Page 31 of Sew Matcha in Love
“Well, tell those hairs to hurry up, then!”
I laughed. “I think they heard you. Let’s hope they listen.”
“Daddy!” Isla leaned her head in front of Amelie’s so she’d be in my direct line of sight. “It’sbutter tarts!”
“Butter tarts?” Now my stomachwasgrowling. Butter tarts were one of the few cheats I allowed during the season.
Ifthey were good.
No one made butter tarts like Maman, Viki’s mom. Her recipe was the standard, to the point where Viki wouldn’t even attempt them because they never came out exactly right.
“Yes!” Amelie’s palms left my cheeks to push Isla’s head out the way. “Wynnie asked Mommy for Mémère’s recipe! And we made it!”
“You did? Mémère’s butter tarts? Here?”
“Uh-huh,” Isla confirmed. “And we called Mémère so she could teach us. Come in and eat them!”
“If you insist.” My luggage could wait. Butter tarts!
“But Daddy.” Isla’s hands jerked my head so that her lips were on my ear. “Whatever you do,don’t call them cookies.”
“Wynnie said that word and Laffy and Vennie went crazy,” Amelie reported. “They’ve been trying to steal them!”
“Well, we can’t let that happen.” I crouched to set the girls on the ground and looked up toward the front door. Arwyn stood on the porch, a picture of nineteenth-century domesticity. Auburn tendrils fanned out at the sides of her head, escaping from the bun that was loosely pinned on top. A blousy white shirt with fancy buttoned cuffs trimmed with lace tucked into a long green skirt.
She looked like the painting ofAnne of Green Gableson the cover of book six.
Yeah, I was keeping up with my reading, and I bought the whole series. Arwyn was rocking theAnne of Inglesidelook.
And it was doing funny things to my insides.
It wasn’t like me to feel flustered. Or stare.
I’d have to dive into that later.
“Hurry, Daddy!”
I jogged up the steps. Arwyn stepped aside, but I shook my head. “Ladies first.”
She smiled shyly and followed the girls into the kitchen. I closed the door behind me and locked it, then followed the scent of the freshly baked butter tarts to the kitchen.
Two furry blurs rushed past me, barking and begging for even more of my attention. I gave Laffy and Vennie a quick pet on the head each and turned my full attention to the girls.
“Ta-da!” the twins chorused, one on each side of the plate of cookies, waving jazz hands over them.
“Try them, Daddy,” Isla commanded. “Don’t just stare at them. Tell us if they’re good!”
“I’m sure they’re perfect,” I insisted. And I would keep it to myself if they weren’t.
“Here.” Amelie held one up above her head. “Eat.”
“Bossy.” I took it from her and held it up at eye level. “Well, itlookslike Mémère’s butter tart. Or as she calls it,tarte au beurre.”
“Daddy!”
“Fine, fine.” I took a bite into the shell. Then another, capturing the raisin filling, determined to drag out the process as long as I had a captive audience.
It was a skill, taking multiple bites of a butter tart. They were small.
