I was afraid to move her. They were quick, but at the time, it seemed like hours.”
She got a carton of cream out of the refrigerator, added it to the mug. “Counter or breakfast nook?”
“What?”
“Counter.” She set the coffee down on the island. “That way you can sit and talk to me.” When he just stared at the coffee, she smiled. “That’s right, isn’t it? Hester said a dollop of cream, no sugar.”
“Yeah. Yes, thanks.” Like a man sleepwalking, he moved to the island, sat on the stool.
“She’s so strong, so smart, so herself. She’s my hero, your grandmother. When I moved here a couple of years ago, she was the first person I really connected with.”
She just kept talking. It didn’t matter if he listened, she thought. Sometimes the sound of someone’s voice could be comfort, and he looked as if he needed comfort.
She thought of the photos Hester had shown her of him, from a few years back. The easy smile, the light in his Landon blue eyes—crystal blue with a dark, dark rim around the iris. Now he looked tired, sad and too thin.
She’d do what she could to fix that.
So thinking, she took eggs, cheese, ham out of the refrigerator.
“She’s grateful you agreed to stay here. I know it upset her thinking of Bluff House empty. She said you’re writing a novel?”
“I . . . mmmm.”
“I’ve read a couple of your short stories. I liked them.” She put an omelet pan on the stove to heat. While it did, she poured a glass of orange juice, put some berries in a little colander to wash, bread in the toaster. “I wrote bad romantic poetry when I was a teenager. It was even worse when I tried to set it to music. I love to read. I admire anyone who can put words together to tell a story. She’s so proud of you. Hester.”
He looked up then, met her eyes. Green, he realized, like a sea in thin fog, and as otherworldly as the rest of her.
Maybe she wasn’t here at all.
Then her hand lay over his, just for a moment, warm and real. “Your coffee’s going to get cold.”
“Right.” He lifted the mug, drank. And felt marginally better.
“You haven’t been here for a while,” she continued, and poured the egg mixture into the omelet pan. “There’s a nice little restaurant down in the village—and the pizza parlor’s still there. I think you’re pretty well stocked now, but the market’s still there, too. If you need anything and don’t want to go into the village, just let me know. I’m in Laughing Gull Cottage if you’re out and want to stop in. Do you know it?”
“I . . . yes. You . . . work for my grandmother?”
“I’ve cleaned for her once or twice a week, as she’s needed it. I clean for a few people—as they need it. I teach yoga five times a week, in the church basement, and an evening a week in my cottage. Once I convinced Hester to try yoga, she was hooked. I do massages”—she gave him a quick grin over her shoulder—“therapeutic. I’m certified. I do a lot of things, because a lot of things interest me.”
She plated the omelet with the fresh berries and toast. Set the plate in front of him, added a red linen napkin and flatware. “I have to go, I’m running a little late.”
She folded the market bags into an enormous red tote, slipped on a dark purple coat, wound a scarf of striped jewel tones around her neck, yanked on a purple wool cap.
“I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, about nine.”
“The day after tomorrow?”
“To clean. If you need anything in the meantime, my numbers—cell and home—are on the board right there. Or if you’re out for a walk and I’m home, stop by. So . . . welcome back, Eli.”
She walked to the patio door, turned, smiled. “Eat your breakfast,” she ordered, and was gone.
He sat, staring at the door, then looked down at his plate. Because he couldn’t think of anything else to do, he picked up his fork and ate.
Two
ELI WANDERED THE HOUSE, HOPING IT MIGHT HELP HIM orient. He hated this feeling of free-floating, just drifting from place to place, thought to thought, without any sense of anchor or root. Once he’d had structure in his life, and purpose. Even after Lindsay’s death, when the structure broke to pieces, he’d had purpose.