Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WHO BURNED THE TOAST
At seven twelve the following Monday morning, a woman arrived at Brooks Manor carrying a canvas grocery bag, a dented metal lunchbox, and an umbrella with one broken rib.
Her name was Nora Whitfield.
She was thirty-six years old, a widow, and the mother of an eleven-year-old daughter named Ruby.
Her boots were worn. Her coat had been repaired at the cuffs. And unlike the previous chefs who arrived with polished knife cases and letters of recommendation, Nora carried a handwritten recipe notebook tied with a faded green ribbon.
Sebastian was standing in the entrance hall when Mrs. Agnes Porter, the housekeeper, opened the door.
He glanced at Nora.
“Are you here about the kitchen position?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where did you train?”
“My grandmother's kitchen. Then twenty years of restaurants, school cafeterias, and feeding people who didn't always want to eat.”
Sebastian frowned.
“That's not exactly what I asked.”
“It is exactly what you need to know.”
Mrs. Porter looked down to hide a smile.
Sebastian studied the woman standing before him.
His assistant had apparently taken his instruction literally.
No prestigious culinary school.
No professional chef's jacket.
No impressive résumé.
Just a woman who looked as though she had driven through the mountains before dawn and wasn't particularly interested in impressing anybody.
“My father has dismissed four cooks in three months,” Sebastian said.
“Then he's probably tired of strangers telling him what he should eat.”
“My father is suffering from depression.”
Nora's expression softened.
“I'm sorry.”
“He has a physician. I need someone to prepare nutritious food according to her recommendations.”
“Of course.”
“And follow instructions.”
“That depends on whether they're sensible.”
Sebastian stared.
Mrs. Porter made a small coughing sound.
Nora continued, “I follow doctors' instructions. Food-safety instructions. But if you want somebody to force an elderly man to eat something that reminds him of being alone, I'm not the right person.”
Sebastian glanced at his watch.
“I have a meeting in twenty minutes.”
“Then I'll get started.”
“You haven't been hired.”
Nora looked at him.
“Would you like me to leave?”
He hesitated.
Then he stepped aside.
“One week. A trial.”
“Fair enough.”
The kitchen was larger than the entire apartment Nora rented above a hardware store.
There were two commercial refrigerators, three ovens, marble counters, and enough copper cookware to furnish a restaurant.
Yet the refrigerator held remarkably little actual food.
Imported cheese.
Prepared sauces.
Vacuum-sealed fish.
Expensive berries.
Nora opened a drawer and found polished silver utensils arranged like surgical instruments.
She shook her head.
“Good Lord. Does anybody actually live here?”
Mrs. Porter, who had followed her into the kitchen, laughed.
“Not much anymore.”
Nora turned.
“Tell me about Mr. Harold.”
Agnes hesitated.
“He was a wonderful man before Mrs. Brooks passed.”
“Was?”
“He still is. Somewhere.”
Nora looked toward the window overlooking the lake.
“What did he like to eat?”
“Everything his wife made.”
“What did she make?”
Agnes smiled sadly.
“Anything with too much butter.”
Nora nodded.
“Now we're getting somewhere.”
At eight thirty, Harold Brooks heard a smoke alarm.
It wasn't the shrill electronic alarm in the main kitchen.
It was the smaller detector above the breakfast room.
Then came a woman's voice.
“Well, that's one way to make an entrance.”
Harold turned his head.
For the first time in days, curiosity interrupted his grief.
A minute later, the smell reached him.
Burned bread.
Not badly burned.
Just the unmistakable smell of toast left a few seconds too long.
His fingers tightened around the photograph in his lap.
He heard footsteps.
A woman entered carrying a tray.
On it sat two slices of slightly burned toast, scrambled eggs, a small bowl of peaches, and a cup of coffee.
“Morning, Mr. Brooks.”
Harold stared at her.
“Who are you?”
“Nora Whitfield. I'm trying out for the cooking job.”
He looked at the tray.
“What's that?”
“Breakfast.”
“I can see that.”
“Then we're off to a good start.”
Harold almost smiled.
Almost.
Nora placed the tray on a small table beside his chair.
“I burned the toast.”
He stared at her.
“On purpose?”
“Mostly.”
“That's ridiculous.”
“Probably.”
She pulled up another chair.
Harold looked irritated.
“What are you doing?”
“Sitting.”
“I didn't invite you.”
“No, sir. But I haven't eaten breakfast either.”
She took one slice of toast.
Harold watched in astonishment as she buttered it and took a bite.
“You're eating my food.”
“Only half of it.”
“That isn't how this house operates.”
Nora chewed thoughtfully.
“Then it's been operating strangely.”
For several seconds, Harold stared.
Then a sound escaped him.
Small.
Rough.
Almost unrecognizable.
A laugh.
Nora pretended not to notice.
She pushed the plate slightly toward him.
“Your turn.”
Harold looked down at the toast.
Its edges were dark.
The center golden.
Butter melted into the rough surface.
Exactly the way Margaret used to make it.
His eyes filled.
Nora didn't speak.
She didn't tell him to be strong.
She didn't promise that eating would make him feel better.
She simply sat beside him, chewing her own toast.
Finally, Harold reached for the remaining slice.
His fingers trembled.
He lifted it to his mouth.
Took a bite.
And began to cry.
Nora quietly placed a napkin within reach.
“It's all right,” she said.
Harold shook his head.
“No.”
His voice broke.
“She used to burn it.”
Nora nodded.
“Your wife?”
He looked up sharply.
“How did you know?”
“Mrs. Porter told me she liked butter. You told me the rest.”
Harold stared at the toast.
Then he took another bite.
At nine fifteen, Dr. Amara Reyes called Sebastian.
“Your father's eaten breakfast.”
Sebastian stopped walking in the middle of his office.
“What?”
“Scrambled eggs, peaches, and most of a slice of toast.”
He stared at the wall.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
There was a pause.
Then Amara said, “Apparently, your new cook burned something.”
Sebastian closed his eyes.
He had spent thousands of dollars on beautifully prepared meals.
And a stranger had gotten his father to eat burned toast.
He turned toward the city skyline.
“Keep her,” he said.
Amara laughed softly.
“I don't believe she was asking your permission.”
That afternoon, when Sebastian returned home unexpectedly, he found Nora standing on a chair in the breakfast room.
She was removing an enormous silver-framed painting from the wall.
“What on earth are you doing?”
Nora looked down.
“Taking this thing down.”
“That's an original.”
“Congratulations.”
“It cost forty thousand dollars.”
She looked at the painting.
A gray landscape under a gray sky.
Then back at Sebastian.
“Then somebody overcharged you.”
He stared at her.
“Put it back.”
Nora climbed down.
“Your father says your mother used to hang a yellow quilt here.”
Sebastian stiffened.
“That quilt is in storage.”
“Why?”
“Because it doesn't match the house.”
Nora looked around the room.
Then she said something that would follow Sebastian for years.
“Mr. Brooks, has it ever occurred to you that your father doesn't want to live in a house that matches?”
He frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means he might want to live in a house that remembers.”
May you like
And from the doorway, Harold Brooks whispered a sentence Sebastian hadn't heard in four years.
“She's right, son.”
