There were few noises Harriet knew she'd remember for the rest of her life: Frank proposing to her, her happy crying mingling with Sam's as she held him for the first time, Sam's first words.

Unlike those sounds, the wails that tore out of Harriet and her mom were full of raw pain and grief. The sudden, terrible reality of their loneliness crashed on them in waves. Elijah was gone, and no amount of baking could fix that.

The funeral would be next week, Nia explained through her sobbing, a small affair consisting of the family members and few surviving friends who could handle yet another trip so close to the holidays. They tearfully reminded each other to call if there was anything either of them needed before Harriet allowed Frank to lead her to their car with his arm over her shoulder.

There was no time to thank Patricia for watching Sam while they were out, no time to explain to Sam why his mom was too hoarse to tell him why she was upset. There was only the kitchen and the solace it brought her.

A dusting of flour permanently coated her hands, and the scent of dark chocolate filled the house as thoroughly as November chilled the grieving home.

Harriet felt nothing. Whether she was dicing nuts or tempering chocolate, all of her emotions went straight into whatever was baking. Cookies, cakes, and dozens of other baked goods piled up in the kitchen, cluttering every bit of counter space that wasn't claimed by her supplies. Although she still felt the warm kisses Frank planted on her cheek each time he passed and the tears Sam wept into her leg, she didn't hear a word they said over the whir of her new mixer.

Only the stubborn ringing of the doorbell managed to break through her trance.

"Honey, could you get that?" she called out.

There was no response save another ring. Where on earth were they? Heck, what day was it? Harriet could only barely tell it was sometime before noon thanks to the sun doing its level best to blind her with brilliant rays stabbing through the drapes.

Harriet groaned as yet another ring echoed through the house. Damn, these people were stubborn! Couldn't they tell she was busy?

She opened the door to stop the assault on her ears, only to immediately be ensnared in a spine-crushing hug. "Oh, Harriet!" Vicky said with a sob. "I'm so sorry!"

"Frank told us what happened," Patricia said softly. She presented Harriet with a saran-wrapped potato casserole. "We thought you could use a little cheering up."

As if potato casserole, the quintessential pan of I'm-too-depressed-to-cook-for-myself meal, would make her feel even slightly better, especially when it had interrupted her vigil over the maple pecan bars in the oven. "You might as well come on in," she said as a steady beeping summoned her back into the kitchen.

Vicky eyed the heaps of Tupperware as if she expected a rat to dash out from the clutter at any moment. "You've been keeping busy."

Patricia glanced around for empty space to put her casserole before giving up and depositing it on top of a container full of cookies on the verge of becoming stale. "Did you seriously manage to bake all this these last few days?"

"Somebody has to make sure everyone has enough to eat at the funeral reception," Harriet said dismissively.

"Couldn't you have hired a caterer?" Vicky said. "I know a couple folks who'd be delighted to help, and Eleanor and I totally have you covered if you're worried about money."

The last thing she wanted was for more people to get involved. Who did she think she was, trying to get between her and her baking? "I can handle it fine by myself, thanks."

Patricia put a hand on Vicky's arm to signal now was not the best time to be arguing about a funeral they hadn't even been invited to attend. "It definitely looks like it. What's that delicious smell?"

"Maple pecan bars. Want one?"

Harriet carved each of them a piece dripping with sticky, sweet syrup. The roasted nuts provided the perfect crunch: firm enough to be satisfying without leaving their jaws aching.

"This is damn good," Vicky said, spraying crumbs everywhere. "You could give Carol a run for her money, you know that?"

"How is Carol?" Harriet asked. She hadn't seen her since their frenzied baking session after Ryan got custody of Peter. "Do you think she'd like it if I sent her over a little something?"

"That's probably not the best idea," Vicky said. "She's not exactly supposed to go near anything sweet right now."

Harriet shuddered at the thought of being separated from the cookies, cakes, and other sugary delights that surrounded her. "What do you mean?"

"Of all the things you had to mention," Patricia hissed. She shook her head at Vicky's apologetic look. "She's in rehab."

"What? Why?" Carol barely even drank, Harriet knew, aside from the occasional adult beverage or two at parties.

"Ryan went over to pick up more of Peter's things. Standard divorce stuff," Vicky said. She glanced over to Harriet for permission before helping herself to a second pecan bar. "He found her passed out in the kitchen. Apparently she collapsed from exhaustion and hit her head real bad. That's what the doctors think happened, anyway."

"We don't know all the details," Patricia said, "but apparently the way she acted in the hospital raised some serious alarm bells. They've got her in an in-patient program and everything."

And to think just the other day they'd baked brownies together. Or was it bread? Whatever it had been, Carol had understood her that day in ways nobody else ever had. "I bet that must be real hard on her. And poor Peter! He might as well have lost her twice."

"Ollie's been saying he's still real quiet," Vicky said, "but he at least looks healthier."

"I've been making sure Logan invites him over for lots of playdates," Patricia said. "Ryan is trying, but, bless his heart, that man is in way over his head."

"Speaking of kids, how's Sam holding up?" Vicky asked.

"Fine," Harriet said. "I think. Frank's been keeping him busy for me."

Patricia and Vicky shared a look. "It might be a good idea for you to get out of the kitchen every once in a while," Patricia said. "Logan and I have been thinking of checking out that baby giraffe at the zoo. You and Sam are more than welcome to join us if you want."

"I'm good," Harriet said through gritted teeth.

"I've got some sweet coupons for massages," Vicky said. "We could make it a girls' spa day, just the three of us!"

"I said I'm good!" Harriet snapped. She snatched supplies from the cupboards and started measuring out flour for a chocolate cake. "I think it would be best if you two left."

"Aw, Harriet, don't be like that," Vicky said. "We just want to help."

"You can help by letting me bake in peace. Don't you have some play to go to or whatever it is Eleanor is throwing her money at this week?"

"It's a ballet recital, actually," Vicky said under her breath.

"Give me a call if you need anything," Patricia said softly. "Please."

Harriet barely noticed they'd left as she listened to the whir of her new mixer making short work of the cake batter. Friday, she thought dully, that's what day it was. Vicky and Eleanor always went out to some performance or other on Fridays. It used to be her and Harriet, but she'd long since been supplanted by that rich bitch and her silver-studded lifestyle.

Now all Harriet had was a husband who spent more time slaving away at work than being there for her, a kid who clung to her like a bur when his dad wasn't around, and a mom who'd judge everything from her choice of spouse to whether she liked her toast butter side up or butter side down.

As long as she could still bake, she'd manage just fine.