“Isla is packing the food. Just bring some water for yourself. Meet you at half ten at the bakeshop.” Lachlan gives us a wave, and then both boys take off.
Once they’re out of earshot, I turn to Dakota and give her a playful grin. “Hear that? Isla is packing us food. Maybe she’ll let you taste her muffin.”
“Grow up.” Dakota chucks a rolled-up napkin at me.
“What on earth are you doing?” Dakota says as she shuts the door to the cottage.
“Damn you, dough!” I scream. I flop back on the kitchen floor and sit cross-legged, my hands extended so I don’t get any of the butter-lard mixture that’s caked on my hands anywhere.
“Uh . . . what is happening?”
“I’m trying to make butteries,” I say, just about ready to throw a fit.
“Is that why you wanted to leave the shop early?”
“Yes,” I answer, exasperated. “I found a simple recipe online, went to the Mill Market, where Shona helped me collect the ingredients, and then I came back here, confident that you’d be coming home to fresh, warm butteries.” I toss my arm toward the pile of melting dough on the counter. “But that is my third attempt, and I honestly think I might throw it down the well.”
“Why are you trying to make butteries?”
“I don’t know. The way Lachlan and Leith were talking about them, I thought it would be fun to get domestic, you know? I make boxed cake all the time; why not try something new?”
“Bonnie.” She walks over and squats down so we’re eye to eye. “You know I love you, but boxed cake is completely different from a homemade pastry.”
“Uh, I do two-tiered boxed cakes. That’s special and challenging.”
“Yes, but it also only requires you to measure correctly and stir. It doesn’t call for yeast and whatever goop is all over your hands.”
I glance down. “It has been slightly more difficult.”
“I can tell.” She sweetly rubs her hand over my shoulder. “It’s so nice that you were trying something new, though.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s something new.” I start to perk up. “Hey, look at me stepping out of my comfort zone.”
“I’m very proud of you.”
I rise to my feet and stare at the mess on the counter.
“You know, I think I’m going to make this my mission. I’m going to master the buttery while I’m here. And I’m going to bring it back to America and open a buttery food truck, with homemade currant jam. And people from all over the country are going to come to my food truck and ask me to butter their buttery, and then movie sets will catch wind of my butteries and hire my truck to come feed their team, and when the assholes who fired me come to the truck, I’ll tell them I just ran out and that maybe if they hadn’t been so rude to me, I would be able to find some extras in the back for them.”
“Wow, spent some time thinking about this?” Dakota chuckles.
“No, it all just flashed in front of me.”
“You’re ridiculous, but I love you.”
I go to my dough on the counter and poke it. “It just keeps melting and I don’t know why, but I’m going to figure it out. Who knows, maybe I can bring some to the picnic this Sunday. Surprise everyone.”
“I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling renewed. I can do this. I’ve got to channel my inner baking skills.
This time Sunday, I’m going to have quite the surprise for our new friends.
“How’s it coming?” Dakota asks, stepping out of her room, empty bowl in hand.
“Butteries can go to hell.”
“That well, huh?”
“No wonder the Scots call them the ‘roadkill pastry’—that’s where they belong, next to all the other lonely carcasses. I’m a failure.”
I stare down at my creation. Flat as a pancake, with butter oozing out the sides, it is very displeasing to the eyes.
“Don’t give up, Bonnie. I know you can do this.”
“Your enthusiasm is only irritating me.”
“Fine. You suck at life.”
I look up at my best friend, my brow furrowed. “Hey, now, that was just mean.”
“Tough love, baby.”
“Oh my God, Bonnie, is the cottage burning down?” Dakota says as she flies through the front door, still holding her keys from closing up the coffee shop. She waves a hand in front of her face, clearing out the smoke.