Ella dropped her book bag beside the door, hung her soggy coat on the hook next to it, and took off her boots. Madison always said Aunt Jo’s house was as colorful as a box of crayons. She wasn’t kidding; every room was a different color. The living room was a bright, warm shade of peach, the hall yellow, and the dining room green. Added in was a colorful assortment of chairs, pillows, and rugs. It really is like a box of crayons.
But as pretty as it was, the best part of Aunt Jo’s house was that it smelled like vanilla pound cake. Ella closed her eyes and took a deep breath, soaking in the delicious scent.
Aunt Jo came back downstairs and handed Ella a towel. “Dry your hair. It’s gone rat’s nest on you.” She chuckled, her warm brown eyes twinkling. “Your oldest sister would be horrified.”
Even before Dad died, Madison had started getting weird about her appearance, which had turned her into a harsh critic of her less interested sisters. Ella dried her hair with the towel. “She’s always cranky.”
“It’s been a tough year for all of you, especially your poor momma. She’s raising you and your sisters by herself, and doing it while they’re finding out about their—” Aunt Jo clamped her mouth closed and cast a wary glance at Ella.
Ella had seen that cautious look all too often lately. The Doves weren’t like other families. Everyone knew that whenever the Dove family had seven daughters, they developed abilities that would allow good things to happen to their little town. Dad had told stories about their ancestors doing just that, which had delighted Ella and her sisters.
Her favorite was about the great wheat shortage of 1872, which had been caused by an invasion of cutworms, dark and hungry insects. At the time, the Dove family had had seven daughters and one of them, Emily Anne, had had the ability to draw songbirds to her like moths to a flame. Everywhere she went, birds fluttered nearby, singing their songs from the trees overhead and trilling their secrets outside her bedroom window.
At the request of the town, Emily Anne was sent out to skip through the fields of wheat, and her songbird friends fluttered after her, snacking on cutworms as they went. The rest of the South might have been devastated by the wheat shortage, but not Dove Pond.
Dad had dozens of stories like that, and Ella and her sisters used to beg him to repeat them. Now that he’d passed, Momma had taken on that job, sharing the history of the Dove family as if she’d been born into it. Aunt Jo had helped. She was one of the biggest believers in the Dove family lore, and she often said she hadn’t been a bit surprised when, directly after Sarah’s birth, all four of Ella’s older sisters had discovered their special abilities.
Madison could tell how a person felt with a single touch. Alex could calm a wild animal simply by humming, while Tay could tell all sorts of things about a person just by holding something they’d written. Then, just last week, Cara had realized she could read people’s romantic futures, prompting Aunt Jo to call her a “love guru.”
Meanwhile, nothing unusual had happened for Ella, which was agonizing. Momma didn’t seem worried and had pointed out that neither of Ella’s younger sisters had yet found their special abilities either. They all would, Momma had said—it just took time. Still, Ella couldn’t help but wonder. She wasn’t like her sisters. Not even a little. What if she wasn’t special and they were?
Suddenly tired, Ella sighed and half-heartedly continued to dry her hair with the towel.
“When you’re done, come to the kitchen.” Aunt Jo retrieved her shopping bags and headed for a red swinging door. “I’ll call your momma and let her know you’re here.”
The door hadn’t yet stopped swinging when Ella heard the older woman on the phone. Ella tossed the damp towel over a chair and went into the kitchen just as Aunt Jo set her phone aside and started unpacking her shopping bags. The kitchen was even more colorful than the other rooms. The walls were a light turquoise, the cabinets green, and the linoleum a dull gold, while the counter was a breathtaking ocean blue. Here and there sat colorful crockery and glassware. The whole room made Ella think of peacocks.
She slid onto an empty stool at the counter. “What are we making?”
“Two kinds of scones—cranberry-and-pecan, and vanilla with vanilla bean icing—a buttermilk pie, and ten pieces of apple cake with caramel drizzle.” Aunt Jo pulled out some mixing bowls. “You always helped your dad in the kitchen, so you can help me.”
“He taught me how to follow a recipe.”
“Then you’re an expert.” Aunt Jo dragged a stool to the counter. “Let’s get to work.”
The next hour flew by. Aunt Jo’s kitchen was warm, organized, and purposeful, much like the woman herself. Ella found herself sinking gratefully into that organized warmth, which was accompanied by the delicious scents and tastes of cinnamon, sugar, and toasted pecans.
“This caramel needs watching.” Aunt Jo gave the scones in the oven a last look before she slid the stool beside the stove for Ella. “When the thermometer reaches 345 degrees, call me. I have to take it off the eye at 345 ’cause it’ll cook a little longer before we cool it with the vanilla mixture.” She reached into the refrigerator, poured some cream into a measuring cup, and then added a pinch of salt and a strong dash of vanilla from a mason jar. “We’ll add this when it’s ready. While you watch the caramel, I’ll peel the apples for the cake.”
Aunt Jo left Ella at the stove, chatting over her shoulder as she worked, rambling about how proud she was of her homemade, moonshine-based vanilla. Every minute or so, she’d come to the stove, pick up the pan, and slowly swirl the caramel. “You have to swirl it low and slow, see? If you get the caramel on the cooler sides of the pan, it’ll crystalize and—” A beeper sounded, and she replaced the pan on the burner and pulled the scones from the oven, which caused the room to flood with the scent of vanilla. Still chatting, Aunt Jo went to slide the scones onto a cooling rack while Ella turned her attention back to her task.
The caramel, a beautiful golden pool in the silver pan, sent up faint curls of steam that tickled Ella’s nose. Somehow, she found herself drawn to the spices in the rack beside the stove. She reached over and trailed her fingers over the jars, the glass cool under her fingertips. As she touched the final jar, a tingle zapped her fingers. She yanked her hand back and stared at her fingers, and then looked back at the jar. What was that?
She slowly reached up again. The second her fingers touched the smooth glass, her fingers zapped again, and her heart started racing. She didn’t pull her hand away but picked up the jar and read the label. Cardamom, it said. She twisted off the lid and sniffed cautiously.
Instantly, a sweep of elation ran through her, and she knew without question that the caramel needed this spice. Not much. But enough.
She glanced over her shoulder at Aunt Jo and wondered if she should ask permission first, but Aunt Jo was balanced rather precariously on a stepladder as she slid her jar of vanilla back into a cabinet. She was talking to herself, too, planning the next steps for the apple cake.
Ella turned back to the stove and, without giving herself time to question it further, sprinkled a pinch of cardamom over the caramel.
Instantly, the aroma changed, the delicious scent deepening. Ella’s smile widened as she replaced the cardamom in the rack, a deep peace settling over her like a warm blanket. For one blissful moment, she knew without a doubt that everything was exactly how it should be.