Authors: Gloria Repp
“Okay!” He took off at a trot.
That evening Madeleine took her laptop into the kitchen so she could refer to the recipe for a French baguette. She had watched the video, gathered her tools—except she didn’t have a scale for the flour—and was ready. How hard could it be, anyway, with only four ingredients?
She chose a Bach CD from Aunt Lin’s collection and began.
The kneading wasn’t as easy as it looked on the video, but it was pleasant to feel the dough become supple and elastic under her hands. She set it to rise and worked on her paper until the dough had gone through its two risings and was ready to form into loaves.
She plopped it out onto the kneading board, and the phone rang.
Kent. He said that tomorrow he and Remi were going to a place called Widow Bentley's Attic and he thought she could find some useful information there. Would she like to come along?
She hesitated. “Are you sure Remi’s going?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. He likes talking to the widow’s granddaughter.”
“Okay,” she said. She’d check out their website and drive her own car.
“It’ll do you good to get out.” He sounded like a genial doctor. “See you around ten o’clock.”
Widow Bentley's Attic? She pictured Remi flirting with the widow’s granddaughter and smiled to herself. That would be fun to watch
.
She should have said something to Kent about the stepladder he’d borrowed from Timothy. So gallant, letting her think it was his. She would set it on the porch and make sure he took it back.
The dough was still waiting for her. She shaped it into three loaves, which gave her only a little trouble, slashed the tops as directed, and stood back to admire them. Just like the picture. Into the oven now, and she’d have fresh bread for a snack.
By the time she’d cleaned up, the kitchen was filled with the mouth-watering aroma of baking bread. The timer rang, she took the baguettes out of the oven, and immediately knew something was wrong. They had browned nicely, but they looked like . . . sticks.
She picked up one and broke it open. Crust too hard. Dense inside.
Check the recipe.
The third rise! She’d forgotten it. After Kent phoned, she hadn’t gone back to the recipe. She’d just shaped the loaves and put them in to bake. And she’d also forgotten to set a bowl of water beside them in the oven.
She ate half of one anyway, dunked into cocoa, but didn’t have the heart to finish it. Try again tomorrow.
The next morning she made a quick trip to the store to check out
widowbentleysattic.com
, studied a list of their books, and printed out directions for getting there.
When Kent’s Bronco drew up behind the house, no one sat in the passenger’s seat.
He hadn’t taken her hint, had he?
“Good morning!” Kent smiled, striding toward her. “Don’t you look pretty today! Like a woods elf, I think, with that brown jacket and your shiny dark hair.”
“Pointy ears too?”
His smile faded, and for an instant she felt sorry for him, but then he said, “No, your ears are as cute as the rest of you.”
Best to ignore this. “Where’s Remi?”
“Oh,” Kent looked uneasy. “He got held up. He’ll join us there.”
Not likely.
“The stepladder,” she said.
He frowned. “What?”
“The one you borrowed from Timothy for us to use—he needs it back. It’s over there.” She waved at the porch behind her.
His brow cleared. “I’ll come get it sometime.”
“Why don’t you put it into your car now? You can drop it off on your way through town. Timothy needs it.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but something about the look on her face must have made him change his mind. “Whatever you say, elfin princess.”
While he was getting the ladder, she slid into her car and started the engine. He stopped with the ladder halfway to the Bronco. “You don’t have to drive. Why don’t you ride with me?”
“That’s kind of you, but I want to shop on the way back.” She waved her printout. “I’ve got directions.”
He gave her a salute before climbing into his Bronco, and she followed his sedate progress down the driveway. He remembered to stop at Timothy’s store, and then they headed out to Route 532, past Chatsworth.
Widow Bentley’s Attic turned out to be a restored Victorian, complete with gingerbread trim. In the parking lot, Remi was leaning against the fender of a dented black truck.
Kent grinned at him. “I thought you’d be talking to that girl.”
Remi made a face. “She’s not working today.”
“Tough luck,’’ Kent said. “Now, Madeleine, we’ll show you around.”
He stopped his elvish nonsense and became an entertaining tour guide. Each room in the building had a theme relating to the Pine Barrens, with displays on woodcraft, iron production, and glass blowing.
In the early American room, a table was set with period linens and china, along with goblets, cruets, relish dishes, and a covered cake plate, all hand-blown glass.
“This is fascinating,” Madeleine said.
Kent looked smug. “Worth the trip?”
“Yes, and me without my camera.”
“Not to worry,” Kent said. “I’m sure Remi will take pictures of anything your heart desires.”
“Sure thing.” Remi took out the camera. “What do you want?”
“One or two shots of the whole table, from different angles, please, and then a few close-ups.”
Remi circled the table, snapping one photo after another, while Madeleine wrote in her notebook. “Especially that relish dish,” she said. “I think I’ve seen one like it at the Manor.”
Remi bent over the dish.
A voice spoke from the shadows. “That will be close enough.”
Remi straightened, his eyes wide.
A skeleton of a man shuffled toward them. His hair and face were so white, they might have been powdered. “Beware, young man.” His voice cracked, as if dust lay thick on his vocal cords. “You don’t want to fall into all that expensive glass.” He wheezed out a laugh. “You’d spend the rest of your life paying for it.”
“Yes sir, I’ll be careful,” Remi said.
The old man tilted forward, watching as Remi took the picture.
“Thanks,” Madeleine said in a low voice. “That’s plenty. Where’s the bookstore?”
