“Time to start dinner,” Helen announced with a gentle smile from under her salt-and-pepper bob.
“Let me help you,” June said, rising from a surprisingly comfortable leather armchair in the Rideres’ rented house on the lake. For all its overt luxury made her acutely uncomfortable, the rental certainly lived up to its promised grandeur.
Peter broke off his conversation to stare at June with worry. His father – ever the diplomat, no matter his status – turned to see what had caused the sudden tension.
“I can cut vegetables and wash dishes,” she protested, and tried to look less defensive. “I’m sure there’s some way I can help in a kitchen.”
“Without cooking.”
She put her hands on her hips and glared.
Peter lifted his hands in surrender and rubbed his nose. “If you’re sure?”
At her nod, he attempted a faltering smile and turned back to George with a hearty apology. “Where were we, Dad?”
Helen had already disappeared by the time June passed through the hallway leading to the kitchen.
“How can I help?” She broke off, staring at the empty kitchen. “Oh. Helen?”
The sound of whirling air was her only warning.
Thunk!
A nine-inch butcher knife quavered from where it had embedded itself into the carved walnut trim surrounding the doorframe.
June threw herself sideways and let out a yelp. “Who threw that?”
An apple flew toward her nose, looming large and red. June snatched a decorative metal tray from the counter and held it up as a shield. The smashed against the platter hard enough to dent the copper as she craned her neck around to see what was next.
“What’s – eep!” A container dumped a heavy pile of sea salt onto her scalp, each grain hitting like tiny bits of hail before the glass grazed her shoulder and shattered against the ceramic tile floor.
She threw up an arm to protect her eyes, only for a whizzing bag of flour to burst open against her formerly black shirt. A rolling pin loomed ready behind a floating spice rack, primed to send herbs and a wad of dried peppers flying like baseballs.
“Stop!” Helen stood in the doorway, one hand lifted in command.
A potato masher settled disgruntledly with a rattle back into a container of wooden spoons and soup ladles, and June could have sworn the stand mixer gave a threatening twirl of the attached beater before submitting.
“June, dear,” Helen began, and studied the formerly pristine room. “One does not simply walk into the kitchen.”
“Apparently,” she muttered, and wondered when the cocoa powder had attacked.
***
This week’s prompt was from Padre. “One does not simply walk into the kitchen.” It was a trade, and he also received mine: It was the greatest of mysteries and the simplest of answers, if only they were willing to admit it.
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