“Four?” Brenna gave a disdainful sniff. “Late starter.”
“I lived for a while in the Alps. I could see Mont Blanc from my bedroom window. And the climate is much better than here.”
Brenna placed a bottle of maple syrup on the table with exaggerated care. “Are you criticizing our Vermont climate?”
“Only the winter—” Élise paused to test the consistency of the mixture “—in the winter it is freezing.” She rolled her rs. “In France it can be cold, yes, but not like this where your eyelashes can freeze to your face.”
“Hey, you could take us to Paris. You still have an apartment there, don’t you?” Brenna grinned. “Girls’ weekend.”
Girls’ weekend.
Kayla finished sifting the flour. Maybe she would do that, she thought. Maybe she’d actually take a holiday.
Paris in springtime.
She’d never done anything like that. What surprised her was how appealing it sounded.
Asking herself what a night with Jackson had done to her, she pushed the bowl toward Élise and suddenly realized the other girl was quiet. She wondered if all the talk of Paris had made her homesick. “All done.”
Distracted, Élise stared at the mess around her and opened her mouth, but Elizabeth got there before her.
“Wonderful,” she said quickly, swiftly wiping flour from the surrounding surfaces and the floor. “Maple needed a bath anyway.”
Élise shook her head in despair. “Did you never cook with your mother, Kayla?”
“My mother hated cooking.” Kayla wiped her hands. “In fact she hated being a mother.” She didn’t know who was more surprised by that confession—her or them.
Elizabeth’s eyes were troubled. “I’m sure she didn’t, dear.”
“No, she really did.” Kayla sat down with her coffee. “She had me when she was seventeen. Instead of going to college, she was a mum at home with a screaming baby. She hated every minute of parenthood. Once, on one of the rare nights when we had a conversation, she told me that those years were like doing time with no opportunity for parole.”
There was silence in the kitchen.
Brenna paused with her mug halfway to her mouth.
Élise stopped whisking.
And Kayla sat, wondering why the hell she’d just told them that. It had been bad enough spilling her secrets to Jackson, but to just blurt out really intimate details to these people who she barely knew—she felt naked. Exposed. She wanted to drag the words back and return to hiding under the warm layers of protection she’d wrapped around herself.
Then Elizabeth’s arm came around her shoulder and she was being hugged.
“But you came through it a strong, warm, clever woman who has achieved so much. I’m sure she is proud of you now.”
“We don’t speak. I’m a reminder of the worst years of her life. She moved to New Zealand to ‘start fresh.’”
“And your father?”
Kayla thought of the envelope waiting back in the cabin. “He sends money every Christmas. He’s always been generous financially. He was the one who paid for me to go to boarding school after they split up.”
Another silence followed that statement, and this time it was Élise who broke it.
“Okay, that is truly shit. Are you sure you’re not just telling me this story so that I feel sympathy and let you off cooking? Because it won’t work. If your mother didn’t teach you to boil an egg, then I will. No excuses.”
It was the perfect way to handle it.
Kayla smiled, grateful for the sensitivity that came without sentimentality. “I can boil an egg.”
“I bet you can’t boil it without cracking it.” Back to her old self, Élise measured out more flour. “I need to add some more flour to this or the quantities will be wrong. I didn’t allow for you dropping most of it on the dog. I am going to run cooking classes for you and Brenna. Everyone should be able to cook. If nothing else, it is a useful seduction technique.”