Lilly's voice was soft, uncertain. "Hello, Lilly." Evelyn smiled, trying to look friendly and unthreatening. "Your father says you've been asking about me. Mrs. Chen says you make good cornbread.
I try. Do you like cornbread? Lily nodded, then seemed to gather her courage. Could you teach me how to make it? Mrs. Chen's been teaching me to cook, but she doesn't know how to make cornbread like that.
Evelyn glanced at Ridgewell, who gave a small nod. "I'd be happy to teach you," Evelyn said. "Maybe tomorrow afternoon, if your father says it's all right." "Please, Papa." "We'll see."
But his tone was gentle, and Evelyn could see the love there, buried under all that hardness. As she walked back to the bunkhouse that night, Evelyn felt something she hadn't felt in a long time. Hope. She had a job. She had a place to sleep.
She had purpose. It wasn't much, but it was hers. And for now, that was enough. The Saturday afternoon sun was unforgiving as Evelyn stood in the main house kitchen with Lily Ridgewell perched on a stool beside her, watching with the kind of intense focus that only children could manage. Mrs. Chen had excused herself to tend to other household duties, leaving them alone with flour, cornmeal, and the promise of something sweet.
"First thing you need to know about cornbread," Evelyn said, measuring out the cornmeal into a large bowl, "is that it's simple. The trick isn't in making it complicated. It's in knowing when to stop." "Stop what?" Lily asked, her small hands folded in her lap like she was afraid to touch anything.
"Stop fussing with it. Some things get better the more you work them, bread dough, for example. But cornbread batter, you mix it just enough, and then you leave it alone." Evelyn glanced at the girl. "You want to help, or just watch?"
Lily's eyes went wide. "I can help." "That's why you're here, isn't it? Come on, wash your hands and grab that measuring cup." They worked together in a silence that was surprisingly comfortable.
Lily followed instructions with careful precision, measuring flour and baking powder like each scoop mattered. When it came time to crack the eggs, she hesitated. What if I get shells in it? Then we fish them out. It's not the end of the world.
Evelyn handed her an egg. Go on. The girl cracked it with more force than necessary, sending shell fragments into the bowl along with the egg. Her face fell immediately. I ruined it.
No, you didn't. Watch. Evelyn used half an eggshell to scoop out the fragments, a trick her mother had taught her years ago. See? Easy fix.
Try the next one. Lilly's second attempt was better. By the third egg, she was almost confident. My mama used to cook, Lilly said quietly, not looking up from the bowl, before she died. Evelyn's hands stilled on the measuring cup.