Forbidden Mountain by Aimee Bishop

Author:Aimee Bishop [Bishop, Aimee]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-05-08T16:00:00+00:00

The church was small and kind of cute. From the outside, it looked like a wood cabin with a small spire. Inside, rows of pews led up to the pulpit which a young girl with flaming red hair was polishing. She smiled as we entered and nodded her head toward the back of the building.

“They’re all in the kitchen baking,” she said.

Martha dragged me into a back room. It smelled like yeast and raw meat. As soon as we entered, everyone fell silent. Suddenly, I felt dozens of eyes on me.

“You brought her,” said a voice from the back of the room. “Is it true she’s Caitlyn’s daughter?”

I craned my neck to see who was talking and saw a portly woman in an oversized pink, floral dress with shoulder pads. Her hair was pulled into a severe bun, and her face was pale and makeup free but flawless. It was then that I noticed everyone was dressed in a similar fashion. I felt like I’d stumbled into a cult.

“This is Abigail,” said Martha. “And she has been sent to us to learn the ways of a Godly life.”

They all nodded in agreement. The lady in pink waved me over.

“You can make a start on the pie crust over here,” she said and handed me a bowl.

I stared at it, not knowing what to do next.

“Well get a move on,” she said.

“I… I don’t’ know what I’m doing. I’ve never baked anything in my life.”

A gasp rippled throughout the room.

“You don’t bake?”

I shook my head.

“Um…No.”

Silence came over the group. This was even more excruciating than I imagined.

“Just follow what I do,” said a girl about my age.

She looked friendlier than the others and a lot younger too. With a warm smile, she guided me through the steps of how to make the perfect pie crust and I followed, the heat of everyone’s gazes still burning through me.

After a little while, the excitement of my entrance began to dissipate and soon everyone was engaged in conversation, apparently having forgotten all about me. Meanwhile, I found that my new baking mentor was friendly and sweet and didn’t seem to mind that I was an outsider. If anything, she seemed to find it fascinating.

“I’m Esmerelda,” she said. “But everyone calls me Esme.”

“That’s a beautiful name.”

“Thanks.” She blushed as she kneaded the dough. “How long have you been in Bambridge?”

“Like, a couple of days,” I said.

“Ooh. Quite a shock for ya.”

“Just a bit.”

Across the room, Martha was gathering the older members of the group and leading them out into the main area of the church.

“Why are we doing this?” I asked. “What has pie gotta do with Jesus?”

Esme laughed and slapped a slab of dough.

“Church bake sale this afternoon,” she said. “We do one at the end of every month.”

She pointed a flour-covered hand over to the door where Martha had just exited.

“Of course we do all the hard work, and all the old grumps just stand around telling us what to do.”

I was sensing some tension between the age groups.

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