playing it safe before.

“So, I should run into fires?” I tease.

“You should allow firemen to carry you out of fires,” he says with a wink.

“I’ll consider it.”

“Good.” Dustin smiles down at me, then he pivots and lays on the bed.

He pops up as fast as he reclined. “Forgot the wall. Hold that thought.”

He busies himself grabbing pillows from where we stacked them under the window and reconstructs the barrier I need more than he’ll ever know.

“How’d Syd get in on the baking action?” he asks, placing the last pillow between us and lying down again.

“She was possibly roped into it at first. Way back in elementary school.”

---