“Why in overalls?”
“I like all the pockets.”
“I like pockets, too,” I thought and said in unison. “And gardening, flowers or vegetables?”
“Both. Vegetables for cooking, but flowers too. They bring in the pollinators and keep away the pests. Marigolds and lavender are good for that. I also press for essential oils.”
“You press for essential oils?”
“Yes. Lavender, geranium, and rose mostly.”
“Hmm. Interesting.” I glanced at her hands. I couldn’t examine them while she had them tucked under her arms, so I reached for one.
She flinched away. “What are you doing?”
“I’d like to see your hand.”
“Why?”
“I’m curious. Do you have farmer hands?”
Her expression relaxed, like she hoped she did have farmer hands, and she held one palm up between us. “What do you mean? Like Nancy Danvish?”
I peered at her fingers and what I found was surprising. She had callouses, and her fingers weren’t fine and ladylike, but strong and long. Yes, her nails were painted perfect pink, but she had the hands of someone who engaged in manual labor often.
“Do you play any instruments?” I asked, apropos of nothing. Or maybe I asked because her fingers were so long, especially for a short person, that it would be a shame if she didn’t play something.
“I did. I played the piano growing up. All girls had to have a talent, during the pageants, so I sang and played the piano.”
I nodded thoughtfully, recalling a conversation I’d overheard years ago between my mother and Naomi Winters. The two women lamented how Diane Donner-Sylvester forced her only daughter—whom they both considered exceptionally sweet and shy—to participate in the pageant circuit. They’d also lamented that Diane had started dyeing her daughter’s pretty dark hair yellow at such a young age.
I eyeballed her blonde hair, or what I could see of it, then refocused my attention back to the list; I grabbed her hand and turned the paper toward me so I could read it. “Let’s see . . .”
Gardening in overalls
Writing letters at a well-lit desk
Reading a book while it rains
Teaching the troops how to bake
“What’s this one? ‘Teaching the troops how to bake.’ What’s that?”
“The Cub Scouts and Brownies—”
“Brownies being the little-kid Girl Scouts?”
“That’s right. I teach the merit badge for baking.”
“Once a year?”
“Oh no, whenever they need it. Sometimes I have a big group of kids, sometimes it’s just one-on-one.”
“Does your boss allow this?” I wasn’t ready to invoke the name of her mother, but the question needed asking.
She fidgeted, twisting her fingers and placing the list on the counter. “Eventually, she let me do it. Once I pointed out how nice the pictures would look on social media and had the parents sign photo waivers.”
“You like teaching the kids? How to bake?”
She grinned and nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes. It’s one of my favorite things to do. Baking is fundamentally chemistry, and I try to bring it back to that. I do a demonstration with emulsifiers first, because baking is all about turning something water soluble into something that’s oil soluble.”
“What kind of demonstration?”
“I use milk, food dye, and dish detergent.”
“And the dish detergent breaks down the fats.”
“Yes, and the dye saturates what’s left.”
I nodded somberly. In truth, I nodded somberly to disguise that fact that Jennifer Sylvester had once again surprised me.
“Any other chemistry experiments? With the kids?”
“I do lots, but it depends on their age.” Her purple eyes brightened, becoming almost lavender. “The one that’s the biggest hit is when I have them write their recipe down using a toothpick and petroleum jelly.”
I stared at her upturned face, trying to figure out why in tarnation she would have them do that. “Okay, I give up. Why would you have them write their recipe down using a toothpick and petroleum jelly?”
Her grin was huge and showcased a quantity of pearly white teeth. “Because then it’s a secret recipe, one that can only be viewed under a black light. It teaches them about—”
“Fluorescence,” I supplied, squinting at this closet chemist by the name of Jennifer Sylvester.
No wonder she was so good at baking. Baking is a precise science and was—as she said—fundamentally the application of chemistry. She should’ve been going to school for chemistry, not chained to an electric mixer in this state-of-the art industrial kitchen dungeon.
She was, as ever, surprising. I studied her: the warm smile, the bright violet eyes, the pointed chin, and the baseball hat. Making up my mind a split second before I did it, I snatched her hat and hid it behind my back.
Jennifer’s hands went to her head and her mouth fell open. Clearly, I’d caught her off guard.