Taste of Honey

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Authors: Eileen Goudge
in a heartbeat,” Claire said, meaning it. “I’m so sick of my job I could scream.”
    “What about another branch of law? It’s not too late to switch.”
    “How can I think about changing careers with this thing hanging over me?”
    “Mommy, look!” Maddie crowed. “I drawed a bunny rabbit.”
    Kitty wandered over to have a look. “Is that a carrot in his mouth?”
    Maddie giggled, the image of her mother with her elfin face and cloud of strawberry curls. Only her determined little chin and lower lip that thrust out when she was mad were Sean’s. “Not a carrot. A banana. ”
    “I didn’t know bunnies ate bananas.”
    Maddie nodded vigorously. “Yeah, they do.”
    “Well, in that case, we’ll leave one for the Easter bunny this year.” She kissed the top of her daughter’s head and went to check on the pie. The scent of pumpkin and spices filled the kitchen as she eased open the oven door. From outside came the buzz of a chain saw: Sean trimming the elm tree out back.
    Kitty rolled the dough into a fat sausage. “You don’t need my advice,” she told Claire. “Your mind was made up when you walked in. You only wanted me to second the motion.” Her voice was as matter-of-fact as Maddie’s insisting that bunnies ate bananas.
    “I wish I were certain,” Claire said.
    She watched Kitty pinch the ends of the dough and then slice it into cinnamon-swirled wedges. She’d scarcely finished arranging them in a pan when the timer pinged. In a seamless motion she took the pie from the oven, and slid in the tray of buns.
    “Want me to put those out front?” Claire asked, indicating the baked goods cooling on the counter. Though she no longer got paid for it, she often pitched in when she was around. And it looked as if Kitty could use a hand. Willa was late as usual and the young woman who’d taken Claire’s place was on vacation until next week.
    “Would you?” Kitty shot her a grateful look.
    In the sunny front room, Claire lined the wicker baskets in the display case with clean sheets of parchment before arranging the baked goods in neat little piles: muffins of every kind—blueberry, cranberry-orange, pumpkin, apple streusel, peach—cookies fat as doorknobs, golden turnovers edged in crispy brown lace. There were currant scones, slices of orange pound cake drizzled with syrup, and a recipe of hers that Kitty had adapted: lemon-coconut bars made from the Meyer lemons that grew out back.
    Stepping back to admire the effect, she thought once more how wonderful it would be if she could spend every day like this, steeped in tantalizing fragrances, surrounded by the familiar faces of regulars who’d come to seem more like family. Like old Josie Hendricks, the retired schoolteacher who was one of the first to arrive each morning. And Gladys Honeick, proprietress of Glad Tide-ins, the beachwear shop two doors down, who last year had tied the knot—where else but here?—with another longtime customer, crusty newspaper owner Mac MacArthur.
    Dream on, a voice scoffed. Kitty would be the first to admit you’d never get rich this way. Some years she barely broke even.
    Claire returned to the kitchen to find that Willa had arrived like a change of season, rubber thongs slapping as she ambled to and fro, fetching eggs and flour and fruit from the pantry. The plus-size Filipina favored tight clothing and splashy prints, like the hot pink sweater embroidered with sequined butterflies she had on now; and though she talked incessantly, mostly about her boyfriends, she never seemed to run out of breath.
    Willa directed her sunny smile at Claire. “You keep hanging around here, pretty soon you’ll be as fat as me.”
    Claire laughed. “I don’t see that it’s hurt you any.”
    Willa giggled. “Oh, I didn’t tell you about my new boyfriend. Deke Peet, how’s that for a name? We met at the Rusty Anchor … you know that place out on Highway One, with the neon sign that blinks? … it’s kinda skeevy but

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