The Bride Next Door. Winnie Griggs
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“Is that interview of me in there?”
Was she worried about how he’d portrayed her? “Yes, it is.” He crossed over and picked one up. “Would you like to have one so you can read it?”
Her cheeks reddened slightly. “I’m afraid I don’t have any extra money to—”
“Consider a copy of the paper part of your pay.” He always had a few copies left over at the end of the day.
“Why, thank you.”
This talk of extra funds brought something else to mind. He cleared his throat. “I daresay there are other things you might need to get settled in properly, so when you are done for the day I will give you your first week’s pay in advance.”
Her cheeks reddened. “Oh, that’s not necessary. I—”
He held up a hand. “No argument. I won’t have my cook distracted by thoughts of how she’ll make it through the week. And use this money wisely, because I’ll do this only for the first week.”
She smiled. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness.”
He brushed that aside. “Now, let me show you to the kitchen.” Everett took the basket from her, then waved her ahead of him up the stairs.
She stepped aside when she topped the stairs, pausing to look around. The stairway emptied into an open space that served multiple functions. To the left was the kitchen and dining area, and to the right was what passed for a sitting room or visitor area. Not that he ever had visitors up here. Beyond the sitting room were the two bedchambers, one of which currently served as more of a storage room. It did have a small bed—more of a cot, really—but he didn’t expect to be hosting overnight guests anytime soon.
Everett placed her basket on the table and she moved past him, her gaze sweeping the room.
“This kitchen is nice,” she said. “A bit spare but clean and neat. It gives me hope for what my place might look like once I get it fixed up.”
How bad was it over there? If what he’d seen of the ground floor was any indication, she really had her work cut out for her.
Daisy ran a hand lightly over the edge of the stove. “Yes, sir, a fine kitchen, indeed. This is a good stove. And you already have the fire stoked. Thanks!”
Everett waved his hand in an inclusive gesture. “The dishes are in the top cupboard, the pots and pans are over there, and the cooking implements are in that drawer. This door opens to the pantry. Feel free to use anything you find there.”
She nodded as she peered inside.
He straightened. “I should warn you, the stove is a bit temperamental.” Something he knew from his own less-than-successful attempts at making biscuits.
She closed the pantry door and smiled. “Most stoves take some getting used to. I’m just happy to have a real stove to cook on instead of a campfire.”
That statement gave him pause. “But you do have experience with a household stove, don’t you?”
“Of course. When I lived with my grandmother I spent a lot of my time in the kitchen, and I pestered the cook until she gave in and taught me all about cooking.”
“So you haven’t used one since you were twelve years old?”
“Not so. During the worst of winter each year, my father would find a town where we could rent rooms for about six weeks, rather than live in the wagon. To help pay for our lodging, and replenish our wares, he would find odd jobs and I’d find work in a kitchen somewhere.”
That admission caught him by surprise. “So this isn’t your first time to hire on as a cook?”
“Goodness, no. I told you, I know what I’m doing.”
That remained to be seen. But he’d had enough of idle talk—time to return to his work. “I’ll leave you to it, then. There’s extra kindling and firewood for the stove in that corner. If you need anything else, you know where to find me.”
He descended the stairs, accompanied by the sound of her cheerful humming. Was he going to have to put up with that all morning?
He supposed there were worse distractions he could be presented with.
Still, it didn’t seem quite normal for someone to be so relentlessly cheerful all the time, especially someone with her less-than-ideal circumstances.
Before he’d made it back to his desk, his door opened and Alma Franklin walked in, looking for a paper. She glanced toward the stairway at the sound of Daisy’s humming, and mentioned that she’d heard he’d hired a cook and asked how that was working out for him. Right on her heels, Stanley Landers came in, also looking for a paper, and he also commented on his new cook.
It was that way for the next hour—a steady stream of people either wanting to buy a paper or checking on notices that were already scheduled or purchasing advertisements. And all of them found a way to work Daisy’s presence into the conversation. At least the townsfolk’s curiosity had generated a few new sales. At this rate, he’d be sold out by noon.
Around ten-thirty, he caught the whiff of a mouthwatering aroma drifting down from his kitchen. Thirty minutes later, the aromas began to tease and tantalize his senses in earnest. Perhaps she really was as good a cook as she claimed to be.
When Everett finally got a break, just before noon, he considered heading upstairs to check on Daisy. She hadn’t left the kitchen all morning, and he wanted to assure himself she was handling things appropriately.
But his door opened once more and Hazel Andrews, the very prim woman who owned the dress shop, marched in with her usual brisk, no-nonsense air. “Good morning, Mr. Fulton.”
“Miss Andrews.” He waved her into a seat, then took his own. “What can I do for you?”
She sat poker straight in her chair, but her smile, while small, seemed genuine enough. “I was at the train station dropping off a package to ship to my sister,” she said, “when Lionel told me he had a letter for you. I offered to deliver it since I had business with you, anyway.”
Everett accepted the letter and placed it on his desk with barely a glance. “What kind of business?”
The seamstress looked pointedly at the letter. “I don’t mind waiting if you’d like to read your letter first.”
“I’ll read it later.” He could tell it was from his sister, and he’d prefer to save it for a time when he could read it alone to savor it.
Miss Andrews nodded. “On to business, then. I’m planning to run a sale on my dressmaking services next week. I’d like to buy an advertisement in the paper to announce it.”
Everett opened his notebook and reached for a pencil. He was always happy to sell advertisements. “I can certainly accommodate you. What size were you thinking of?”
Once they’d discussed the particulars of the advertisement, Miss Andrews sat back, apparently ready for some casual conversation. “I hear you’ve hired your new neighbor to cook for you.”
So even the straightlaced seamstress was interested in the town’s newest citizen. Everett closed his notebook and nodded. “That’s right. She needed the work, and I was tired of eating my own cooking.”
His visitor nodded approval. “Sounds like a practical arrangement.” Then she changed the subject. “It’ll be good to see that place next door all fixed up again. Any idea what Miss Johnson plans to do with the place?”
Everett repeated the same answer he’d given to everyone else this morning. “She mentioned plans to open a restaurant in the interview you’ll find in today’s newspaper. Other than that, you’ll have to ask her.”
She lifted her head and sniffed delicately. “I must say, if that aroma is from whatever Miss Johnson is preparing for you, she would likely do quite