“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, put 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 clean for her once or twice a week, as she needs 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 number—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.
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