The Sweetness of Salt(46)

“I bet you could bake anything,” I said finally, as she set the timer.

“I’ll try anything when it comes to baking.” Sophie nodded toward the oven. “I’ve made those biscuits so many times over the years I don’t even need a recipe. The trick is the butter. It’s gotta be cold.”

“You really do like baking, don’t you?” I said stupidly.

“I don’t think there’s anything else in the world I’d rather do,” Sophie said. She had started washing at the sink; clouds of soap suds encircled her wrists. A soft, floury scent had already begun to fill the room. “I love everything about baking.”

I felt a twinge of jealousy. “I remember one time you told me that your favorite thing about baking was being in the kitchen with a head full of ideas.”

Sophie laughed. “That sounds pretty accurate.”

“What else do you like about it?”

She shook the soap suds from her hands and then leaned against the sink. For a moment she stared out at the fading light through the window, then she turned back around. “I think the preciseness of it. Baking demands an exactness that I love. It calms me down for some reason. Centers me.” She shrugged. “It probably sounds really weird, but I like the fact that when you bake, you have to follow a specific set of rules in order to get the right result.” She wiped her hands on the edge of her jeans. “A lot of people like to cook for the exact opposite reason—if they add too much of this or don’t have enough of that, they don’t have to worry; they can just substitute something else. Not knowing how or what they’re going to end up with is exciting, I guess.” She shook her head. “Not me. I’d rather know right from the beginning what I’m going to get.”

She pulled a dishcloth from her shoulder and began wiping it over the countertop. “Besides, I never feel this way anywhere else.”

“What way?”

“Happy,” she said simply. “I’m happier in a kitchen than anywhere else.”





chapter


33


We had three biscuits apiece, warm and slathered with real butter, along with several hunks of cheddar cheese and cold slices of apple. It was, I thought as I lay in bed later, one of the most perfect meals I could remember having. The biscuits were ridiculously good, pillows of lightness that melted on my tongue, and the apple and cheese were crisp and flavorful. Sophie was still working downstairs, applying a second coat of primer to the front room. She never stopped. I felt guilty going to bed, but she had insisted and I hadn’t objected.

Now, after lying there, listening to her muted movements beneath the floor, I got up and padded across the room to the dresser. The sketch book Sophie had gotten me was in the bottom drawer, and I took it out. A soft laugh came from somewhere in the back of my throat as I opened it up and stared at the blank page. God. I couldn’t really draw. Drawing was just…something to pass the time. Something that broke up the monotony of studying and thinking and worrying all the time. Though I didn’t have to bury it completely. A lawyer was allowed to sketch, wasn’t she?

I dragged one of the milk crates over to the window and pushed back the curtains. For a moment I just looked out at the street. Ten feet ahead of me, one of the street lamps threw a small pool of light onto the sidewalk below. Beyond that, the Laundromat, the pizza place, and Perry’s sat in the dark.

Suddenly, beneath the street lamp, the squirrel I had seen earlier appeared. It paused for a moment, then sat up on its haunches, nibbling something in its tiny paws. Without thinking, I picked up my pencil and began to draw. First the tiny head and ears. A slightly bulbous stomach, and a thin, bottlebrush tail.

Would I ever be as good a trial lawyer as Dad? Dad had an assertiveness, an arrogant confidence about him that I did not. He’d always said you needed to have self-reliance to stand up in front of a jury. The words you chose could determine the outcome of the entire trial, so how you spoke was critical. You had to be staunch. Committed. Fierce. Things that—at least right now—I was not sure I was. Could those qualities be learned? Or did you just have to have it in you, the way Dad did?

The squirrel scampered on, but I kept drawing. The stretch of buildings across the street: the Laundromat, Poultney Pizza, and Perry’s, each one aglow under the street lights. I’d never sketched anything in the dark before. It was thrilling in a way, trying to capture the absence of light.

An hour came and went as I moved the pencil across the page. What if Dad had been a banker? Would working with money have appealed to me the same way the law did? What if he were an electrician? Or a cook? Was it possible that I would have latched on to whatever he did? It was hard to know. God, it was hard to know anything these days.

I held my breath as I heard Sophie coming up the stairs. She paused just outside my door. I sat motionless, wondering if she had heard me. But then she moved on, going into the room next to mine and shutting the door.

I kept my lights off and continued drawing.



Later, I woke to a strange sound. For about ten seconds, I couldn’t remember where I was. My eyes roved frantically around the darkened room, taking in the unfamiliar window and the enormous oak tree, like a peeping Tom, behind the glass. Then my eyes fell on the tiny neon sign blinking in Perry’s window across the street and I remembered. But the sound—what was that? I crept out of bed and tiptoed down the hall to investigate.