So he was rather stunned he’d actually noticed what could politely be referred to as Kennon Cassidy’s “attributes.”
He supposed that just meant he wasn’t dead yet. Maybe that represented a sliver of hope that he would eventually be able to come around—in about a thousand years or so.
* * *
When he took the freeway off-ramp that would eventually lead him to his house, Simon glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It had taken him less time to drive back than it had to reach the hospital. The realization meant that his subconscious was apparently back online. He had always had the ability to commit things to memory after seeing them only once. This included driving directions. But even that had been less than fully operational these last thirteen months.
Pulling up into his driveway, Simon noted that the decorator—Kennon, was it?—had parked her pearl-blue sedan at the curb. She’d come back after dropping off the girls, just as she’d promised.
All right, so he’d lucked out. She’d kept her word. He still shouldn’t have trusted her so readily, he silently lectured himself. With his dry cleaning, maybe, but not his daughters. What had he been thinking?
That was the problem; he hadn’t been. All he knew was that he couldn’t cancel his meeting. First impressions were infinitely important. There were no “do overs.”
In his own defense, Simon thought, getting out of his car, the woman had come recommended and his back had been against the proverbial wall….
Simon cut himself a little slack.
The second he unlocked the front door and walked in, he became aware of it. It was impossible not to be. The aroma embraced him like a warm hug. For a moment, he stopped to inhale deeply and savor it. Then he began to walk briskly, following the enticing aroma to its source, the kitchen.
But to get to the kitchen, he had to walk through the living room. Edna, he found, was still there. But now her head rested on a pillow and a crisp, light blue fleece blanket was spread over two thirds of her torso.
She looked better, he thought. He was relieved to see color in her cheeks and that she appeared to be fully conscious and lucid. Edna smiled at him as he walked over to her.
“How are you feeling, Edna?” he wanted to know.
“Much better now, thank you, Doctor.” The color in her cheeks deepened as a touch of embarrassment passed over them. “I’m sorry I created such a fuss,” she apologized, then confided, “It’s the first time I’ve fainted since I was a young girl, and we all know how long ago that was.”
The woman didn’t have a vain bone in her body, but every woman needed to be reassured that she was attractive, he thought. Nancy had taught him that.
Simon took one of his housekeeper’s weathered, capable hands in his own. “Not that long ago,” he contradicted. Simon had examined Edna and satisfied himself that her fainting episode had been brought on by her cold, coupled with dehydration due to her failure to replenish the lost fluids. In other words, Edna was being typically Edna and neglecting to take the time to take care of herself. A little bed rest, as well as drinking plenty of liquids, and he was confident that she would be back to her old self in no time. “And I’m sorry I had to leave you alone like that—”
“It couldn’t be helped, sir. I quite understand. And you didn’t leave me alone,” Edna pointed out politely. “That very lovely young woman came back after taking the girls to school. Been fussing over me as if I was a blood relative of hers since she returned.” Edna shook her head in amazement. “She insisted on making me ‘comfortable,’ by bringing down some of my bedding.” She nodded toward the sheet. “And she’s in the kitchen right now, making some chicken soup for me to eat.” Edna smiled. It was obvious that she was enjoying this. “She’s a rare one, she is, sir.”
Simon glanced in the direction of the kitchen. The aroma grew stronger, more enticing. Or was that because he was hungry?
“You mean she’s heating up a can of soup.” Since he’d donated their microwave to charity and had yet to purchase a replacement down here, he assumed that the decorator had emptied the contents of a store-bought can of soup into a saucepan and was in the process of heating it up now, hence the aroma.
“No, I mean she’s making it,” Edna insisted, coughing at the end of her sentence. After a moment, Edna regrouped and continued, her words coming out in a more measured cadence, as if she was fearful of irritating her throat. “She came in with a whole bag of groceries stuffed with all the ingredients to make an old-fashioned bowl of chicken soup. Heard her chopping celery and carrots like a pro,” she related to him, approval wrapped around each word. “I thought all the girls her age just assumed that soup came from a can.” Edna told him. And then she smiled.
“I’m feeling better just smelling it. Reminds me of home when I was a little girl. Mother always made me chicken soup whenever I was sick. Claimed it had healing properties. Whether it did or not I wouldn’t be able to say, but everyone always felt better after Mother made chicken soup.”
“Except the chicken,” Simon speculated dryly. “Maybe I’d better see what this decorator’s up to,” he decided out loud.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful for the woman’s efforts, especially for the way she had just pitched right in, doing whatever needed to be done for his daughters and for Edna, but he really just wanted to be alone, to feel that he had the house to himself. Granted, Edna was here, but Edna was always around and he regarded her much the way he did the air and the warmth of the sun, undemanding integrals of his life.
He had no desire to be put in a position where he had to carry on a conversation beyond a few necessary words. With the girls in school and Edna apparently feeling better, all he wanted to do was to entertain silence until such time that he had to go pick up the girls again.
With Kennon here that wasn’t possible.
Standing in the doorway, he observed this invading woman for a couple of beats. And came to the conclusion that she looked more at home here than he did.
“Why are you making chicken soup?” he asked her without any sort of preamble.
Lost in thought, Kennon felt her heart suddenly lunge and get all but stuck in her throat. He’d startled her. Kennon tried her best not to show it.
“Because it won’t make itself,” she answered glibly, then gave him the real reason. “I always find that sipping soup when I’m coming down with a cold makes me feel better. Turns out that Edna feels the same way.”
That still didn’t explain why she’d felt compelled to make the damn thing from scratch. “Supermarkets have whole aisles devoted to chicken soup.”
He saw her wrinkle her nose. It made her look intriguing—and rather cute.
“Chicken soup in cans,” she pronounced disdainfully. “Not the same thing.”
Coming closer, Simon glanced over her shoulder to see what she was actually stirring. He saw carrot shavings on the cutting board as well as an opened wrapper that told him she’d pressed a whole chicken into service for this undertaking. These ingredients didn’t just magically appear.
“We didn’t have any of this in the refrigerator,” he said, indicating the wrapper and the carrot shavings. He knew that for a fact. He’d opened the refrigerator this morning, looking for the tin of coffee in order to properly kick-start a day that had already promised to go badly. The only thing in the refrigerator besides coffee, and milk for the girls, was one leftover container of Chinese food from last night’s take-out dinner.
“Yes, I know,” she told him, opening a drawer as she searched for a spoon. It took her two more tries before