Beth used both hands to smooth her hair back. “Custard, fresh flowers. I’m not sure you realize how deeply in debt I am.”
“Relax. It’s my treat.”
Rachel made her way down the steps treading lightly in black, espadrille wedge sandals. She wore pale pink lipstick and had on a white dress shirt with a high button-down collar, and black stretch jeans. The jeans looked particularly hot. She carried a crystal vase that I knew to be Baccarat. Reacting to Beth’s stunned expression, Rachel said, “For the centerpiece.” She spied the box of flowers and opened it and began arranging them in the vase.
Beth hadn’t moved a muscle since entering the kitchen. She continued staring at the vase. “Who
Rachel’s lips curled into a smile that resembled a pretty pink bow. She winked at me, and I took the cue.
“We are people not to be trifled with,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
Rachel said, “That’s a line from our favorite movie,
“Oh,” Beth said. “Well, if it’s your favorite, I’ll have to check it out.”
“It’s about a pirate,” Rachel said. “We love pirates, don’t we, Kevin?”
“Arrr,” I said. “And them who likes ‘em, too.”
“And their ships and crew members,” Rachel said.
“Aye, and their families as well,” I said, getting into it.
“And don’t forget their descendants,” Rachel said.
“Aye, especially them—”
And then something creepy happened. Beth slowly turned toward Rachel, turned so slowly I thought she must be imitating a scene from her own favorite movie, except that her face had lost all color and expression. When at last Beth’s eyes met Rachel’s, she spoke in a voice so chilly it seemed to freeze the room.
“What’s going on here?” she said. Then she looked at me.
I shrugged. “We’re saving your bed and breakfast. I’m cooking, Rachel’s serving.”
Beth looked at us a long time, making up her mind about something. Whatever it was, it seemed to go in our favor because a bit of the color came back to her face and she managed a tight smile. “In that case,” she said, “I’d better get out the trays and bowls and serving spoons.”
She headed back into the dining room and busied herself in the hutch. Rachel and I exchanged a glance.
“What was
“Hell if I know,” I said. “
Rachel made a soft singing sound, “Doo doo doo doo,” which I recognized as the theme from the
Chapter 15
THERE’S NO POINT in being modest: the guests loved my bread pudding. They also raved about my cream biscuits, sausage gravy, and the French toast I’d stuffed with apple pie filling. But it was the mini BLT rounds that made the guests delirious. I had punched circles out of sliced potato bread with a large biscuit cutter, filled them with bacon, fresh tomatoes and romaine lettuce. Of course, the bacon was distinctively prepared. I started with thick slices, pressed them in brown sugar, and broiled them in the oven over a drip pan. The result was elegant, unique, and tasty enough to make a jackrabbit jump up and slap a hound dog.
“Mr. Creed,” one of the ladies said. “Wherever did you study food preparation?”
“Why, in Paris, of course!” Rachel gushed.
I hadn’t done anything of the kind. I was, in fact, self taught. But Rachel’s lie set so well with the guests I didn’t have the heart to correct her.
This morning she’d been charming and sweet, though I wondered how she’d react to a large crowd and long lines of hungry customers waiting to be seated.
I didn’t need to worry: she had done an excellent job with the serving. She had a natural rhythm about her, an athletic grace that was evident in everything she did. I loved watching her move. She could be walking down a flight of stairs or carrying platters in and out of a busy kitchen, it didn’t matter.
She was, in my eyes, a work of art.
Over the next few days Rachel and I settled into our routines. Afternoons, she’d shop for groceries, and I sawed off tree limbs that overhung the roof. Word on our food had gotten out, and we were doing ten tables of breakfast with the locals, more than half our capacity. Beth hired a teenager, Tracy, to help Rachel with the waitressing duties. Bob Pocket, the banker, had become a regular, and even Jimbo and Earl showed up twice, though they were disappointed to find us fresh out of squirrel both times.
Thursday morning, after our last breakfast guest had been served, I noticed Beth packing leftovers into a picnic basket.
“Hot date?” I said.
She didn’t look up. “Sick friend.”
Though Beth had been pleasant all week, she’d never gotten back to the degree of friendly she’d been prior to Rachel’s comment about the pirate. She added four bottles of water to the basket and headed out the door without elaborating further. But as I saw her step out the door with the basket, my mind flashed to the quaint little church I’d passed the previous week, and the lady I’d seen carrying a similar picnic basket up the church steps.
