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"Okay," Madison said, struggling through the door, her arms weighted down with shopping, "I'm never going to the shops for you again."
"For me?" Alexa raised an eyebrow. "That lot wouldn't see me through one day. This is for you." She took a bag off Madison and began rifling through its contents, nodding at the dried yeast and packets of ingredients.
"And what am I going to do with two kilos of flour, pray tell?"
Alexa couldn't quite keep the smugness out of her grin, so she didn't try. "You're going to learn how to bake bread."
Madison's mouth opened and closed a few times. "You're going to teach me to bake?"
"A girl's got to have a few skills," Alexa said airily. When Madison cocked her head like she was going to object, Alexa held up a hand. "Other than computer hacking and detailing her car."
"I've got more skills than that," Madison grumbled under her breath. She stepped further into the kitchen, unloading her remaining shopping bags with a huff. She looked at the pile for a moment with her lips pursed, and Alexa made a silent bet with herself that she'd capitulate in less than fifteen seconds. Her count had just reached twelve when Madison sighed. "Fine. Teach me your baking ways."
Alexa grinned and tossed an apron at her. It smacked her right in the face, setting her tasseled earrings swinging. "Put that on."
Madison rolled her eyes, but started pulling the apron on over her brightly patterned dress. "You'd better have cleaned the bench since the last time that cat was on it," she said, her back turned as she reached behind herself and fumbled with the apron ties. "It's bad enough breathing in the cat dander; I don't want to cook with it."
"I don't know what you mean," Alexa said, silently lifting the cat off the bench to the floor. She shooed him gently aside with her foot. "I run a spotless kitchen."
"You run a madhouse," Madison said as she turned back around. She smoothed the apron over her stomach. "Okay. Let's do this."
Alexa grinned and swept an arm out in a welcoming gesture. "You're going to love this," she said, anticipation warm in her chest.
"We'll see," Madison said.
"First you need a recipe. It's your lifeline," Alexa said, setting a paper on the bench between them and tapping it for emphasis. "Read it through twice before you start, and refer to it often as you go."
"That doesn't seem like you," Madison observed. "You're such a rule breaker."
Alexa wrinkled her nose. "You've got to know the rules before you can break them. No -" she corrected herself, "you've got to understand the rules before you can break them."
"How long did it take you before you understood them?"
"Oh, ages," Alexa admitted. "You can play with flavours pretty easily, even as a novice, but the rest is all chemistry. No, more like alchemy! A bit more of one ingredient, a bit less of another ... the magic just doesn't happen!"
She smiled to herself, thinking of her early failures, resulting in heavy, underbaked stodge or tough loaves that seemed to be all crust. Too cocky by half, that had been her. She shook her head. "But you're a smart girl," she said. "You'll pick it up in no time."
"All right, then." Madison set her shoulders. "Where do we start?"
"Weren't you listening? Read the bloody recipe. Read it twice. Then we'll start."
...
Beecroft hadn't called her in for a coffee since the car incident. Alexa didn't like to think of it - neither the dizzy memory of crashing the car nor the possibility that the hug, the second chance, and the lecture she'd received while still bleary eyed and nearly legless might have been the last real conversation she'd ever have with Miss B. If she were honest, which she was actually giving a try, the guilt and regret over disappointing Beecroft were half of why she'd punched Miranda.
The other half was because Miranda had deserved it, the bloody dobber.
The whole situation made Alexa feel helpless. She hated feeling helpless.
It was a home weekend, and Alexa was spending it sulking around her parents' house. She'd started in her room, lying on the bed with a pillow over her head for most of Saturday. Then she'd migrated to the garden, where she'd kicked at clumps of grass and beheaded a few flowers. Now it was Sunday, and she was in the kitchen, staring unhappily into the cupboard. She was about to close it again when her eye caught on a still sealed packet of flour in one corner.
It took only a moment to unearth the cookbook that Alexa's gran had always used. She flipped past roasts, soups, biscuits, until she came to the recipes for bread. There was only one recipe that she'd really got a handle on during her lessons with Gran. "You'll never be a housewife, you," Gran had said, "but it's always useful to have a dish or two that you can use to impress." Bread, Gran had thought, was impressive.
