Novel & Cerita Margarette Macaron

You couldn't think about your marriage falling apart while you were concentrating on not burning the shallots. There were eggs. Good butter. A block of Gruyère. Cherry tomatoes, herbs in a small pot on the sill by the window, the kind of fresh herbs that said someone in this household cooked seriously. I found a pan and got to work. --- "Ma!" I turned around. Margaret was standing in the kitchen doorway in her coat, clearly having just arrived, looking at me the way someone looked at a situation they weren't sure they had the authority to stop. "What are you doing?"

Just a fact offered at a dinner table the way facts are offered when you are somewhere safe enough to offer them. Margaret looked at him. Something passed across her face. Soft and quick. "He did," she said. "Badly at first. Then quite well." "Roast chicken," Beckett said. "Among other things." She looked at me. "Did he tell you about the beef bourguignon." "The hate crime against French cuisine," I said. Margaret laughed. It was a real laugh. Not the practiced social kind. The kind that comes out before you decide to let it.

Mia muttered. I looked toward Margaret, but she didn't try to peek at me even though I knew she could feel my gaze on her. She was avoiding eye contact with me. She looked really beautiful, the tightly fitted gown she had on that enunciated her curves. But I had never seen her get dressed that way, she would usually wear sweatpants and a t-shirt. A smirk tugged my lips as I watched her, she tilted her head up and our eyes met. She looked away almost immediately. "Yeah, it was all Margaret's idea. She even Okroshka for you." Lexi grinned turning to Margaret. They walked over to the table, Lexi dropped the cake and Margaret did the same with the tray she was holding.

That one little touch was all it took to remind him he wasn’t alone. "I baked some cookies." Margot's voice broke the heaviness as I slowly pulled away from Asher’s embrace. Her tone was soft, as though she knew we all needed a moment to breathe again. Asher glanced at his mom, a faint smile curling his lips. "What kind?" he asked, his voice still a little rough but lighter now. "Chocolate chip," Margot replied with a smile, her fingers brushing the flour off her apron. "With a hint of coconut. Your favorite, remember?"

~ANTONIO~ I walked back to my room and Margaret's call came in again. I decided to answer it this time. “Yes, Margaret,” I said briefly. “Antonio, how do you like my present?” She asked with a shrill, excited voice. “What did you gain from this, Margaret?” I asked. “A lot. I was finally able to open your eyes to see Pink Butterfly's real colors. I knew she's been hiding something and deceiving you” she said excitedly.

Write a theory here, who is Margaretha? See you 👋 LOVE ALL❤️

Margaret nodded excitedly, she reveled in the compliment of her art and she couldn’t wait for them to taste the food either. Suddenly, Fredrick emerged from the kitchen with a crate of white wine. Margaret was serving each person a plate of taco spaghetti chattering on happily with Avery. Noah’s jaw dropped when Fredrick dropped four bottles of d’Orsay Champagne on the table. “Margaret, half a million dollars is staring back at me on the dinner table.” “Stop being dramatic!” Margaret retorted. “It is d’Orsay for Christ’s sakes! Are we just going to have d’Orsay for dinner?

Margaret felt a bit guilty at one point and said, "Mrs. Horton, you really don't need to do this just because of Mr. Horton—" "Don't be silly!" Olivia interrupted, lowering her voice. "Margaret, no matter what happens with you and Malcolm, we all recognize your talent in cooking. The people who want to hire you for these banquets? They're only interested because of the meal you made today. And with New Year's Eve coming in just half a month, they're eager for some authentic Maravian flavors. Who wouldn't want that?" In that moment, Margaret felt a sense of satisfaction she had never experienced before, not when she was with Gavin.

“And you must be—” “I’m her stepmother,” Ericka cut in. “Ohhh,” Margarette said, eyes widening. “So you’re the so-called witch—I mean, stepmom—of my bestie. You actually look nice, though. Nice to meet you!” She even leaned in for a polite cheek kiss. I chose to ignore the comment. “That food’s for Ericka, right? It looks amazing. Can I have some—” “Margarette!” Ericka snapped. “What? I just want to try Tita’s cooking.”