Buttery warmth greets her. The air is infused with cinnamon. She chooses a table next to the window. A place where she can sip tea and stare at the world. With her pen and notebook next to her elbow she orders biscuits. Her heroine bakes biscuits every Sunday morning. But why does the heroine bake biscuits? Perhaps today she will discover the reason. Perhaps it reminds her of what has been, an endeared childhood memory. Perhaps it proves she is afraid of change, thus making biscuits an anchor of stability. Or perhaps she is compelled to bake them for the sheer love of biscuits.
She pours her tea and stirs in sugar. A light drizzle stains the window. A bright orange candy wrapper scuttles down the street. On the other side a young woman tucks her wallet under her jacket and unfolds the morning paper to cover her head. Her black-heeled boots look wobbly on her chopstick legs. She hurries after the candy wrapper. The drizzle is now a steady rain, smearing the world like a blotched watercolor painting.
The biscuits arrive with a small glass bowl of jam. She refills her tea and thinks.
A hairy night had past, complete with howling winds and boiling waves. The next morning was calm enough, though still no sunshine. The clouds paused their onslaught of spewing rain. It left a chill in the air that grabbed the heart and quickened the pulse.
But what about the biscuits?
She sliced one in half splitting it open, releasing a pocket of steam. The aroma of butter, baking powder and cream lingered before her nose.
It was the biscuits that brought Margie fame. It was the fame that brought Julian that one Sunday morning.
She slathers jam onto a slice.
Who is Julian?
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