Fitz is sitting on the kitchen counter, eating cheese and crackers and nuts and watching me assemble ingredients on the counter. “I doubt it.”
“But maybe?”
“Maybe.” He tosses an almond in the air and catches it with his mouth.
It’s amazing, bordering on astonishing, the way he’s able to resume normal programming. As if that weird scene in the basement never happened. But maybe that’s the point. He accused me of being the petty, jealous best friend I am, I assured him that I’m not, and that’s all he needed to put me back in my proper box. The one labeled BEST FRIEND and not GIRLFRIEND.
“Good enough for me.” Without yeast, this is a lost cause, and I’m not ready to give up, not even with the thick blanket of clouds building in the sky, or the outside thermometer that says eight degrees. Baking puts me in a calm, meditative space, and I need that to forget Fitz’s eyes on mine or the hard edge to his voice when he said I was his “friend.” Emphasis on not-girl. I throw on my jacket and gloves.
“Where are you going?” Whit asks as he bounces the baby around the room with a worried frown. Meg hovers nervously beside him.
“On a yeast-finding expedition.”
“Will you grab fever medicine for the baby?”
Meg puts her hands on the baby’s cheeks, her face growing grim. “She’s getting worse.” As Fitz and I step outside, they whisk the baby down the hall, whispering frantically to each other.
The brutal cold sucks the air from my lungs and stings against my face. The air feels different today. Like the whole world is holding its breath in anticipation, and Fitz and I are the only souls who dared to disturb the universe.
Fitz first drives to the Dollar General. Closed. Family Dollar. Locked and dark and no getting inside. The only activity in town is near the train station.
“Maybe the gift shop is open,” I say.
“They won’t have yeast there.”
“But they might have baby Tylenol.”
Nope. Another strike. Back in the car, Fitz tells me he has one last idea and drives into town, scanning the driveways and streets for signs of life. “I don’t want to randomly knock on doors on Christmas, but if I see someone outside—bingo.” He pulls the car to the side of the road, where an old man is shaking a box of salt over his front walk. Fitz rolls down the passenger window and leans across the console, his face perilously close to mine. “Merry Christmas! Can I ask for a favor?”
The man ambles slowly to the car. “What can I do for you?”
“We need baby Tylenol and every store in town is closed.”
“You have a baby back there?” He peers through the back window.
“No, sir. We’re on an errand for her parents. Do you have any we could borrow? I’ll buy you a new bottle when the store’s open tomorrow and drop it by.”
“It’s been a long while since we’ve had a baby in this house, but I’ll check.”
“And yeast!” Fitz calls as the man turns back to the house. “If we could borrow yeast, we’d owe you forever.”
He returns a few minutes later with a jar of yeast, the same brand I use at home, and no medicine. “Sorry about that.” He hands me the jar.
“I’ll bring you a loaf of bread as a thank-you,” I reply.
“Don’t.” He draws a deep inhale. “The snow’s comin’ and the TV says it’s gonna be nasty.”
I sit up in my seat and grip the jar of yeast. “When?”
He squints into the sky, his eyes full of the wisdom that comes with a life spent in the mountains. Or maybe he’s trying to remember what the meteorologist said. Probably the latter. “A couple of hours,” he says, his voice gravelly and low and filled with premonitions of bad things to come. Or maybe he needs to clear his throat.
The cabin is quiet. Jane’s at the train depot, because apparently the train doesn’t stop for impending snowstorms. I asked Fitz why anyone would want to visit the North Pole on Christmas Day, when the presents have been delivered and surely Santa is too tired to stand in the middle of town waving at a train of incoming children, but he said it’s tradition. The train runs well into January, which is stretching the limits of believability, if you ask me. Gray is conked out on the couch next to Mr. Wilding, their stomachs rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
I start with a simple artisan loaf. It couldn’t be easier to bake, but it always impresses. Not that I need to worry about impressing Fitz’s family. He made that painfully clear. I’m waiting for the yeast to bubble when Meg finally appears. “Did you find the medicine?”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry. We looked everywhere. How’s she doing?”
“She’s miserable and her fever keeps climbing.”
“How high is it?” Since Mom works at the ER, I hear plenty of stories about panicked parents bringing in their babies, claiming fever as soon as the thermometer hits ninety-nine. I can’t help but hope Meg and Whit are those kinds of parents, and that the baby doesn’t even need medicine.
“One hundred and three.” She looks out the window behind me. “It’s snowing.”
“It is?” I turn quickly, almost knocking my mixing bowl to the floor. Fat, puffy snowflakes drift past the window, already sticking to the deck and the car and the trees.
“I don’t want to get stuck here with a sick baby.”
“Stuck?”
“Snowed in. Whit’s going to freak. He’s probably already packing.”
“Fitz didn’t mention anything about getting snowed in.”
“It’s always a possibility. Especially with these mountain roads. It can take days to clear them. I have to go talk to Whit and check on the baby. Good luck with your bread.”
The next hour is a flurry of excitement and chaos as the snow builds steadily on the ground. I glance out the window every thirty seconds, anticipation building low in my gut. Jane calls, reporting that Santa Claus is sick and they need a replacement. Mr. Wilding rises quickly, if begrudgingly, from his chair. I get the feeling this is not the first time this has happened. He and Noelle leave first, because apparently, he’s a terrible driver and she doesn’t trust him, even in a few inches of snow. Meg and Whit take the kids next, hastily packing their minivan with luggage and Christmas presents, shouting apologies for leaving so suddenly.
By the time Fitz, Darcy, and I are alone in the house, the artisan bread is rising on the counter, a loaf of gingerbread is in the oven, and I’m rolling out buttery crescent rolls. Darcy and Fitz are at the table in the kitchen, working quietly on the puzzle. I gaze at the pans of rising dough, my heartbeat and hands steady, my head clear for the first time all day.
With the rolls rising, I begin to mix the dough for a braided cinnamon loaf. I pulled up the recipe on my phone and followed it exactly, but the dough is too sticky. It clings to my fingers in a way that will make it impossible to work with. I measure another tablespoon of flour and add it to the mixer. And then I add another.
“What are you doing?” Fitz asks. I explain how elevation and climate affect baking. The higher you are, the more flour you need. “Huh.” Fitz smirks as he tries to shove a puzzle piece where it doesn’t belong.