Page 112 of Saddle and Scent
Quiet, peaceful, filled with the kind of golden morning light that makes everything look like a painting.
The air is thick with the scents of rising dough and caramelizing sugar, undercut with the rich aroma of coffee that's been brewing since before the sun came up. Steam fogs the windows, creating a cozy cocoon that feels separate from the rest of the world.
It's exactly the kind of place that makes you want to stay forever.
Beckett moves through the space with the easy confidence of someone who knows every inch of his domain. He's already been here for hours—I can tell by the way multiple batches of bread are cooling on racks, by the systematic organization of ingredients laid out for the day's baking, by the flour dusting his forearms that speaks to serious work already accomplished.
"You know," I say, perching on one of the tall stools near the central work island, "I have to learn the secret to your blackberrypies. Those are probably still my all-time favorite, though I have to admit the cinnamon rolls are next level."
It's true.
Even after all these years, even after sampling bakeries in half a dozen different cities, nothing has ever come close to the perfection of Beckett's blackberry pie.
The way the fruit bursts sweet and tart on your tongue, the flaky crust that somehow manages to be both delicate and substantial, the hint of vanilla and lemon zest that elevates the whole thing from good to transcendent.
Beckett's lips curve into that slow, satisfied smile that he gets when someone compliments his baking. It's not arrogance exactly—more like the quiet pleasure of a craftsman who knows he's mastered his art.
"Secret ingredient," he says solemnly, pulling a large mixing bowl from the shelf above his head. "Can't just give that away to anyone."
"Anyone?" I echo, raising an eyebrow. "I'll have you know I'm not just anyone. I'm the woman who once ate an entire blackberry pie in one sitting because I was stressed about a math test."
"You were fourteen and going through a growth spurt," he points out with a chuckle. "Plus, you shared the last slice with me."
The memory hits me with surprising warmth.
Sitting in Aunt Lil's kitchen on a rainy Sunday afternoon, both of us covered in purple stains, laughing until our stomachs hurt.
Back when everything was simple and uncomplicated and the biggest worry in my life was whether I'd pass algebra.
"I was being generous," I say with mock dignity. "And strategic. Had to make sure you'd keep making them for me."
"Smart girl," he says, reaching for the flour canister. "Though I seem to remember you trying to bribe me with other things too. Didn't you once offer to do my English homework for a month in exchange for the cinnamon roll recipe?"
"That was a perfectly reasonable business proposition," I defend, though I'm grinning now. "And you turned me down, if I recall correctly."
"Because Mrs. Patterson would have figured it out in about five minutes," he says, measuring flour with the kind of precision that speaks to years of practice. "Your handwriting looks nothing like mine, and you actually know how to use semicolons properly."
The easy banter feels good.
Natural.
Like slipping back into a favorite sweater that still fits perfectly despite all the years that have passed.
I watch him work, noting the way his hands move with such confidence and economy of motion. There's something hypnotic about watching someone who's truly skilled at their craft—every gesture purposeful, every measurement exact, every movement flowing seamlessly into the next.
And there's something undeniably attractive about competence.
Especially when it comes wrapped in broad shoulders and gentle hands and the kind of quiet strength that makes you feel safe just being in the same room.
"So what are we making?" I ask, hopping down from my stool to wash my hands at the large industrial sink.
"Blackberry pies," he says with a grin. "Since you asked so nicely. And since I happen to have the perfect berries—got them from Morrison's farm yesterday morning. Still warm from the sun when I picked them up."
Fresh blackberries.
No wonder his pies are legendary.
Most commercial bakeries use frozen fruit or canned filling, but Beckett sources everything locally, builds relationships with farmers, cares about quality in a way that shows in every bite.
