THE HEALING BUTTER AND BAKERY COTTAGE

With more than enough money and wealth to rely on for a lifetime, Mae Farris could live any place she wanted. It was the spring of 1930, and she was suddenly filled with inspiration to do more with her life, and being independent was inevitable and much wanted. Tired and overworked from taking over her family bakery cottage left by her paternal grandparents, physically, it took a toll on her.

One day in the bakery kitchen, Mae thought that she would try to do her own version of a beloved chocolate and butterscotch cake that everyone in Kingston loved. What better time for her to be alone to try this experiment with no one around? The few from the faithful staff of her grandmother had remained with Mae and knew or hoped that she would not taint her grandmother’s legacy.

The butterscotch mixture was much harder then she had realized; she sadly tested the temperature with her finger and burned it. “This is what happens when you move much too fast, Ms. Mae,” said Gordon Caswell, the manager of the bakery. Mae was positively certain that she was alone. Her finger was in agony, and it had become swollen, and it blistered. “Mr. Caswell, you are always quiet; I thought that everyone had left.”

As Mae turned on the chilly water in the sink in order to put her finger under the faucet, Mr. Caswell went to the refrigerator for his own special butter. “Now, Ms. Mae, you know that colder water does not work for burns. Your grandmother told you that, and so have I.”

Mr. Caswell was fifteen years older than Mae, and he looked as if he was. For a baker, he dressed like he was an artist, and he took in his appearance as well as his baking. She knew that her grandmother had conversations about it all of the time. “You are right, Mr. Caswell, your butter works wonders, especially with the baking.” Was Mae being facetious, or did she really mean it? He used a tiny perfect wooden spoon so spread the butter onto her finger; it felt like butter from heaven. “This butter is very soothing, Mr. Caswell, and it smells divine; too delicious to eat, and too precious to use for healing.”

Mae was glad that he was still there because it was later than she thought. The trees were howling outside, and she could hear the sea roaring. “A storm is coming, Mr. Caswell; I suppose we should be leaving now.” Mr. Caswell did not respond to her suggestion; she turned around and he was gone.

She was not frightened, however, but it did disturb her that he was no longer around. Both Mr. Caswell and Mae had forgotten about the butterscotch mixture cooking over the stove. “Oh, my heavens! The butterscotch mixture. It is ruined!” From Mae’s moment of healing had gone from that to chaos in the kitchen. Or was it really chaos; low and behold, the mixture did not burn. She turned off the heat to let the mixture cool. The wind became louder in addition to the sea. Where could Mr. Caswell be? Mae had gone outside breathing a sigh of relief knowing that the mixture was fine.

The outside was darker than it normally was, and the wind had calmed itself, but the sea was as loud as it wanted to be. A full had shined over Kingston, bringing light almost to where the ocean could be seen or showed a different color. Like herself, Ms. Caswell did not drive, and she could not make out where he had disappeared to.

The sea had stopped roaring making a peaceful quiet, and then at least one million gold lights had glossed the sky, and the sea could be seen for miles and miles. It was the color of the healing butter made by Mr. Caswell. Mae knew that she should have proceeded to go home, but everything about the entire outside was breathtaking and magical. She looked to the right, and she saw a cottage closer to the beach that was never there before, or so she thought. Mae walked down to the beach, and she was the only person on the beach; she was not afraid.

The cottage looked familiar to her, and she could not place where the familiarity came from. The wind had increased, and the sea began to roar, but not as loud as before. Her feet had been warm as she stood on the sand, very warm to where she took off her socks and shoes; that was something she never did when she went to the beach. It certainly did her feet justice, and it was amazing, but out of all of the times, why was this particular moment different? Her feet had the relaxing, wonderful, magical, and heavenly experience that could have never been imagined. Why not? After all, it was Kingston. Mae left her socks and shoes off and proceeded to walk towards the mysterious cottage.

The sea had no longer roared, and the wind had decreased. Mae was not able to walk, and the healing from the sand had faded away. This made Mae very nervous as she desperately tried to walk. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, but still could not walk. She looked straight ahead at the cottage in hopes that cottage would free her from the sand; the cottage disappeared.

A sandstorm had ensued, which had never happened before while Mae was being held, but the sand did not in any way harm her. The sandstorm was surprised that the healing butter intervened even when the sandstorm was not out to cause harm to Mae. The healing butter had washed over the sand, and the sand the healing butter became a wonderful and beautiful concoction that could have been used for a recipe or eaten.

Mae felt assured that she was safe and not in any danger. She looked all around her to see if there was anyone else on the beach, or just in the water. “Who would be in the water at this time of night?” She asked herself. The winds had returned and, the sea roared again, and Mae had fallen into an inviting sleep right on the beach.

“Good Morning, Kingston, my name is Mae Faris, and this is Mr. Caswell, and welcome to our healing butter bakery cottage.”

Richard Eddie started writing in 2002. Richard Eddie's favorite authors are Daphne Du Maurier and Kate Morton. Richard Eddie reads and writes for fun, and lives in California.