fluctuated; however, Natalie had received a sizable inheritance when her parents died, and her house was beautifully furnished. She’d turned the master bedroom into a fantasy suite complete with a whirlpool tub, and the backyard was filled with top-of-the-line playground equipment for the boys. The kitchen had granite countertops and a beautiful ceramic-tile floor. On the walls throughout the house were original watercolor paintings. Natalie was a talented artist who specialized in beach and nature scenes. She’d given Amy two paintings as gifts. Amy hung one in her kitchen and the other in the master bedroom.
Jeff believed it would be hard for Luke and Natalie to recoup what they’d invested in the house when they sold it, but Amy knew Natalie didn’t think that way. She feathered her nest the best she could, then opened it up for others to enjoy. An invitation to one of her holiday parties or summer cookouts was highly prized in the neighborhood.
Amy rang the door chime that played the first few notes of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. In a few seconds Natalie opened the door. She was wearing an apron that made her look like a busy housewife from the 1960s.
“What have you been doing?” Amy asked.
“Cooking something messy. I’d like to give you a hug, but I don’t want to get anything on you. Come into the kitchen.”
Amy could see splotches of brown, green, and yellow on the apron.
“Where did you get the apron?” she asked as she followed Natalie through the family room with its large flat-screen TV and fancy speaker system. A separate part of the family room was arranged for people to sit and talk.
“It belonged to my grandmother. I found it when I was cleaning out my mother’s house and couldn’t bear the thought of throwing it away. When I was a little girl, my grandmother would wear it when we made sugar cookies or brownies.”
“What are you making today?”
“I hoped it would be a treat for our lunch, but it’s turned into a science experiment.”
They entered the kitchen.
“Walk softly,” Natalie whispered.
“Why?”
“I don’t want the soufflé to fall.”
Amy glanced at the wall-mounted oven.
“What kind of soufflé?”
“Herb. It’s got basil, rosemary, thyme, nutmeg, fresh mustard, Monterey Jack cheese, and more eggs than a doctor would recommend for a lumberjack to eat in a month. I bought a bunch of fresh stuff at the new organic market.”
“Sounds like fun.”
A buzzer went off.
“That’s it,” Natalie said.
Natalie gingerly took a pair of oven mitts from a drawer and cautiously opened the oven door. She raised one of the mitts to her mouth.
“Uh-oh,” she said.
She reached into the oven and took out the soufflé and held it so Amy could see it. The dish was golden brown with generous green sprinkles, but it was as lopsided as a ski slope. One side towered over the other, which had completely collapsed.
“It looks like a volcano erupted and blew off half the mountain,” Natalie said with a frown as she set the casserole dish on a blue trivet. She pointed at the collapsed side. “And the people who lived on this side were buried alive under a molten egg-and-cheese mixture.”
Amy laughed. “I bet it tastes scrumptious.”
Natalie took off the apron and hung it on a hook beside the stove.
“I wonder why it does that?” she said, inspecting the soufflé from another angle. “The one on the cooking show was as flat as an airport runway.”
“You’re inspiring me,” Amy responded.
“What do you mean?”
“The way you describe your soufflé is more entertaining than some of the scenes I write in my books.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better. At least it’s you. I’d hate to serve something like this to a group of women from the church.”
There was a small antique cherry table against one wall of the kitchen with a vase of fresh flowers in the middle. Natalie scooped out a serving of soufflé from the fluffy side for Amy and
Jeff believed it would be hard for Luke and Natalie to recoup what they’d invested in the house when they sold it, but Amy knew Natalie didn’t think that way. She feathered her nest the best she could, then opened it up for others to enjoy. An invitation to one of her holiday parties or summer cookouts was highly prized in the neighborhood.
Amy rang the door chime that played the first few notes of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. In a few seconds Natalie opened the door. She was wearing an apron that made her look like a busy housewife from the 1960s.
“What have you been doing?” Amy asked.
“Cooking something messy. I’d like to give you a hug, but I don’t want to get anything on you. Come into the kitchen.”
Amy could see splotches of brown, green, and yellow on the apron.
“Where did you get the apron?” she asked as she followed Natalie through the family room with its large flat-screen TV and fancy speaker system. A separate part of the family room was arranged for people to sit and talk.
“It belonged to my grandmother. I found it when I was cleaning out my mother’s house and couldn’t bear the thought of throwing it away. When I was a little girl, my grandmother would wear it when we made sugar cookies or brownies.”
“What are you making today?”
“I hoped it would be a treat for our lunch, but it’s turned into a science experiment.”
They entered the kitchen.
“Walk softly,” Natalie whispered.
“Why?”
“I don’t want the soufflé to fall.”
Amy glanced at the wall-mounted oven.
“What kind of soufflé?”
“Herb. It’s got basil, rosemary, thyme, nutmeg, fresh mustard, Monterey Jack cheese, and more eggs than a doctor would recommend for a lumberjack to eat in a month. I bought a bunch of fresh stuff at the new organic market.”
“Sounds like fun.”
A buzzer went off.
“That’s it,” Natalie said.
Natalie gingerly took a pair of oven mitts from a drawer and cautiously opened the oven door. She raised one of the mitts to her mouth.
“Uh-oh,” she said.
She reached into the oven and took out the soufflé and held it so Amy could see it. The dish was golden brown with generous green sprinkles, but it was as lopsided as a ski slope. One side towered over the other, which had completely collapsed.
“It looks like a volcano erupted and blew off half the mountain,” Natalie said with a frown as she set the casserole dish on a blue trivet. She pointed at the collapsed side. “And the people who lived on this side were buried alive under a molten egg-and-cheese mixture.”
Amy laughed. “I bet it tastes scrumptious.”
Natalie took off the apron and hung it on a hook beside the stove.
“I wonder why it does that?” she said, inspecting the soufflé from another angle. “The one on the cooking show was as flat as an airport runway.”
“You’re inspiring me,” Amy responded.
“What do you mean?”
“The way you describe your soufflé is more entertaining than some of the scenes I write in my books.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better. At least it’s you. I’d hate to serve something like this to a group of women from the church.”
There was a small antique cherry table against one wall of the kitchen with a vase of fresh flowers in the middle. Natalie scooped out a serving of soufflé from the fluffy side for Amy and
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