There was something extremely satisfying about kneading dough. It was physical, but beyond the mere exercise was the sense of transformation. She enjoyed the sensation of the dough slowly becoming strong and elastic under her hands. By the time she set it aside for its first rise, Alexa was feeling calmer. And when she drew the golden loaf from the oven, she'd made a decision.
Beecroft had told her she had to make a choice, start being honest with herself. Alexa was ready to do that. She stopped at the door of the staff room the next morning before class. It was a smallish room tucked away at the end of a corridor, the furnishings on the comfortable side of shabby, with worn tables, well used chairs, and student work tacked up on the walls. Miss B sat at one of the tables with her coffee cup and a book. She looked up as Alexa lurked in the doorway.
"Good morning, Alexa," she said, setting her book aside. "Did you have a nice visit home?" Her face was open and interested, just as though she didn't think Alexa was destined for jail and ignominy.
"Yes, miss." Alexa twisted the strap of her satchel for an awkward, indecisive second, then opened the satchel and reached inside. "I baked a bit while I was home, and I thought you might like some bread for your tea." The loaf was fresh enough that it still smelled yeasty and delicious when she opened the paper she'd used to wrap it.
"That sounds lovely," Miss Beecroft said, standing to accept it. "Thank you, Alexa. Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?" She sounded almost hopeful.
"I did," Alexa said, clutching the strap to her satchel again. "Just, I've been thinking about what you said. And I did make a choice. I want to be a cop. I've always wanted to be a cop. I thought, maybe you could help me plan out what I need to do to make that happen?"
Miss Beecroft smiled. "I'm not an expert," she said, "but I am rather good at research. We'll suss it out." The first bell went just then, and she added, "You go along to your lesson now. Come see me at morning break, and we'll have a cup of coffee and a nice little chat, ay?"
"Thank you, miss," Alexa said. She didn't think she'd ever be a natural rule-follower, but she could be honest, and she could work hard. She reckoned if she could get a scholarship to Pemberton, then as long as she didn't break any more laws for a few years, she could become a police officer. With a little help.
...
"The trick to yeast is patience," Alexa explained.
Madison made a scoffing noise. "That must be fun for you. You're the least patient person I've ever met."
Alexa rolled her eyes. "There's no way I'm the least patient person you've ever met."
Madison eyed her skeptically. "You left me behind twice last week because I didn't cross the street quick enough."
"It's 'quickly' enough, and nobody's patient at a zebra crossing. That's hardly a fair test."
"Whatever. Still, I suppose if even you can learn to be patient enough for this, then I can definitely manage it."
Alexis slapped her on the shoulder. "That's the spirit! Now, how good are you at estimating temperature by touch?"
"Do you know, that's never come up? But my mum used to be able to gauge a fever to within a quarter of a degree, just with the back of her wrist."
"As your mum isn't here, we'll just use a thermometer," Alexis said. "Wait a tick. I'll dig out it."
It took Alexa a moment to rummage for the thermometer. When she emerged with it, triumphant, she turned to find Madison glaring at the cat, who had materialised atop the bench. He looked rather pleased with himself as he gazed coolly back at her.
"What have I told you about staring at him?" Alexa demanded. "He takes it as aggression."
"That's not even true, though," Madison said. "I read up a bit, and cats don't need to blink as often as we do. So they can find staring to be comforting and friendly behavior."
"Well, if you're making friends, don't let me stop you," Alexa said.
"How about we call a truce," Madison proposed to the cat. "I'll stop saying disparaging things about you, and you leave me alone and never shed anywhere near me."
The cat cocked his head to one side, for all the world as if he were considering it. Then he made a little trilling noise and stepped forward to rub his cheek against Madison's chin. She reared back.
"You did that on purpose," she accused. "Now I'm going to be itching all night."
The cat trilled again and leapt gracefully down to the floor.
"This means war," Madison said.
"That's hardly fair," Alexa protested.
"You mean because I'm a human, with an evolved brain, an education and opposable thumbs?"
"Yeah," Alexa agreed. "He'll wipe the floor with you." She took a moment to treasure the expression of outrage on Madison's face, then handed her the thermometer. "Now, get 350ml of water to about 42 degrees."
Madison accepted the thermometer and picked up the measuring jug. "Do I at least get to use the Loobenschwegen?" she asked. "That would make all this torment worthwhile."
"My Loobenschwegen?!" Alexa would deny that she squeaked, but honestly, it was a perfectly valid reaction. "Not on your life. You're lucky I don't make you mix it all by hand."
