the morning by the time she’s done. She gives me a look like she sees right through me, but agrees with a dainty handshake. I slink out of the family room, totally unsure how I’m going to deliver on my promise. I try to remember what my mom did with me when I was Paisley’s age. Mostly, she sent me out to run around with the neighborhood kids or parked me in front of the TV. She worked a lot. We definitely couldn’t afford a nanny.
But sometimes we baked together. On weekend mornings, we’d mix up batter for pancakes or banana bread or mini blueberry muffins. Over the holidays, she’d break out the Pizzelle iron, and we’d bake batch after batch of the thin Italian waffle cookies that both my parents were raised on. I put my money on Paisley’s sweet tooth and wander into the Bellamys’ immaculate, navy-ceilinged kitchen, hoping their cook, Mary, won’t mind too much if we make a mess before she gets in to start the dinner prep at three.
It doesn’t take long to find the basics: flour, sugar, butter, eggs, milk. There’s a revolving tray of every spice imaginable nestled in one tall cabinet along with cocoa powder, semisweet chips, baking powder, vanilla, and a host of other ingredients. We’re in business.
I’m resting my arms on the counter, scrolling through recipe options on my phone, when Paisley comes in.
“Found you.” She surveys the ingredients surrounding my elbows. “Cookies?” she asks, face lighting up. I breathe an inward sigh of relief.
“Or brownies, maybe. I’m looking at recipes now.”
“Let’s make peanut butter and jelly cookies,” Paisley says.
I’m typing her request into the search box when Paisley points to a beautiful cream stone box resting at the back of the counter, beside a built-in butcher block. “It’s in the recipe box.”
“Ah.” I set my phone down and lift the lid, which is heavy and cool to the touch. I didn’t realize people kept real recipe boxes anymore, but based on the cramped scrawl and yellowed edges surrounding most of the index cards, I’d be willing to guess these have been passed down from a previous generation. Inside, everything is organized neatly by category—fish, poultry, appetizers, etc. I flip through to dessert.
The recipe for peanut butter and jelly cookies is right up front. Unlike its fellows, this card is pink, and the recipe itself has been typed out and pasted on. There’s an oily smudge in the top left corner, probably dried peanut butter.
Paisley expertly locates the stand mixer and remaining ingredients, I preheat the oven, and we get to work. The batter is easy—just eggs, sugar, peanut butter, and vanilla. Paisley presses her thumb into the center of each cookie to make a small impression, which we fill with apricot or strawberry or raspberry jam from an assortment of little pots in the fridge. By lunchtime, we have three batches cooling, a fourth in the oven, and two more ready to go. We may have gone a bit overboard, but I’m sure Paisley has friends who’d be willing to take some fresh-baked cookies off our hands.
I task Paisley with returning cold ingredients to the fridge, then begin loading dishes in the dishwasher. The rain has abated to a dull gray drizzle, and if the sun ever comes out, we can spend the afternoon making deliveries around the neighborhood.
* * *
Installed on the patio beneath the overhang, munching cookies and the shrimp and watercress sandwiches Mary has left us for lunch, Paisley and I make our game plan for the afternoon. She knows exactly which families are likely to be home, within walking distance, and free from peanut allergies. I guess that’s common knowledge among elementary schoolers. As we stand to take our plates inside, the first few tentative rays of sunlight filter down to the glistening surfaces of the lawn and pool. The air is heavy with moisture, but the clouds above are white and rapidly clearing. The rain is done.
The only paper plates I can find in the kitchen are the fancy kind decorated with a floral pattern and thin gold band around the rim. I’m a little hesitant to open the package, but Emilia’s office door is still firmly shut, and worst-case scenario, I’ll replace them. I leave a note for Emilia on the kitchen table along with a couple dozen cookies. As I’m plating the rest and covering them with plastic wrap, Paisley wanders away from the table and reaches across the stove top to