Rita shook her head. “Not compared to my wish list.”
“Why? Who’s on it?”
She looked at me blankly for a moment. “Not too many people. Just my father when he was a boy. My mother as a young woman. My sister as she was the last time I saw her. Myself when I am very old. And you too, I think. Yes, when you are my age now. We would have a lovely time, all of us.”
“What about the man who made you the tuna and chips casserole?”
“Ah, you are a clever one. Another time I will tell you about him, maybe. But now I must get some sleep if I am going to make real food tomorrow.” She uncurled her legs and stood up. “Good night, dear. My room is right next door, if you need anything.”
“Night, Rita. Thanks for dinner. And the talk.”
After she left, I stayed on in the study to read, happy to have made a friend here at Chez Strange. I’d never had a friend who came from another generation or another country. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I ever really had a genuine friend before, someone to share food fantasies and guest lists with, someone to just laze an evening away with. So this was exciting—pitiful, but exciting.
By the time I got through the first few chapters of Six Parts Joy, One Part Murder, it was almost one o’clock. I still wasn’t tired, but I decided to go to my room anyway—might as well enjoy the canopy bed and fancy pillows while I had the chance. I left the study and went down the hall, across the parlor, up the curved staircase and past the garden watercolors. It seemed like a long walk. By the time I reached my door, I felt like maybe I’d be able to sleep soon.
Well, you made it through your first day, I told myself as I headed to the bathroom to perform my bedtime purification rite. One down, thirteen to go. Actually, if the rest of my stay could be half as pleasant as the evening I’d just spent with Rita, I’d be all over this gig. But that was never going to happen—my luck doesn’t roll like that. I sighed and pulled on my pajamas and fuzzy socks.
We have a dollhouse-size bathroom mirror at home, so I wasn’t used to seeing such a complete, brightly lit view of myself. I wasn’t sure I liked the full-size image. Honestly, I’d happily suffer the eyebrow plucking and the occasional zits, if only they’d come along with a decent chest. But here I was, with a body that hadn’t kept pace with my social aspirations, fumbling for my tweezers and Clearasil, wishing for fuller lips and more mysterious eyes. Oh well, who was I going to try to impress around this godforsaken place, anyway?
When I climbed into the canopy bed a few minutes later, the sheets, though luxurious, felt cold and a little rigid—or was that just me? It was probably just me. I forced myself to lie still, and sleep eventually overtook me.
Chapter 3
December 20
Getting out of bed in the morning is an act of false confidence.
–Jules Feiffer
Having stretched my stomach out at supper, I was naturally starving the next morning. The dining room door was ajar, and I could see that the room was empty. Then I noticed an envelope with my name on it taped to the maître d’s podium. It was a woman’s handwriting, and for an instant I thought it was my mother’s. She’d come to her senses, she’d realized what she’d done to me, and she was on her way here to beg my forgiveness.
No, that couldn’t be it. Mom wasn’t diverting a single neuron to thoughts of her own flesh and blood. I slid a finger under the flap and pulled out the paper, Black Butterfly letterhead covered with flowery fountain pen handwriting:
Penny dear,
So sorry about dinner last night. Will explain later. I’m off to an appointment on the mainland. Breakfast is buffet-style, and I trust that by the time you find this note, the food will be out. Enjoy.
I hope to be back by late afternoon or suppertime at the outside. If you need anything in the meantime, Vincent will be happy to help.
So glad you’re with us –
Bubbles
For someone who was so glad I was here, she was doing a darn good job of making herself scarce. Just like Mom. And while we’re at it, where had George managed to hide himself since yesterday afternoon? Whatever was making the Henions disappear all the time, I didn’t like it. Not that I’m normally averse to being by myself—I’ve gotten used to that over the years—but this was getting ridiculous. Well, if I had to be alone, I might as well be alone in a room full of good food.
Towering with fresh fruit, grains, plus all things decadent, the buffet table was a page out of some slick gourmet magazine, and a good distraction. The food, the tablecloth, the china, the silk flowers—all this, just for me? At least someone seemed to care. I put some pineapple chunks, a strip of bacon, and a cranberry muffin on a plate.
I went to the same table I’d had last night, between the picture window and the fireplace. In the light of day I could see out the window, and I stared at the cloud covered world before sitting down. Ice-plated armor encased the evergreen bushes hugging the backside of the inn. Beyond, a flat expanse of snow stretched until, a few hundred yards out, it gave way to a steel grey sea. Not a single bird or squirrel skittered around the grounds. Maybe they didn’t live this far north. “Oh, God,” I groaned. I had to endure thirteen more days in a wasteland that even critters with acorn-sized brains knew enough to avoid. I fell into my seat.
I’d just put the bacon to my lips when I heard a “good morning” from behind. I turned around to see Rita. Thank God, a friendly face. “Morning,” I said.
“May I?” Rita asked, pointing to the empty chair across from me.
“Of course.”
Today Rita was wearing a coral sweater that brought out the bit of pink I hadn’t noticed in her cheeks last night. Her grey corduroys made a trim line down to her suede flats. I hope I’m half that chic when I’m her age.
“I am wondering, would you like to help me today?” she asked.
“Help you?”
“Yes, help me to bake.”
I was so delighted to have an invitation to spend time with Rita—with anyone, really, but especially with her—I almost forgot to be confused. “But wait, Vincent told me you don’t let anyone in your kitchen when you cook, except for the family.”
“That is right, usually. But you and I, we are—how do you say—kind spirits, yes?”
“Kindred spirits, I think you mean.”
She inched back her chair. “Shall we then?”
“Let’s do it.”
“Today we make pain d’amandes,” she said, standing up. “Take your plate, if you like.”
“Pen what?” I asked as I followed her across the dining room.
“Pain d’amandes. It means almond bread, but it is really a cookie made of everything sweet—honey, brandy, brown sugar, almonds.”
Rita pushed the swinging door, and suddenly we were in her kitchen. Now, don’t picture one of those oversized, steel industrial kitchens that reek like a school cafeteria. This room was snug, all white and blue tiles, with a wooden floor, a large skylight, and the aroma of Tollhouse cookies. Rita went straight to the pantry—a room in itself off to the left—and emerged a minute later loaded with baking supplies. I watched her stack the center island with spices, sugars, a jar of nuts, and all kinds of utensils. The island, part butcher-block, part tile, housed a deep sink and a gas stove that already had a pot bubbling on it.
“You like this space?” she asked.
“I love it.”
“A little small for a working