Scones and Sensibility (2 page)

But we were friends born for each other’s confidence and no amount of Lady of Shalott could tear us asunder.

So I do not think that Fran was surprised when I finished
Pride and Prejudice
just three months ago and announced that I would no longer remain a material girl living in a material world, but would rather grasp on to the skirts of those elegant women before me and become at once a young lady of impeccable breeding, diction, and manner.

Thus it was, as I reclined in my bedroom contemplating these things, that I was suddenly overcome with the summer’s brilliance and glory. The air was thick and sweet like a newly blossomed hydrangea, and the smell of the salt water hanging on to the breeze like clothes pinned delicately on a line was intoxicating.

On most summer morns I woke to the enticing aromas
of fresh-baked bagels, pastries, and croissants. My parents, my sister, and I lived above our quaint bakery (what could be more romantic?!) just a stroll away from the boardwalk and the wild open sea.

I will say it once more: on
most
mornings.

As I sat up on that first day of summer, however, I knew my dearest elder sister had been in charge of the baking because the scent of burnt sugar swept under my door and overtook the breeze that blew in gentle and calm from my open window.

From below she stirred up a batter of cusswords that caused me to blush. It was definitely not the way any lady should behave, but my sister was a modern sixteen-year-old, whereas I, as my parents often stated, had become a “twelve-year-old, nineteenth-century girl trapped in the twenty-first century.”

And of this, I assure you, I am most proud.

A gray stream of smoke poured under my doorway. “One,” I counted, slipping out of my white linen nightgown and putting on my favorite summer dress—the one with the blue gingham pattern and the delicate ruffles along the collar. “Two.” I heard Mama’s soft footsteps coming from her room as she made her way down the stairwell. “Three,” I said, just as the smoke alarm went off and another string of profanity wafted
along with the smoke up through the grate and into my bedroom.

The burnt pastries and muffins, the charred bagels and breads. It was all inevitable when Clementine worked the morning bake shift, so I knew there was no reason for alarm. Instead, I exited my room with the white embroidered handkerchief my bosom friend Fran had given me for my birthday pressed against my nose. The smoke alarm blared above my head, so I delicately stepped up onto the stool I kept close for occasions such as these and waved my handkerchief back and forth until the abominable beeping ceased.

“This stupid oven burns everything!” I heard Clementine lament from below. “Everything!”

I sighed. My dear sister and I were but four years apart, but the distance seemed to have grown between us since she had reached the ripe age of sixteen. In our younger years, the two of us, our windblown curls streaming behind us, would spend hours together during the long, sun-kissed summers. Indeed, our beloved pastimes included: collecting seashells together, embarking on bicycle rides down to the local corner store, and spending the rainy days creating dainty bracelets and necklaces or improving our artistic eye with painting and drawing.

I lingered on the stairs, sighing over these memories. Indeed, I wished that once more the two of us would be entwined in sisterly affection and she would cease the habits that had become increasingly irritating as of late. Habits such as speaking for hours on the telephone with any number of boys (note that I do not call them gentlemen) and listening to blaring music much too loud for the entire household to bear, let alone for her to hear my remarks on propriety. And never having any time for the sister she had both loved and adored since birth.

Downstairs, Mama comforted Clementine, her tan arm wrapped around my sister’s shoulders, which were splattered with flour and powdered sugar.

Papa walked in through the door with a bouquet of wildflowers in his hands.

“What’s all this?” he asked, cradling my mother to his broad chest and kissing her lightly on the forehead. I walked over and hugged him around the waist and he gave me a small kiss on my alabaster cheek.

Clementine threw up her hands. “I’ve burnt the dumb pumpkin loaves again, that’s what all this is!” A pout formed on her lips. Though self-control was not her strong point, and her temper was often painful to watch, her brow did curve downward in
a very graceful arc when she was angered. I often attempted the same look in my mirror, but it never looked quite as regal. “And I told Clint to come by ’cause they’re his favorite. Now what’ll I give him?” I bit my tongue to stop the words that pushed to come out. Clint was my sister’s newest boyfriend and one I heartily disapproved of.

His looks were pleasing to the eye, but beyond that his appeal lessened considerably. Not only had he made my lovely sister weep on numerous occasions, but never once had he given her flowers, opened her door, or given her any other tokens of affection that a woman desires from a suitor. He was a bore in my opinion and not nearly deserving of my darling sister. He insisted on referring to me as “Pol” and refused to allow me to join them on any of their evening walks, even though I could practically feel my sister’s desperate yearning for me to join them pulsing in the air. He also insisted on addressing my parents by their given names: Judy (though her real name is Judith) and Sam (though his real name is Samuel).

I had desired the end of their connection practically before it commenced. Indeed, I often wished that I could find a more suitable beau for my dear Clementine. And seeing as I had such extensive
knowledge on the subject of love and romance from my reading of Jane Austen, I was quite willing and prepared for the task.

The idea had merit, and I tucked it away for further contemplation.

“Not to worry, Clemmy,” Papa said, taking the scorched loaves to the counter and wrapping each loaf in plastic wrap. “We’ll sell them for a dollar each like we do the day-olds. We Madassas can fix anything. As for Clint, I bet he’d love one of our giant blueberry muffins.”

The blackened loaves sat like large bricks in the wicker basket. In my opinion, it would have been better if they were completely incinerated in the oven rather than served to the waiting public. Really, I had no idea why Mama and Papa had given Clementine the task to begin with. “Your sister needs more responsibility, and besides we need the help during the busy summer season” is all Papa said when I had asked him the reason. But it didn’t seem like things were busy enough to plunge the family business into financial hardship by letting Clementine attempt the morning baking. When I expressed this to him on another occasion, he replied, “You’re being overly dramatic, Polly.”

