John spent more time at home the following year and threw all his energy into making the Rocca world appear perfect. The boys had never been cleaner. The lawn had never been lusher. The Christmas decorations had never been cheerier. Juliet’s sphere was reduced to the kitchen, and for twelve months, she never stopped baking. Each brownie was a brick in the wall she built to shield her children from their father’s disdain. She countered John’s insults with banana bread. She snuck them shortcake after spankings. By the time summer rolled around once again, the punishments for squirming in church or coming home with grass stains on their jeans had become so draconian that no baked goods could compensate. Juliet and the children lived in fear. They were all so relieved when a fancy new boat appeared in the driveway that Juliet never dared ask her husband where he had found the money.
But she couldn’t slow down the production line. She kept baking, day and night. She made chocolate croissants for Sunday school and cupcakes for the PTA, and almost single-handedly supplied every bake sale in town. Everyone told John he’d married the perfect homemaker. He took a tray of his wife’s baked goods to work every morning. His softball players munched cannoli in the dugout. She made sure each Mattauk police officer got a custom-baked birthday cake. Her giant sons and their friends gorged on mountains of muffins and miles of strudel.
When the last Rocca boy left for college, the pastries and desserts began to pile up. Unable to bear seeing her work go to waste, Juliet started consuming her own creations. John let her put on five pounds before he informed her she was getting too fat. But Juliet couldn’t stop eating. She was left with no other choice than to start throwing it up.
That worked for a while. Then Juliet’s hair began falling out in clumps. Her skin reeked of onions and sores formed on her gums and her lips. Their family doctor was John’s fishing buddy. She couldn’t take her troubles to him. Fortunately, she found help in the ladies’ room at church. That’s where she heard Rosa and Sofia Mancino whispering about the witch on Woodland Drive.
“Harriett Osborne can fix that, no problem,” Rosa assured Juliet when she showed the sisters the growing bald patch on her scalp. “She’ll probably even do it for free. When I went to see her, she wouldn’t take any payment.”
So, the next day, Juliet took the witch a Snickers cake instead.
“My name is Juliet,” she informed the wild-looking woman who answered the door. “I need your help.”
“I know who you are. I’ve been hoping you’d come.” Harriett stuck a finger into the center of the cake and then popped it into her mouth. “Tastes like distraction with a side of denial,” she said. Then she carried the cake to the backyard and unceremoniously dumped it on top of the compost heap.
“You keep eating shit like that and you’ll die,” the witch told her. “Is that what you want?”
“No.” Juliet began to sob. “But I can’t seem to stop.”
“You’re filling your face because there’s something you’re trying hard not to see,” the witch told her. “If you want to get better, the first thing you need to do is look. For the next three days, you will drink nothing but water and consume nothing but air. You will spend eight hours every day staring out at the ocean. At the end of that time, everything should be clear.”
“And that will end it?”
“No,” Harriett said bluntly. “This will.” She passed Juliet a little brown bag.
Juliet opened it and looked. Inside were what appeared to be three small white carrots and two index cards. Written on one was a single URL. The other contained a set of instructions. The first line read “Purchase a pair of neoprene gloves.”
Juliet looked up. “Is this a spell?” she asked. “I don’t know if I’m up for something like that. I’m not like you.”
“Think of it as a recipe for the last thing you’ll ever need to bake,” Harriett told her. “But the truth is, Ms. Rocca—and I suspect deep down, you already know this—every recipe is a spell. And all cooks are witches.”