The look in Grant’s eyes changed from contemplation to that of a befuddled lad, and Edith released a long breath. When she’d arrived home the previous evening, she had discussed the confrontation with her mother. She couldn’t help it when Mother dressed the wounded hand.
“You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.” Mother said the words in perfect seriousness, although they both smiled. But neither mother nor daughter could contain their laughter. “In all seriousness, you are more likely to gain the young Mr. Oscar’s favor if you are as sweet as the honey you crave than if you demand he honor the verbal agreement you had with his father.”
A long string of “buts” had led to Edith’s capitulation and to the care she had taken with her appearance this morning. She had exchanged yesterday’s dress for a green calico with so many flowers that she might have plucked her skirt straight from the meadow. The green flattered her coloring. She might not have the beauty of a Gibson Girl, but she could turn a man’s head when she tried.
And then Grant appeared. His years at sea had given him an extra swagger, something that would draw a woman’s eyes.
She shook her head in an attempt to rid her mind of such foolishness and went outside. He waved a hand in greeting.
“Good morning, Mr. Oscar. I didn’t expect to see you so early.” She waved back with her bandaged hand then pulled it back. “You added more honey. That wasn’t necessary.”
“You planned to fill your pail. I want to be certain you have at least that much.” He pulled a wagon full of mason jars, carefully packaged to prevent breakage. The number held far more honey than her single pail could have carried. The generosity of the gift brought tears to her eyes. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Once we get the jars inside, I have something for you as well.”
He nodded. Before she blinked twice, he lifted the wagon and set it on the porch as if it weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. “I’ll leave the wagon on the porch so it won’t dirty up your floor, but now we don’t have to climb up and down the stairs.” Even with a jar in each hand and a third hugged to his chest, he still managed to open the door by himself.
Edith called after him. “The pantry is to the right of the kitchen.”
“I remember.” His voice floated back in her direction.
Edith picked up two jars. Grant had already returned. He hustled back and forth, finishing two trips to every one of hers. Of course, he probably had a thousand things planned for the day and wanted to take care of this business as quickly as possible.
Every time he walked through the kitchen, he passed by the dried-apple cake she had made as part of her honey-not-vinegar approach, but he paid no attention to it. She began to despair.
Soon they emptied the wagon, reaching the kitchen at the same time. Edith stopped in front of the door, blocking the exit. “I was hoping you would sit a spell and eat some of my dried-apple cake. I, um …” The words she meant to say flew out of her head while she stared at him, all muscled and manly, his stance commanding, probably a result of walking on a boat plowing through choppy waves.
He sat down and ended her quandary. “I smelled this as soon as I came into the yard. It’s been teasing me every time I walked by.”
Her cheeks warmed. She kept her back to him as she poured cups of coffee, grabbed two plates with cutlery and a sharp knife to cut the cake.
Since this was a new recipe, she had several questions about his reaction. The original recipe called for rum in the brown sugar icing, but they didn’t keep spirits of any kind in the house. The adjustments she’d tried on the first batch left it grainy and thick, so she used her standard honey glaze on this batch.
She cut him a standard-sized slice. “Enjoy. You’re welcome to eat as much as you want.” She cut a similar-sized slice for herself and added a small pitcher of cream and another of honey on the table. “If you want regular sugar, let me know.”
“I drink my coffee black.” He glanced at the pitcher of honey, as if questioning its presence on the table.
“So do I.” She nibbled on the cake. This latest batch turned out better than she’d expected, raising her hopes for the fair.
But what did Grant think? He took one bite, then a second, and a third. He ate it all without speaking or drinking his coffee. He crushed the last crumbs under his fork.
“Have another slice.” Edith cut a larger slice and handed it to him. He could eat the entire cake, as far as she was concerned.
Grant stared at his empty plate sheepishly. He hadn’t devoured a sweet like that since he was a child and he almost choked on a cookie. “That was good.” He rubbed his stomach to emphasize his point while his mind traced a rabbit trail. “I can’t place the spice, but it seems familiar.”
A satisfied look crossed Edie’s face. “It should smell familiar. I made it with your honey. You’re eating the meadow.” She paused. “The crops you plant will taste good, but you can’t get honey that tastes like this anywhere else in the world. Unique. Like all of God’s creation.”
The fork stopped midway to Grant’s mouth. “The glaze.”
“And in the cake as well. I only use a little cane sugar.”
Grant took a larger bite. It settled on his tongue. He didn’t know much about cooking. He and Pa managed okay, especially since the church ladies brought them meals at least once a week. “If I thought I could bake it myself, I’d ask you for the recipe.”
Edie sat up straight in her chair. “Would you go so far as to say it’s the best cake you’ve ever had?”
The question mattered to her, but he’d play along. “Well, I don’t know, Edie.” He loved the way his use of her old nickname made her cheeks turn pink. “I’ve tasted cakes all over the world.”
Her shoulders slumped for a second then she straightened back up. “Perhaps I should ask if it’s the best cake you’ve ever had in Vermont. Even in all of New England.”
“America?”
Her backbone stiffened again. “Perhaps.”
“Very well.” He brought up a generous chunk of cake on his fork and took it in his mouth. He let it linger. It was definitely American, familiar flavors like cinnamon and apple, a distinctively American variety that made similar fruits the world over seem like imitations.
The cake was sweet and slightly sticky. “It does taste like the meadow.”
Edie clapped her hands together. “So tell me. Is it good?”
“I’ll take another bite to be sure.” He had fun teasing her, drawing out this interaction. “The best in Spruce Hill, definitely, unless a new baker has moved to town since I left.” He ate a third bite. “The best in Vermont? I’ve eaten at the best restaurants in Montpelier and across New England. I’ve never tasted an apple cake to match this one.”
She jumped up and covered her face with her hands, laughing gleefully.
“But I had an apple cake in Washington State that might give it a run for its money.” He gobbled down the rest of the slice and reached for the knife. “I need another slice to make up my mind.”
Edie laughed. “You can eat the whole cake if you want to. I may have to meet the lady in Washington State at some point in the future. If they ever hold a national fair.” She picked up a jar of honey from the pantry. “I intend to sweep the baking competition at the Rutland State Fair so I can raise the money to start my own business. And honey from the Oscar farm is going to get me there.”
Her posture, her voice, could have come from a boat’s captain rousing the ship’s crew to battle. Perhaps she should be a politician and not a baker. Then again, with her spirit, she’d run a successful bakery.
He wished he could let her have all the honey she wanted. She had spunk, and he admired spunk. But his family’s needs came first. “Look. I don’t know how much honey you need. I hope you have enough for the fair and beyond.” With all the pint jars in her pantry, she shouldn’t run out any time soon. “And of course, once we harvest the rest of the honey, before we plow the field under, you are welcome to purchase the rest.”
“That is your right, of course.” She took the cake plate from the table and wrapped it loosely in a towel. “Make sure your father gets a slice. He’s said it takes him to the meadow in his dreams.” After standing uncertainly for a moment, she sat back down. Her fingers trembled where she held the coffee cup. After a bite of cake, a smile had replaced her tears. “I’d love to hear tales of your days at sea.”
Her smile might be a mask, but he applauded her courage. “I joined the navy to see the world. The world turned out to be weeks on the open sea, with nothing in sight but water, water, everywhere. I did see many interesting sights.” His stops at ports around the world had mostly reminded him of the need for the Gospel, both in places that had never heard and places with churches over a thousand years old. He hungered to share the Gospel with them.
Only now he was back in Spruce Hill, farming. Edie wasn’t the only person whose dreams were in danger.