Page 2 of The Matchmaker's Cottage

“Hello, Maggie,” Julia greeted the earnest younger woman, bypassing her to gather some of the onion scraps and potato peels off the large butcher-block island.

“Hi, Jul— Oh, I was just about to do that!” Maggie said,waving a soapy hand in Julia’s direction. “I just wanted to finish the guest plates first.”

“It’s not a problem at all.” Julia threw the scraps into the compost and began to scrub the maple wood surface of the counter to clear off the rest of the food debris. “Why are you washing the dishes by hand anyway?”

It had cost an arm and a leg to install a professional-grade dishwasher in the kitchen, but Julia had insisted on operating at the highest commercial level possible. Still, without fail, when she came into the kitchen and found Maggie cleaning up, she was always hand-washing the dishes.

“Oh, I put them through the thing after,” Maggie promised, waving her hand towardthe thing—Julia’s very expensive dishwasher—even as she set the plates on the drying rack. “For sanitization purposes.” She hazarded a sidelong glance at Julia. “But there’s so few of the plates as it is, I don’t mind cleaning them by hand to get most of the gunk off first.”

Julia felt the sting of Maggie’s words, even as she acknowledged that it hadn’t been intended as criticism. Still, she didn’t exactly need a reminder of how business was so slow that her cook was able to wash all the dinner plates by hand.

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she placed the flour and yeast from the pantry onto the now-clean wooden countertop.

“Ooh,” Maggie breathed, moving beside Julia. “What are you making for tomorrow?”

“I think I’m going to do a nice multigrain,” Julia mused, dipping her fingers into the bag of flour and dusting a small amount lightly over the countertop. “And then maybe some blueberry scones. Oh, and of course the cinnamon rolls, which is what I’m doing now.”

Maggie eyed her skeptically. “You’re going to stay up tonight to do it?”

“Yup!” Julia chirped, fully aware of the fact that both she and Maggie knew how she normally woke up at five a.m. to bake the breakfast pastries and treats. “I just feel like getting it in now,” she added in an attempt to avoid raising too much suspicion and having Maggie start asking questions about why, exactly, she needed the distraction of baking to help her out that evening. The phone felt heavier in her back pocket at the thought. “I’ll save the last rise for the morning, and I’ll do some of the muffins then as well,” she added almost as a consolation.

“Do we need all that?” Maggie asked hesitantly, watching as Julia dug out a tablespoon and started to scoop yeast into the bowl. “I mean, aside from us, it’s just the Petersons and that lady doing the wine tour.”

“Yes,” Julia responded, barely able to unclench her teeth as she went to the fridge to get some milk, “we do. We also have another early check-in tomorrow, and I’m sure they’ll want some breakfast, too.”

Maggie continued to eye her dubiously as her available counter space got smaller and smaller with the ingredients she added.

“If you say so.”

“I do say—” Julia inhaled sharply, cutting herself off as she heard the escalating harshness in her tone, before willing a big smile on her face. “Why don’t you head on home? I can take things from here. Come tomorrow whenever you like for dinner prep.”

“Are you sure?” Maggie carefully unwound her apron from her plump waist, setting it on the unoccupied counter across from Julia. “I can stay and help you. Would you like me to brown the butter? For the cinnamon rolls?”

Julia felt a surge of affection for the young woman rush through her, replacing the flicker of annoyance that had only just been there. The truth was, Maggie was her saving grace. Julia had first met her years ago, in what felt like the unlikeliest of ways: when she’d learned that Maggie’s parents had purchased the Schaeffer cottage,herfamily’s old vacation spot. The one where Julia had spent every summer of her childhood before her father sold it—an attempt to rid the family of the memories that haunted them anyway.

It was a bittersweet connection, but one that quickly became a comfort. When word spread that Julia was restoring the neighboring property, Maggie’s father had been one of the first to offer a helping hand, her mother often appearing at the door with home-cooked meals when Julia was too busy to feed herself. And once they had found out about her connection totheirproperty, they hadn’t inundated her with questions or tried to piece together the history of the families who had once held cottages side by side. Instead, they invited her over, encouraged her to spend time at her former summer home to see what it had become. Julia gently refused each time. She bore no resentment—not toward the family, of course, or from how it had been sold. But imagining it under someone else’s care stirred a quiet ache she rarely let herself dwell on. She was glad it had found a good family, truly, but the thought of stepping inside again always felt like reopening a door she’d carefully closed. Eventually, they’d stopped asking, respecting her need to keep her distance.

In the years since, Maggie’s parents had grown older, as time often dictates, and Julia knew most of the responsibility at home now fell to Maggie. Still, they remained the same kind, dependable family, and Julia was as grateful to them as she was to Maggie herself. It made her think of her own father—elderlynow as well, but with none of the nurturing genes that Maggie’s parents exhibited. She and her father loved each other, of course, but it was a love best displayed from a distance.

It had taken him a while to come around fully and be supportive of what she was trying to do. He hadn’t quite gotten it at first. He’d barely come to visit. She tried to be understanding. To recognize that, for him, it all still felt fresh andtoo soondespite the years that had—

Ignoring the twinge in her chest, she turned back to Maggie with a genuine smile.

“I’m good, don’t worry. I’ve got this from here.”

With a nod that hesitated only slightly, Maggie quickly finished tidying her area, including quickly loading the dishwasher, before hanging her apron up, and leaving after saying good night.

Julia turned back to the dough. Cinnamon buns were her favorite to make—not just for the sweet reward at the end but for the ritual of it, the physicality. The steady rhythm of punching and folding, kneading until her forearms ached. Julia’s recipe in particular, with the addition of the brown butter, demanded patience to turn the dough from a sticky mass into something soft and malleable. She knew it would take time—the dough had to rise twice, and there were a few hours of quiet tending ahead—but there was comfort in that. In giving herself over to a process that rewarded both time and touch.

I really need your help.

The words came back to her then, unprompted, sharp and merciless. Her phone suddenly felt like it was burning a hole in her back pocket, the phantom heat of it pressing against her uncomfortably.

Scoffing to try to dismiss the pounding of her heart, Juliatook the milk to the stove and turned on two of the gas burners, one for the milk and the other for her butter. She had set out to make cinnamon buns, and that was what she was going to do. Ethan Duchamp and his requests be damned.

It didn’t take long for her to get the milk to a good temperature for the yeast, so she poured that into her glass mixing bowl as she kept an eye on the butter. Browned was the key, not burnt.

Another thought came to her then, this time of the memory of her and Ethan at NYU, Ethan watching as she tried to make Rice Krispies squares on the little portable stovetop in her dorm room—