Chapter 3 - The Secret Ingredients
Catherine took a slow sip of water, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she looked up at her son. “She didn't do anything to me, Isaac. She just treated me like a person instead of a fragile piece of antique porcelain.”
“Mrs. Mercer, don't encourage him,” Megan muttered, tossing the damp towel into the laundry hamper by the pantry. “He looks like he’s about to draft a fifteen-page liability waiver for my employment contract.”
“I don't draft waivers,” Isaac said automatically, though a faint, unfamiliar twitch played at the corner of his mouth. “I draft non-disclosure agreements and employment terms.”
“Wonderful,” Megan deadpanned, untying her apron and tossing it over the back of a chair. “Can’t wait to sign away my right to bake cinnamon biscuits.”
Catherine pointed a frail finger toward the cooling rack on the counter, where a half-dozen misshapen, dark-bottomed biscuits sat steaming under a linen cloth.
“Try one, Isaac.”
Isaac looked from his mother to the baked goods, which bore a striking resemblance to small, radioactive meteorites. “Mom, I just flew in from Chicago. I had airport lounge food. My stomach lining is currently navigating a hostile corporate takeover.”
“It’s a biscuit,” Catherine insisted, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Megan made them. Well, we made them together. Mostly she supervised while I made a mess.”
Isaac pulled out a chair opposite his mother and sat down. It felt profoundly strange to sit at the kitchen table in the middle of the afternoon like a regular guest who had arrived at the wrong address, rather than the man who paid the mortgage, the utilities, and every person under this roof.
Catherine reached out, picked up one of the denser-looking biscuits, and placed it on a small dessert plate, pushing it across the scarred wooden surface toward him.
The bottom of the pastry was nearly pitch-black, charred from an oven rack set too high. The center appeared dense and heavy enough to stop highway construction equipment.
Isaac picked it up. It felt remarkably heavy for its size.
Megan watched him with open, unmasked anxiety, crossing her arms defensively over her chest. “Well?”
Catherine beamed with maternal pride. “Go on, try it.”
Isaac looked down at his mother’s flour-dusted cheek, then at Megan’s defensive stance. With a silent sigh of resignation, he broke off a small piece of the crust.
It resisted his fingers like a dried kitchen sponge.
He popped it into his mouth and chewed.
The flavor hit him instantly: an overwhelming wave of sharp, metallic baking powder, heavy scorched flour, and an accidental avalanche of cinnamon that coated his tongue like sawdust. It was, without a shadow of a doubt, the single worst thing he had ever tasted in his thirty-four years of life.
He swallowed hard, his throat protesting every inch of the descent.
“Well?” Catherine demanded again, leaning forward.
Isaac swallowed, plastered on the most convincing poker face he had ever used in a high-stakes corporate negotiation, and looked his mother dead in the eye.
“It’s perfect.”
Megan stared at him, her mouth falling slightly open in utter disbelief.
Catherine beamed, her chest swelling with triumph. “See? I told you! Everyone online says baking is an exact science, but it’s really just about intuition.”
“You are a shameless, pathological liar,” Megan said, pointing an accusing finger straight at Isaac. “Your left eye literally twitched when you swallowed. You’re tasting baking soda and charcoal.”
Isaac took another agonizingly slow bite, chewing with deliberate slowness just to prove a point. “I am a supportive son.”
“You’re a multimillionaire tech executive,” Megan countered, shaking her head. “Surely you can afford basic honesty.”
Catherine threw her head back and laughed again—that bright, unexpected sound that seemed to chase the gray shadows out of the old kitchen corners.
May you like
And Isaac, who had walked through that front door thirty minutes earlier expecting nothing more than a quiet evening of corporate paperwork and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, suddenly felt a sharp, painful tightening in his throat.
He ate the entire terrible biscuit down to the last crumb.
