But that’s going to have to wait. Rain or not, today is booked. Starting with getting the dough put together for the cinnamon rolls I promised for today’s game night across the street. I have some errands to run today, so I’ll make the dough and let it go through its first proof, form the rolls, and put them in the refrigerator to rise while I’m out. That way I can bake them, and they’ll be hot and gooey by the time Sam comes. Baking has never been my strongest suit, but my grandmother taught me these rolls when I was little. I haven’t made them in years, but when I got back here, it’s the like the recipe was still waiting for me. It sank back in, and I’ve made them three times since my leave of absence began. Not fantastic for any efforts toward healthy eating. Amazing for making my house smell like fall is settling in.
My house. That phrase has started slipping into my vocabulary more and more recently. It used to only apply to the house my father signed over to me when he disappeared. This house is my grandparents’ house or the house in Sherwood. When the years built up to separate me from the last time I was here, and I almost never mentioned it to anyone, it became ‘the rental house’. But the longer I’m here, the more often it comes to mind as being mine. I like the comfortable, nostalgic feeling that brings. At the same time, it makes it even harder to think about what’s going to happen when my break comes to an end. When I go back to my own life, what will this house become?
I down the last of the cup of coffee and make my way into the kitchen to make another and start the rolls. The sky doesn’t look like it, but the morning is wearing on. I have a small pot of milk warming on the stove as I line up the rest of the ingredients on the table. Everything is there but the yeast. I dig through the cabinets and search the shelves in the pantry. I know I bought yeast yesterday when I went to the grocery store. It’s not something I keep around just for the hell of it, so I had to make a point of buying it to make the rolls for the game today.
The strip of packets isn’t sitting in the spice cabinet where I thought it was. It’s not in the pantry where the rest of the baking ingredients are kept. I dig through a few of the drawers, but I can’t find it. Fractured thoughts suddenly crash into my brain. The necklaces sitting in the living room. A birthday note stuffed down in the cushions of my couch. Mail neatly stacked on my bed. Broken glass scattered on the backseat of a worn-down loaner meant to fit in with a false version of me.
Pressing my hands to the edge of the counter, I squeeze my eyes closed and let out a breath to force the thoughts away. It’s just yeast. Just packets of yeast I can’t find. Because I put them somewhere other than where I thought I did. Not because someone moved them. I draw in another breath and let it out. Moments like this aren’t frequent. But when they hit me, they knock me back. My therapist’s phone number sits in my phone, waiting for me to call in this type of situation. But I don’t. My leave of absence from work includes a leave of absence from letting her dig around in my life.
The yeast must have fallen out of the grocery bag in the car. The thought hits me, breaking me out of the murky memories, and I head outside, grabbing my keys from the hook by the door on the way out. Lessening down to a mist, the rain isn’t as chilling as it would have been a few minutes ago. As soon as the trunk pops open, I see the packages of yeast up against the back. They must have toppled out of a bag when it fell over as I unloaded them yesterday. I grab the packets and am closing the trunk when I notice movement out of the corner of my eye. A dark figure at the corner of my neighbor’s yard picks something up off the ground. It takes a second for me to realize it’s the man who strolls by in the earliest moments of the morning. The jogger.
I’ve never seen him out this long after his usual walk. He straightens and slips his hand back into his pocket. I don’t see what he picked up, but he keeps his hand tucked there, a fist wrapped around whatever it was. As if he suddenly realizes I’m watching him, he turns his head. It’s only for a second, but the face makes my breath catch in my throat. I take a step toward him, trying to make myself breathe, wanting to run toward him, but he looks away again. Without even an acknowledgement, he ducks his head down and continues down the sidewalk.
I stare after him, waiting for him to turn back. Maybe he didn’t recognize me. It’s been ten years. There’s a chance he doesn’t know it’s me. He could think I’m just someone renting the house.
But why would he be here? He’d have no reason to come if he didn’t know I was here. It couldn’t have been him. It’s just the mist and the memories playing tricks on me.
Suddenly I remember the milk sitting on the stove. Pushing the trunk lid down, I rush back inside. The milk’s bubbling, but I’ve caught it right before curdling, so I’m counting that as a bonus for the day. Repositioning the pot on a cold burner to cool a bit, I turn my attention to measuring out the dry ingredients. My phone ringing catches me just as I’m measuring salt. I reach over to where it’s sitting on the corner of the counter and hit the speaker button.
“Hello?”
“Em?”
“Hey, Bellamy. On your way to work?” I ask.
“Stuck in traffic as we speak. What are you up to?” she asks. “Savoring your life of leisure?”
I laugh and tip the salt into the mix.
“Something like that. Probably not as much as Creagan would want. Right now, I’m making cinnamon rolls,” I tell her.
“You make cinnamon rolls?” she asks.
“I do when I’m in Sherwood. Yeast dough and all. Not a single exploding refrigerator can to be seen.”
“It must be a special occasion,” she says.
“Absolutely. I have a hot date with a game of Clue,” I tell her.
“That… doesn’t sound hot at all. You’re terrible at that game.”
I sigh and pour the warm milk into another bowl so I can add the yeast.
“As I’ve been told. If that damn Mr. Boddy would just stop pissing people off enough to get killed all the time, I wouldn’t have to try to figure out which of his suspicious assortment of guests offed him.”
“You know that’s more disturbing when it’s coming from you, right?” she asks.
“Probably.”
“Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I forwarded you something. I forgot to tell you a couple days ago.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It was just in your mail. It’s a big envelope. I’d guess papers of some kind. It should get to you today,” she says.
“Thanks. I appreciate you taking care of the house and everything, Bells.”
“Not a problem. There are a couple of really cute officers assigned to the patrol there. Sometimes I go in just to flip lights on and off so I can look at them.”
I laugh. “You have absolute permission to use any veiling tactic you’d like,” I offer.
“I’ll let you know if it does any good. Almost to work. Send me a cinnamon roll. Oh, and Emma?”
“Yes?”
“It was Ms. Scarlet in the lounge with the candlestick,” she says.
“I knew I couldn’t trust that bitch.”
She laughs, and I end the call. I think I know what the papers are. I’m just not sure I’m ready to see them yet.