Between the storm and her troubling thoughts, Haven knew she had absolutely no chance of falling back to sleep. Her brain was wide awake and going a mile a minute. And there was only one thing that helped when middle-of-the-night anxiety settled in. Baking.
She loved cooking and was good at it, but baking was the thing that made her feel the best. That calmed her. That took her away from all the crap. Growing up without a mother, Haven had become responsible for cooking as soon as she’d been old enough to do it. In her father’s quest to look respectable, they had a big, beautiful kitchen in their big, beautiful house, which he’d stuffed it full of his collections—of guns and knives, of World War II collectibles, of Atlanta Falcons memorabilia, of rare books he never read. She thought of him that way—as a collector. And she was just one more thing he owned. For her, the new plantation-style house, complete with pretentious white columns along the front, had been nothing more than a gilded cage.
Poking around in the pantry, Haven gathered ingredients until she decided what she’d make—cinnamon rolls. Bunny had told Haven to make herself at home in the clubhouse’s kitchen, so she didn’t feel like she’d upset anyone by baking away her troubles. Made from scratch, the rolls took a while because the dough had to rise, but that was one of Haven’s favorite things about them. Besides how rich and decadent they were.
Slowly and methodically, she prepared a double batch of dough, then buttered and covered the dough balls and left them to rise in mixing bowls. Her father’s intolerance for messes had taught her to clean up right behind herself, so once she’d tidied up, she set about making the filling with all its buttery, brown sugary, cinnamony goodness. Taking a peek at the dough, she found it risen, which meant it was time for the fun part. Haven dusted the counter with a healthy covering of flour and worked the dough out with her hands and a rolling pin until she had a big rectangle in front of her. She brushed melted butter over the dough and sprinkled lots of the cinnamon-sugar mix over it, then she rolled and stretched it until she had one superlong log of dough. She cut the log into slices and repeated the process with the second dough ball, giving her three dozen buns total.
The dough needed one more resting period before baking, which gave her plenty of time to clean up errant flour, wash dishes, and make her killer cream cheese frosting. An hour later, she slid the buns into the double ovens, already in love with this kitchen and planning what she’d make next. Assuming no one minded her using so many supplies.
One day . . . one day she was going to live in a place with an amazing kitchen where she could bake to her heart’s content. She might not know what her future held yet, but she promised herself that much. She could dream, right?
The gray light of dawn was rising as she pulled the rolls out to cool. They smelled incredible and filled the entire kitchen with the warm aroma of cinnamon. After being there for a few weeks, Haven knew there were usually at least some Ravens around for every meal, but most especially on the weekends. Last Sunday hadn’t been too busy because a lot of the club had still been in Baltimore, but now with everyone back, maybe there’d be more.
As she slathered on the icing, Haven decided she really liked the idea of the club sitting down to a Sunday breakfast that included her rolls. It was a small way to give back to them for taking her and Cora in. When she was done with the icing, she left the rolls to cool on the big stove top, plating one to take for herself.
And then, before it got much later and she chanced running into anyone, she slipped out of the kitchen and upstairs to her room, more than a little delighted that the whole clubhouse smelled good. In the solitude of her room, she bit into the warm roll on a sigh, and the creamy icing and buttery cinnamon nearly melted in her mouth. Haven didn’t know how to do many things, but these were perfection.
And in a life where so very little was ever good, let alone perfect, it gave her some solace to be able to make something good—to do good—with her own two hands.
HAVEN WASN’T ENTIRELY sure why Cora ever knocked, since her knock happened at the same instant that she opened the door and walked on in. But it was pure Cora, so it made Haven smile even though it chased away the last vestiges of the nap she’d been trying to take.
“Hey,” Haven said.
“You’re still in bed,” Cora said, stretching out next to her. “Was that because you were up all night baking the world’s best cinnamon buns?”
Haven wrenched into a sitting position. “You didn’t tell anyone it was me, did you?”
Cora rolled her eyes. “Knowing you’d probably ask me that question in that very tone, I refrained from sharing that you are a goddess of all things sweet and ooey-gooey.”
“Good,” Haven said, reclining back onto her elbow. “They were good, weren’t they?”