Of course, I had nothing against my beloved sister—I
loved her dearly as my own flesh and blood—but when you do not have a gift for baking, why force the matter?

“I know just how to soothe a disturbed and distressed spirit, my dearest sister. Come along and we shall frolic together among the salty waves of the sea! We shall bask in the sun’s lovely rays,” I said, reaching for her hand.

But Clementine turned toward me, her hands on her hips, with quite an exasperated look upon her face. “You’re kidding, right, Polly? I don’t have time for stupid stuff like that, especially when I burnt the stupid pumpkin bread and now I have to give Clint a stupid blueberry muffin.”

My spirit sank low at her harsh choice of words, and hot tears threatened to cascade down my cheeks. “Well, you don’t have to be so mean about it,” I snapped back. “I was just trying to help. You’re never any fun anymore!”

Mama wrapped her arms around me. “Thanks for trying, Polly. But it’s not you, really, it’s just … everything right now.”

Clementine tore off her apron in a manner most unbecoming of a girl her age and flopped onto a nearby chair. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she huffed most indignantly.

I smiled at my mother and attempted to arch my eyebrows in disapproval of my sister’s behavior, but she had already turned her back on me and was busily lamenting the tragedies of the blackened bricks of bread, adding “stupid” to most every noun in her sentence.

So instead of lingering, I made my way into our small but sufficient family kitchen. There were day-old raspberry croissants sitting on the counter and I picked one up, nibbling the end as daintily as I imagined Miss Elizabeth Bennet would do. Now if only there was a bit of needlework about that needed to be completed—then I would be even more like that enchanting heroine.

But since there was none, I sighed, “Ah, me,” and gazed out the window at the early-morning sun peeking its golden eye into the kitchen and kissing me with its tender rays. I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the heavens. Its beams soothed my recently rumpled spirit. “Indeed I know of no one that could not be at ease with the sun casting its smile upon the earth.”

I slipped out the front door, hoping to go quite unnoticed by my family since this wondrous morning should not be spent in a bakery, no matter how quaint and romantic the bakery was.

I sat myself upon the lush grass and leaned back to
face the bright blue sky. There, I closed my eyes and imagined I was a wealthy maiden cast out of her family’s castle for falling in love with a stableboy named
Free
-drick (for I much preferred this pronunciation to the ordinary Fred-rick). Here, in the Meadow of Wandering Dreams, he was to meet me.

“But what is taking him so long?” I wondered aloud.

The screen door creaked open behind me and I heard Clementine’s voice. “Polly, what are you doing?”

I sat up and turned to her. “Oh Clementine, I am just soaking in the rays of love and life!” I stood up and reached out my hand. “Will you not take a turn with me out in the sunshine?” I twirled my way toward her, my dress billowing out around me like flower petals.

She rolled her eyes. “Polly, you’re acting ridiculous. And you better come and help me or Mom’ll have your head. The morning rush is starting and you’re out here blabbering on about God knows what.”

I sighed and I resigned myself to the task at hand. “Mama said that I only have to help with the bakery duties twice a week, dear Clementine. This will be my second time, so, yes, I shall be there momentarily.”

“Whatever, Polly.”

I
n the midst of the busy bakery I was able to tend to our beloved customers despite the glories of sunshine, flowers, and the wild ocean wind that beckoned from outside. Indeed, we had quite a number of loyal customers and it was always a joy to serve them.

“And what may I get for you this exquisite morning, Mrs. Sanders?”

The young woman smiled, a pretty dimple sitting quite happily in her right cheek. Ah, I had wished upon all things that I had been born with a dimple, but alas, I was not. And no amount of biting my cheek or drawing one on my face with a pen had sufficed. “The usual, if you have any left,” she replied.

I smiled and examined our bakery case for the delectable cinnamon streusel muffin she adored so
much and retrieved one from the case and placed it on a plate. “Indeed I do. It’s the last one and I am so glad it is yours.”

Mrs. Sanders was a good-natured woman of thirty-six who had recently moved to our fair town with her husband to assist with his aging mother, and had visited us most mornings since her arrival. She was a pleasant woman, though shy in manner.

I then assisted Miss Morgan, who was quite taken with the buttercream muffin, five people whose names were unknown to me and who had a certain fetish for our walnut Danish, and Mr. Lampert, who was making his way down our menu and ordered the quite scrumptious chocolate chip Danish.

And then there was Clint, who entered our sophisticated bakery like a great boorish beast and leaned on the counter. “Hey, Pol. Clemmy said she’d make me some pumpkin loaves this morning.”

I arched an eyebrow at him and lifted my nose into the air at his behavior.

But before I could utter a word, Clementine, who had left me momentarily to bring out more clean dishes, came through the door.

“Hey, Clint,” she said, her cheeks blushing to a rosy hue. “I’m glad you came.”

He smiled and leaned over, his arms practically lying across the counter. “Hey, can you take a break and eat with me?”

Clementine looked upon me and smiled. “I’ll just be a few minutes, Polly,” she said, taking off her apron and coming from behind the counter before I could make any protestation. “Thanks!”

“Indeed!” I stated, and watched them with extreme disapproval as they found a seat and began whispering together.

After assisting two other customers, I determined to put an end to Clint and Clementine’s rendezvous. It was my duty as a sister to aid her.

So unwrapping one of the hardened pumpkin loaves, which could be likened now to a lump of coal, I took up a plate and walked over to the table where they sat in deepest conversation. Then, placing the plate down rather hard upon the table, I dumped the loaf onto the plate, where it most likely cracked the white porcelain. “Here’s your pumpkin loaf, Clint. Clemmy made them extra hard just for you. Now come along with me, Clementine. You must assist me behind the counter.”