Sleigh Bells in the Snow(83)

“I do.” Brenna gave up on cooking and picked up her coffee. “And the best thing about pizza? It can be shared. So if other people have been raising a sweat along with you, you can both eat.”

Oh, God, they knew.

She didn’t know how, but they definitely knew.

Kayla bent and made a fuss of Maple, hiding her scarlet face.

“You ate pizza together?” Elizabeth’s face brightened. “That’s good. Jackson’s been working too hard lately. He needs to relax. He carries so much responsibility on his shoulders. What time did he leave you? It isn’t like him not to answer his phone. Walter is in a state about Darren. He wants to talk to Jackson. I really don’t want him getting so worked up—” Worrying out loud, Elizabeth returned to mixing the ingredients for her cinnamon stars while Kayla kept her head down and tried to think up an answer that wouldn’t reveal the exact whereabouts of her son.

“I—er—didn’t look at my watch—”

“I just had a text from him,” Brenna said smoothly. “He has a few things to do and then he wants to talk to me about the ski program. I’ll tell him to look in on Walter.”

“I had a text from him, too.” Élise walked across the kitchen with a large bag of flour. “We are meeting to discuss the restaurant later. Brenna, you are supposed to be helping me.”

“You keep complaining, so I’ve resigned as your sous-chef or whatever I’m supposed to be.”

“A sous-chef has to be able to cook more than bacon. If you were my sous-chef I would have fired you long ago. You would last less than a minute in my kitchen. Fortunately I now have Elizabeth.” She beamed at Jackson’s mother. “You are the new shining star of my kitchen. So calm. I hear Darren already has a job at a café in the village. It will suit him better I think. Stop stroking the puppy and wash your hands, Kayla. I need your help.”

“I don’t know how to cook.” She noticed that the French girl was pronouncing the h in her words this morning and remembered what Jackson had said about her sounding more French when she was stressed.

“Fortunately I do know how to cook and so does Elizabeth, which is a good thing or we would all starve around here.” Measuring flour, Élise beamed at Kayla. “I will give you directions.”

“And she gives clear directions. I enjoyed myself so much last night. If I’d known what fun it was working in a restaurant I would have done it years ago. And Jackson told me it was your idea, Kayla.” Elizabeth removed a slab of cookie dough from the fridge while Kayla washed her hands, relieved that the subject had apparently moved away from Jackson’s whereabouts.

“It seemed like a logical solution to a problem. What do you want me to do?”

“Sift my flour into a bowl for me. Easy. Here—” Élise handed her the equipment and picked up a whisk and started to beat eggs. “When I was a teenager I used to work in a mountain restaurant in the Alps. It was more of a hut than a restaurant—we sold crepes and vin chaud to skiers as they passed. Perfect skiing food.”

“I had hot spiced apple cider for the first time.” Kayla shook the sieve. “It was delicious.”

Elizabeth shaped the dough. “Alice used to make it with apples from our orchard.”

Élise glanced up. “You’re getting flour on the table, Kayla. Merde, all I ask you to do is sift flour and you are making a mess. You are almost as bad as Brenna.”

The insult warmed her. Ridiculous, but it made her feel included. One of them. “I warned you I couldn’t cook.” But she was smiling and so was Élise.

“This isn’t cooking—” The French girl reached out and grabbed Kayla’s wrist, moving the sieve over the bowl. “Don’t shake so hard. You are covering everything, including Maple.” She blew kisses at the puppy, who wagged her tail happily. “Je t’adore mon petit chouchou. Tu es trop mignon.”

“So you ski, too?”

“Ben bien sûr, of course. Brenna, if I ask you to fetch me maple syrup, could you do it without breaking the bottle? At this rate I could just make the pancakes on the floor. Most of the flour is there.”

“Ignore her,” Brenna advised. “Élise, next time you wipe out on the mountain I’m skiing right over your head.”

“I never wipe out. I am elegant on skis.” Élise added milk to her egg mixture, whisking all the time, the motion of her wrist barely visible. “I skied from the age of four.”

“Four?” Brenna gave a disdainful sniff. “Late starter.”