She wouldn't, of course. She had got out the stand mixer that had once graced her kitchen at the old place. It had been an anniversary gift from Gary, and she'd mocked him for his lack of romantic spirit. Now it just sent a pang through her, but it would be good for it to see some use again.
...
Gary Quinn was what Dolores in Evidence called a silver fox. He was only a few years older than Alexa and fit as, with hair that had nearly all gone grey. And he was an ace cop. That quality was even more attractive than his dimples. Or the breadth of his shoulders. Or his very fine arse.
And he wanted to date Alexa.
Not just sleep with her; date her. They'd gone to a film for their first date, and then spent half the night wandering around the docklands, talking. She wasn't used to feeling this way about a man. Usually she was happy enough to either cop a root and be on her way, or to stay strictly mates with a man. But Gary made her want more.
He'd invited her over for dinner tonight for their fourth date. He'd said it wouldn't be anything special. "Just spag bol and some wine, and a nice evening," he'd said. But Alexa found herself wanting it to be a bit special.
She'd started the sponge for the ciabatta a day ahead of time, after reading the recipe over several times to refresh her memory. She'd collected dozens, maybe hundreds of recipes over the years, and this was one she'd struggled to master. She was better with doughs that could take rougher handling. But for tonight, for Gary, she was willing to work with something a bit more delicate.
As she folded the dough, Alexa thought about Gary. Beyond just dragging him to bed (although she'd devoted significant time lately to pondering what that would be like. She was only human), and into the future possibilities. He seemed to actually admire her police work, so there was a chance he wouldn't expect her to give it all up to raise a family. That kind of expectation had torpedoed her incipient flirtation with Joe in Vice.
Alexa had spent her twenties running from vulnerability and real emotional connections. It had been difficult to admit to herself; she wasn't used to thinking herself a coward. But now that she was aware of it, she could confront it. One thing she had always known about herself was that she was stubborn. And she was stubbornly going to give this thing with Gary a fair go, no matter how it scared her.
The bread came out beautifully, and Alexa decided to take it as a sign. She wasn't superstitious, but she was willing to make an exception just this once.
She dressed with care in a soft blue dress that swirled around her legs. She considered putting her hair up, as that often drew attention to her neck, but she routinely wore it up for work, and she wanted to emphasize that she was off duty. So she curled her hair a bit and left it loose around her shoulders. The slightest touch of perfume behind her ears and in the hollows of her elbows, and she was ready.
Alexa was glad of the bread as she walked up to Gary's door. It gave her something to do with her hands to keep them from fidgeting. It was a warm November evening, so she didn't have a jacket or wrap, and she felt oddly exposed. It usually would have been an uncomfortable feeling, but tonight it was exhilarating. She couldn't keep the smile off her face.
The door opened nearly the moment she knocked, and there was Gary, looking handsome and happy. He was smiling just as hard as she was, dimples on full display. "Alexa," he said, welcoming her in.
"Hi." She leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek, the bread basket between them.
"What's this?" Gary asked, lifting the cloth to peek inside the basket.
"Just some bread," she said. "To go with the pasta."
"I didn't know you cooked!"
"Oh, I don't!" Alexa told him. "I bake. Totally different beast."
"I'm glad to hear that," Gary said. When she raised her eyebrows, he clarified. "I love to cook. Don't know what I'd do if I had to fight someone for my turn to make dinner."
"Never be a problem," Alexa assured him. "Bread all the time, and an occasional Lamington, but I'll leave the cooking to you."
"Sounds like a perfect match," Gary said. He drew her into the dining room, where he'd set the table with candles.
Alexa smiled. "Maybe we are."
...
"You can't be afraid of the dough," Alexa said. Madison's fingers were cringing away from the dough on the bench in front of her until Alexa physically pushed them into the soft surface.
"But it's so sticky and squidgy," Madison complained.
"And it will keep being sticky and squidgy until you get it properly kneaded," Alexa told her. "The mixer gave it a good start, but now you have to finish it. Like this." She demonstrated. The dough was warm and fragrant under her hands, and she almost regretted ceding it back to Madison.
"I would just like to register a complaint," Madison said, glaring at the bits of dough clinging to her fingers, "that this feels disgusting."
