and how Joanna started her mornings. He expects me to slip right into her shoes—designer, I’m sure—and dance the same step.
Rather than wait for me to answer, he dives back into the fridge for more ingredients. How do I respond? I couldn’t understand most of what he said. He was speaking a foreign language. Culinary-ese. Did he say ‘verts’? What on earth are those?
“That all sounds wonderful.” I force a smile. “But I’d hate to see you overwork. Food from a can is good enough for me.”
He rises from his crouched position and stares, his jaw dropping in horror.
“I’m kidding.” My smile falters. “I’m sure whatever you cook will be fine.”
“Fine,” he whispers, parroting me. “I’m sure.”
I eat in silence as I was told to and listen to the music filling Ravenwood. I try to focus on the emotion in Hozier’s voice, but I can’t stop thinking about Joanna in this immaculate space, eating his food.
“How are the menus decided?” I wonder aloud when the silence becomes unbearable.
“When Joanna and Mr. Harris lived here together, she and I would pick the menu every morning. I shopped and prepped based on what she preferred. After she—well, when Mr. Harris found himself alone, I’d email the menu to his offices. Since August, he’s been dining out most of the time—I’m assuming that has something to do with you—so the food would rot in the containers. Awful waste of time.”
“I’m sure he appreciated your work,” I offer, stabbing a chunk of artichoke. “And he had to have eaten some of the food you cooked. I mean, we didn’t eat every meal together.”
“I wasn’t talking about the food.”
My mind reels. What was an awful waste of time then, if not the hours spent cooking?
The realization trickles in, dark and cold.
“Me,” I think aloud, the tremble in my voice giving away my nerves. “You meant Michael’s time spent on me.”
Dean huffs deeply and turns his attention back to his masterpiece. “I’m teasing, obviously. One thing you’ll learn about me is I have a dreadful sense of humor, and the timing that goes along with it. But I can cook. What do you think?”
“It’s great.” I smile again, pushing my food around the plate. “Really.”
“It was Joanna’s favorite breakfast. All of the meals I cook are her favorites, actually. Tailored to her tastes. Her requests. Right down to the seasoning. None of those will be changing, of course. Mr. Harris has specifically requested all meals remain the same.”
“Has he?” I feel the color drain from my face. “Well, if that’s the way he wants it, I’m sure it’ll be lovely.” I bet Joanna loved every bite of his meals. I’m sure they talked about fancy flavors and tastes and recipes to try for Michael when he had a long week at work. I look up at Dean. He’s standing still as stone, unmoving for the first time in the huge kitchen, a hand on his hip, the other clutching a dish towel. He eyes me carefully, waiting. I get the sensation that I’m being baited, analyzed for signs of weakness. I feel two inches tall. As if I’m an incompetent child who can’t appreciate the glorious food he’s prepared.
Suddenly I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble as I rise to my feet, steadying myself on the counter. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to head upstairs for a while. Start unpacking a few things.”
Taking the stairs slowly, I hear Dean turn up the radio. He sings along over the racket of clanging pots and pans. He knows he got under my skin—he has to know. And he’s doing it on purpose. He must’ve been friends with Joanna. They must’ve been close. Here I am, replacing her, an unworthy imposter. It can’t be easy to lose a friend and gain a stranger.
Does Michael feel the same?
He wants me to live here, walk where Joanna walked,