The man trailed after them. “He’s going to keep an eye on us,” Remi whispered. “Beware, don’t fall into the books.”
Madeleine found the books she wanted, and as soon as they were out in the parking lot, she said, “Whew! Who was that?”
For once Kent said something clever. “Must be the Widow Bentley’s husband.”
“Vex not his ghost,”
Remi said, throwing a glance at Madeleine, and she laughed with him.
Macbeth
again.
“Time for lunch,” Kent said, “and I know just the place.” He took them to a nearby restaurant and insisted on treating them to thick meaty sandwiches that he called “genuine New Jersey subs.”
Afterwards, she thanked them both and drove back to buy milk and eggs at Timothy’s store. Widow Bentley’s Attic had been more fun than she expected. Had she misjudged Kent? He’d been charming and generous. Why did she always have to be so critical? Give the guy a break.
Hey-You ambled across the store, waving his tail, and escorted her into Timothy’s office. The table was covered with pieces of soft yellow fabric, and at the far end, behind a sewing machine, sat Timothy.
“I apologize for not getting up,” he said. “Zippers give me trouble.”
“I have to take a firm hand with them, myself,” she said. “What’s your project?”
“A bunting.”
She picked up the pattern from the table. A bunting always reminded her of a miniature snowsuit, but her friends said it was the coziest thing in the world for a baby.
Timothy bent over his work, and the sewing machine whirred as he guided the fabric through it. He seemed to be concentrating, so she held back her questions.
After a minute, the machine stopped and he said, “Too bad. I’ll have to rip it out again.”
“You sound like me. I tried making a baguette last night, and it was terrible. I’ll keep it to beat off the burglars and try again.”
He leaned back, smiling. “You look as if you’ve had a good morning.”
“I did. We went to a place called Widow Bentley's Attic. It’s quite something.”
“Indeed it is,” he said. “You went with your aunt?” He pulled himself to his feet, gathered a handful of yellow pieces, and took them to the ironing board.
“No, she’s gone again. I went with Kent and Remi.”
“I’m just going to press these sleeve pieces.” He pointed to a chair. “Stay a minute. Tell me what you saw.”
She described the displays, and the books she’d bought, and the ghostly old man who waited on them. She hadn’t planned to say anything about Kent, but Timothy might give her some insights.
“Sometimes Kent is a bit too . . . attentive,” she said, “and sometimes he’s irritating, but we had such a good time today, I might have to change my mind about him.”
Timothy put down the yellow fleece and gazed at her.
In case he thought she had romantic notions about Kent, she added quickly, “Not that it matters. One marriage was enough for me.”
Too much, she could have said. But it was her own fault. She’d let herself be pushed into it by her family—
marry a doctor, imagine that!
—and Brenn had a knack for making himself irresistible.
“No more entanglements.” She straightened in the chair, picked up a pincushion. “From now on, I’m going to be independent—strong and independent, no matter what. I don’t want to need anybody. Not ever again.”
Two pins fell off the pincushion. She jabbed them back into place and looked up in time to see Timothy’s eyes darken with concern.
But all he did was start sewing another seam. “And Remi went along today? I find him interesting.”
“So do I.” A safer subject. “For someone who grew up in an orphanage, he seems to have had a remarkably good education.”
“Why do you say that?”
She arranged the blue pins into a circle while considering the question. “In general, he’s more polished than I’d have expected. He has above-average research skills. And he’s acquainted with literature—Shakespeare, at least.”
“He’s learning to play the guitar, too,” Timothy said. “Nathan’s teaching him. Did he tell you?”
Madeleine shook her head, and Timothy went on. “Remi plays at our singing time—it’s good practice, he says—and I think he’d like to play during the song service at church, but he’s not ready yet.”
“What do you mean?”
Timothy finished pinning the sleeves onto the body section. “Besides knowing the right chords, his heart should be there too. God wants us to worship Him in spirit and in truth. Right now Remi cares nothing for God, so he can’t properly lead us in worship. But he may change. God has a way of doing marvels.”
He fixed his bright eyes on her. “Have you heard about our little group that meets on Sunday mornings? Upstairs.” He nodded at the ceiling. “Eleven o’clock.”
The unspoken invitation was there, but she’d try to get out of it, if she could. She had endured enough church services to last a lifetime. Her gaze fell on the dog. “And does Hey-You join in your worship?”
Hearing his name, the dog rose to his feet, stretched, and laid his head in Timothy’s lap.
He rubbed the torn brown ear. “I’m thinking that he worships in his own way.” He smiled down at the dog. “Speaking of our canine friend, would you like to have him visit for a few days?”
“Oh!” She hadn’t expected such a gift. “But Aunt Lin will be back on Sunday.”
“At least for tonight and tomorrow, if you wish.” He braced himself on the table and stood up. “Let me send along some dog food. Is there anything else you need?”
“Milk and eggs. But first, tell me about your project.”
“This?” He picked up a scrap of fleece. “Every once in a while I amuse myself by making something warm for a baby.”
“Any particular baby?” She had to smile at the thought of Timothy with a baby.
“For my friend—Charlotte Martinera. She’s a midwife, and many of her young mothers can’t afford the luxury of fleece. She’s had a busy fall, so I set myself a goal of making at least a dozen buntings before Thanksgiving.”
“What a good idea,” Madeleine said.
Timothy limped ahead of her into the store. “You mustn’t forget your groceries.”