Unhealthy Coping Mechanism

Chapter 32

The supplies she'd snuck from the store looked a hell of a lot less impressive now. The bag of flour and box of sugar had ripped open during the drive home, coating the bottom of the box in white lumps blended with the shell fragments of who knew how many eggs.

Shit, when had that happened? The charred stench from that night's overcooked peppers still hadn't left the kitchen, masking the smell of smashed eggs and liberated flour until they were right under Harriet's nose. She carefully extracted the supplies that had survived the trip and laid them out on the counter.

"I thought you said everything was ready?" Sam asked.

"I did," Harriet hissed. "We wouldn't have this problem if someone hadn't tried to peek at his presents early."

"I didn't mean to break them." Sam's breathing came in ragged gasps as a high-pitched whine crept into his voice. Great. They were short on supplies, and her sous chef was three sniffles away from a full-blown meltdown.

"Honey, look at me." Harriet took Sam's chin in her hand and forced him to meet her eyes. "If we don't have enough, Lord help me, I will walk all the way to the grocery store and back to get what we need. But I can't do anything if you wake up your dad. Understand?"

Sam sucked in a deep breath and nodded mutely.

Together, they looked over the ingredients and debated what they could make. Pies and tarts were out since they didn't have enough to make both a crust and a filling. Cookies needed flour, and, with most of that mixed in with sugar at the bottom of the box, there was no way to measure it accurately.

Out of sheer desperation, Harriet texted Carol. Know any good, simple recipes?

Her response came in a heartbeat. Why?

Don't have much to work with. Got anything in that cookbook of yours?

Burned it.

Harriet stared at her phone.

"What did she say?" Sam asked as he tried to peek at her phone.

"Something insane," Harriet muttered. Her fingers stabbed the screen in a sharp staccato. Please tell me you're joking.

Should have done it ages ago. Dots flickered on the screen as Carol elaborated. Either stop baking or lose this number. Would rather not end up in the hospital again.

Without a second thought, Harriet deleted Carol's contact information. Good riddance to her and her delusional son.

"What now?" Sam asked. His hands trembled as much as his voice. "We have to bake!"

"I know!" Harriet hissed. "I know. I'll think of something."

And she did. Staring out at the blackness of the December night with only the light of her phone to see by, she set her lips into a thin line. "This is our only shot," she said. "Do me a favor and preheat the oven to 375."

While he took care of that, she unwrapped bars of dark chocolate. Each rustle of their wrappers crackled like thunder in the darkness. No sign of Frank, thank goodness.

Normally she'd use her knives to chop up the chocolate, but not tonight. The last thing she needed was for the steady thudding of metal on the chopping board to wake Frank up.

She let Sam stir the chocolate between rounds in the microwave, darting out a finger to prevent it from beeping as he whispered. Once that was done, Sam added the sugar and most of the other dry ingredients to the melted chocolate, and Harriet beat the eggs until they foamed with the weight of her frustration and fear. She combined the contents of the two bowls with a generous scoop of cocoa powder until the mixture was as dark and rich as the last shovelful of soil tossed atop a grave.

There was just one last thing she had to take care of before she put it in the oven.

The knife's edge gleamed in the moonlight as Harriet freed it from the knife rack. "We'll pour it in the pan when I come back," she said softly. "I won't be long."

She ignored the faint slurping of her sous chef licking a taste of the batter off his finger as she crept toward the bedroom. Bless his heart, she thought as she eased open the door to see Frank in bed with his arm stretched out to her side of the mattress. He'd really meant what he'd said about keeping it warm for her.

Her throat tightened along with her grip on the knife. He'd make the right choice. She had to believe that.

By the time his eyelids fluttered open, she was already halfway across the room. "Babe, that you?" he muttered sleepily.

She stayed silent.

He yawned and eased himself into a sitting position with a grunt. "Dang, babe, you've been working real hard, haven't you? I bet you didn't leave me a single thing to decorate."

Just the Christmas cookies they were going to make once this mess was sorted out. "Not a whole lot, no."

He patted the pillow next to his head. "Come on in. I've got it nice and toasty for you."

She came up to his side of the bed and leaned down. "You love me, right?"

"Of course I do, babe! What's this about?"

His eyes widened as her lips met his. He slowly deepened the kiss, caressing the back of her head as his fingers got lost in her hair.

She eased the knife where she wanted it to go until the only kiss Frank was feeling was the cold metal resting against his throat.

"I love you, too," Harriet whispered hoarsely. She pressed the knife into his neck with a trembling hand until a thin line of blood trickled from under the blade. "You're going to help me bake one way or another, honey. It's your choice how you do it."

He chose wrong.