Chapter 24: Ten Candles

On Saturday Marit's kitchen smelled like butter and burnt sugar by seven in the morning.

She had been up since five. She wore her flannel and her apron, her glasses hung on their cord, and she did not let anyone into the room.

"Out," she told me, waving a wooden spoon. "You'll make it nervous."

"Marit, it's a cake."

"It is a birthday cake for a five-year-old. It has opinions."

I went out. In the front room Poppy was lying on the rug in her pajamas with Hops on her chest.

"Is it ready?"

"Not yet, baby."

"What time is the party?"

"Two o'clock. You've asked me six times."

"Seven," Poppy said, with great dignity. "I'm five, I can count."

At noon Jonas arrived with a bag in each hand and a look of stern preparation.

He had been called in at four that morning for a car accident, and had gone straight home to shower.

"You look terrible," I said.

"I scored myself a three. I'm functional."

"Don't," I said, and then laughed, because it was a joke now. It belonged to us.

He set the bags down on the hall table and kissed me, quickly, in front of my aunt.

"I can see you," Marit called from the kitchen.

"We know."

"Good. Come and taste a thing."

He tasted a thing. She watched his face for the verdict, and he gave it a long, careful, serious chew.

"Marit, that's the best frosting I have ever eaten in my life."

"That's what you said about the casserole."

"The casserole was true too."

She flapped a dishcloth at him, pleased and scowling.

At one o'clock a plain white envelope came through the mail slot.

Keep reading free with an account. Start Keep It, We Don't Need It Anymore from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.