To Love An Older Man. Debbi Rawlins
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but he had no choice. He needed the briefs and his day planner.
David swore. He’d left his day planner on his desk again. He sat on the edge of his bed and pulled off his socks. God, he hated being thrown off his routine.
“NOW, BETH, anything you need, you feel free to ask.” Mrs. Matthews set the cup of tea beside the glass of water she’d already filled twice, and Beth wanted to cry. “In fact, if you see it, don’t ask, help yourself.”
“You’re being so kind,” Beth murmured, overwhelmed with gratitude for the unexpected thoughtfulness these strangers showed her. “Please don’t make a big fuss. I’m fine.”
“Nonsense. We’re not fussing. Are we, Ida?”
The housekeeper gave a dismissive snort as she ladled rich yellow broth into a bowl. Her round face had been wreathed in a welcoming smile from the minute Beth laid eyes on her. She was probably the same age as Mrs. Matthews, early sixties, Beth guessed. But as slim and tall as Mrs. Matthews was, Ida was short and plump. They made quite a pair in their contrasting red silk and gray chenille robes.
“It’s been too long since David has brought a friend home,” Mrs. Matthews put a carafe of coffee on the table, and then brought out cups. Not mugs, but real china cups and saucers.
“I’m not exactly a friend,” Beth muttered, not sure what David had told them.
“Well, we’re delighted to have you. Would you rather eat in the dining room?”
“This is fine.” Beth watched Ida root through the refrigerator. “Please don’t go to any more trouble.”
She brought out what looked like a lemon meringue pie. Only one small piece was missing. “Trouble?” Ida grunted. “About time there’s someone around here to eat my pastries. Those two take one little nibble and start worrying about their arteries.”
Mrs. Matthews sighed and threw Ida a long-suffering look. “You put a pound of butter in everything you bake.”
“Neither of my parents knew what an artery was and they both lived until ninety-six.” Ida sniffed. “Mind you, they ate plenty of butter and cheese, too.”
Beth laughed. The two women obviously shared a friendship beyond the employer-employee relationship.
Mrs. Matthews laughed, too. “Don’t mind us. Ida and I go back more years than we care to admit.”
“Quit talking and let the poor girl eat.” Ida put two dessert plates on the table and then took a seat and picked up a knife.
“You’re having another piece of pie?” Mrs. Matthews asked, as she sat across from Beth with a cup of black coffee.
“You mind your business, Maude.” Ida smiled at Beth. “So, how do you know our David?”
Beth had just swallowed a mouthful of the chicken soup but she pretended to chew. The truth was pretty embarrassing, yet she didn’t want to lie, either.
“And you tell me to mind my business?” