Kitchen !exclusive! - Abby Winters

For the next hour, they moved around each other in the warm, fragrant kitchen like dancers learning a new step. Clara slid her pie onto the middle rack. Abby stirred her sauce and tried not to stare at the way Clara hummed while she washed her hands, or the way she leaned against the oak island like it had always belonged to her, too.

Abby wiped her hands on her apron—a ridiculous thing printed with cartoon avocados—and walked to the kitchen doorway. There stood a woman in a navy peacoat, snow melting in her dark curls, holding a foil-covered pie dish like a shield.

“Come in,” Abby said, stepping aside. “My kitchen’s a mess, but the oven works.” abby winters kitchen

The front door creaked open.

“Someone else did,” Abby said carefully. “But I’ve kept it.” For the next hour, they moved around each

That was two years ago. Abby had since replaced the butcher block countertops, installed a brass faucet that didn’t drip, and painted the walls a forgiving shade of sage. But she couldn’t bring herself to replace the island. It was solid oak, stubborn as a mule, and she had learned to work around it.

“Sorry,” the woman said. “I’m Clara. From 3B? The building next door? My oven died in the middle of baking this, and your light was on, and I thought—well, I thought maybe you’d let me finish it here. I’ve knocked on three other doors. You’re my last hope before I eat raw pie dough in the stairwell.” Abby wiped her hands on her apron—a ridiculous

Abby blinked. Then, despite herself, she laughed. It came out rusty, unpracticed—like a drawer that hadn’t been opened in months.