"Don't be such a whinger," Alexa said. "You're in charge when you're baking. It's just a matter of telling the ingredients what to do."
"Ah, the real reason you like to bake," Madison said. She was finally developing a rhythm. "You get to boss everything about."
"Yes, because I'm such a pushover in my everyday life," Alexa said. She took a bit of dough and pulled it apart to test the gluten development. "Just a bit more, now."
"I can't believe you do this every day," Madison said. "Doesn't it get boring? Don't you ever get tired of the mess? Don't your fingers and wrists get sore?"
Alexa shook her head. "I like it." She could have said more, about how she could bake any time of day or night, and the bread never cared about the hour. About how she could bake alone, with no need for company. About how, from the moment she started making a recipe until the bread came out of the oven, she had a predictable structure to follow no matter how disordered her life felt.
She'd lost her husband and left her career right after. For a time, her baking had been the lifeline that kept her moving.
Alexa tested another bit of dough and showed Madison the way it stretched into a thin, translucent membrane. "That's it," she said.
"What now?" Madison asked, rubbing her hands together to rid them from the tiny bits of remaining dough.
"Now we pop it into an oiled bowl, cover it, and have a cup of coffee. Or a glass of wine, depending on your mood."
"Maybe coffee for now," Madison said, "I need the caffeine after that workout."
"No endurance," Alexa said, shaking her head. "You wouldn't last a week baking at my pace."
"Amen to that," Madison agreed.
...
"I swear," the young man at the desk was saying, "it's not drugs, none of it. It's herbs."
"Is that what you're calling it nowadays?" Officer Ellis sounded bored, in sharp contrast to the stress evident in the young man's posture and voice.
"What's this?" Alexa asked. She was carrying a box with the contents of her desk, plus a small stack of cards and a pot plant that one of her now-former colleagues had given her.
"Mind your bizzo, Alexa, yeah? Aren't you on your way out?" Alexa had never liked Terrance Ellis.
"Yeah," Alexa agreed, "but even as a civilian I can tell that oregano and basil aren't illegal."
"Exactly!" the harried man said. He was handsome, with dark hair and eyes, and an olive complexion. Probably at least ten years younger than she was.
"Since when do people do back-alley deals for cooking herbs?" Ellis said belligerently.
"It wasn't a back-alley deal! I was just meeting with my supplier - my herb and veg supplier to discuss next week's order, and he gave me a few samples of some new options he's carrying. Next thing I know, I'm being accused of buying drugs."
"Listen," Alexa said, leaning her box on the desk. "I can smell those herbs from here, and they're deffo not illicit. Might want to cut this one free before the media gets wind that the police can't tell the difference between produce and marijuana." She didn't add out loud that even if it were marijuana, many cops would have given him a warning or fine rather than dragging him into the police station, but she thought it. Some coppers were a bit too fond of wielding power.
Ellis shook his head, but said, "Fine. You're free to go then. But we'll be keeping an eye on you."
Alexa waited as the man gathered his packets of herbs and walked out with him, just to be certain he wasn't harassed by anyone else. As they stepped outside, he turned to her. "Thank you," he said. "I was wondering if I'd have to eat the lot of it right in front of him before he'd believe me."
"No worries," Alexa said. "Good luck with your supplier."
"Oh, Marco is great," the man said. "I just have to find a new fishmonger and baker, and I'll be set."
"You need a baker? For bread? " Alexa asked, feeling interest stirring for the first time in weeks.
"Yeah. Why, do you know someone?"
"I might do," Alexa said.
"Well," he dug out a business card and dropped it into her box, where it landed on top of her small pile of sympathy and leaving cards, "if you find one, tell them to come see George at Brewster Cafe."
The next day, Alexa was at the cafe doors before they opened, carrying a satchel full of sourdough. "I didn't introduce myself yesterday," she said as George unlocked the doors. "I'm Alexa. I'm your new baker."
...
When the bread was done, Alexa uncorked a bottle of pinot gris she'd picked up at the bottle shop a few days ago and heated a pot of soup she'd bartered off Joanne.
"Now," she said, setting the loaf of bread in pride of place in the center of the table. "Wasn't that worth it?"
Madison took a bit of bread and dipped it in her soup before eating it. "Do you know, it is."
Alexa sat across from her. "Next time I'll teach you rye."
"Is that a threat?"
Alexa smiled. "It's a promise."