She sighed and added another handful of flour. Crazy. She had been baking for years, but today she was making breakfast for Pam as if she were a completely inexperienced cook. On their first morning together in the old inn. Mel turned the dough out onto the counter and tried to knead it into submission, stopping now and again to scrape the gooey mess off her fingers. She hadn’t slept well, and she had finally given up the pretense and headed to her kitchen to make a trial run at a large breakfast. Already she was surrounded by the scents of cinnamon and cloves, the aromas reaching far back in her memory, back to weekend breakfasts when Danny was a child. She patted the overworked dough into a large circle and then cut it into wedges. She put the scones in the oven, set the timer, and checked them off her list. She didn’t have much faith in the ancient appliances, but maybe the oven would explode and destroy all evidence of her miserable scones. Her microwave was reliable, so if all else failed, she could just serve nuked breakfast burritos every morning.
