Margaret nodded. She tilted her head as she took me in. “I’m sorry. You look familiar. If you don’t mind me asking, are you Donovan’s sister?”
His sister.
I didn’t know if he had a sister. Then again, I knew very little about the man.
My lips came together. “No, no relation.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “Oh.”
I shook my head with a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Margaret.”
“You too, Julia.”
The open floor plan glistened with a fresh shine and the generous amount of sunshine coming through the large windows. The frozen bay caught my attention. The snowdrifts glistened like motionless waves from yesterday’s wind. Soft white clouds floated in a blue sky above the horizon. As I turned around in the living room, I was bombarded with the memories of last night. I quickly spun back to the windows, fearful we’d left clues of our night’s line-erasing on the glass pane.
I took a step one direction and then the other, tilting my head to see from different angles. A sigh of relief came at the cleanliness of the window.
“Strange smudge,” Margaret said, coming up behind me.
I spun toward her. “Excuse me.”
Warmth came from my toes, radiating toward my neck and cheeks.
The tips of her lips curled in a friendly way. She shook her head. “Very unusual,” she said. “Rarely are Donovan’s windows in need of cleaning on the inside, just normal dust and air particles. This morning there was a rather large smudge right in the area where you are looking.” She shrugged. “The good news is it cleaned with no issues.”
I took a deep breath. “That is good news.”
“Enjoy some breakfast.”
I nodded, walking through the dining room on my way to the kitchen. A quick inspection of the table let me know that it was clean. I could only hope that it had been cleaned by Van as he’d said, not Margaret.
If she knew the cause of the smudge, she also knew I wasn’t Van’s sister.
Why do I look familiar?
Before I could give that more thought, my stomach growled at the delicious aromas filling the air.
The six-burner stove was filled with pots and pans as a petite older woman with dark black hair tended to each one. Such as her daughter, this woman also wore blue jeans and flat white tennis shoes. Instead of a sweatshirt, she had on a plain black top with a long black sweater over the top. Around her waist was an apron, reminding me of the ones my grandmother would wear when we baked cookies or she let me help her with something.
“Hello,” I called out over the sounds of bubbling and simmering pots.
Mrs. Mayhand, or Paula, quickly turned. Wiping her hands on her apron, she scanned me up and down. There was a moment of contemplation on her part before she smiled. “Hello. So you’re Mr. Sherman’s guest.”
“I am. My name is Julia.”
She nodded. “My name is Paula. Most people call me Mrs. Mayhand.” She winked. “I think it’s because they think I’m old. I’m not too old to remember my first name.”
I grinned. “It’s nice to meet you, Paula.”
Her smile broadened. “And you too. What may I get you for” —she looked at the clock— “lunch or is this breakfast?”
Technically, it was somewhere in between. “We could call it brunch.”
Paula walked to a far counter, pulled a coffee mug from a peg. “I have a pot of coffee over here. It’s my indulgence while I cook. Would you like a cup?”
I laid my computer bag on the kitchen table and walked to the breakfast bar “I don’t mind serving myself.”
“I’m only here one day a week. Let an old lady have her way.”
Nodding, I sat up on the high stool. “Yes, please. Coffee would be great.”
“Cream or sugar?”
“Cream, if you have it.”
Paula opened the refrigerator and shook her head. “Is black all right? You tell me some things you like and I’ll add them to the list.” She handed me the warm black coffee.
“I really don’t know how long I’ll be staying.”
As I spoke, she wrote cream on a long list.
“What are you cooking?”
“Mr. Sherman isn’t much for celebrating holidays. You might have chosen a bad time to visit.”
I looked around the large kitchen and out to the living room. “I hadn’t given his lack of decorations much thought.”
“Oh, no, he doesn’t decorate.”
“I can see how it would be a lot of work for only one person to enjoy.”
Paula checked on her pans before pushing a light on the double oven and looking inside. She smiled and turned my way. “When Peggy told me that Mr. Sherman had a guest, I decided he needed a holiday meal.” She shrugged. “He may not like it, but I have a turkey breast in the oven, gravy on the stove and two different casseroles and mashed potatoes already in the refrigerator. I’ll write out warming instructions. No sense in two people spending the holiday without plenty to eat.”
“It sounds delicious.”
“Now, about your brunch.”
“Is there fruit?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. Mr. Sherman likes his nectarines.”
I lifted my coffee mug to my lips, trying to hide my smile. “Nectarines and coffee sounds perfect.”
“Let me make you an English muffin.” She looked at me. “Or are you one of those no-carbs people.”
“I’m one of those too-many-carbs people.”
I think that won me a few brownie points as Paula grinned and nodded. Soon I was feasting on nectarines, an English muffin drenched in real butter, and coffee. I was also answering Paula’s detailed questions about my eating preferences.
“As I said, I’m not sure how long I’ll be here.”
“Oh, child, you’re changing up my cooking routine, and I couldn’t be more grateful. Mr. Sherman is a creature of habit. I make six meals each week. The next week, I clean out the refrigerator of all the leftovers he didn’t eat. I can almost guarantee which meals will be gone and which will be only partially eaten. Every week, I rotate the menu. If I throw in something new, I’ll find it untouched the next week. I love cooking; I’m even more thrilled to mix it up a bit.” She grinned my way. “Is that why you’re here? To mix it up.”
My muffin and fruit were gone. Apparently, I’d worked up an appetite last night. “I’m here because Mr. Sherman advertised for someone to write his memoir. I accepted the job.”
Her lips came together as she nodded. “He wants someone to write his story?”
“Yes. I mean, he’s an accomplished businessman from what I’ve read so far.”
“I see—a book about his business feats. I suppose there would be people wanting to read about how he has done all he has accomplished.”
“Sometimes these memoirs are more self-indulgent,” I said. “It’s more for the subject to get the satisfaction from telling their story.”
Paula was back to the stove. “He isn’t like that.”
“What do you mean?”
She adjusted the heat on a few of the burners and turned my way. “I suppose that’s for you to learn. No need to have your version of Mr. Sherman’s story tainted by an old woman’s observations.”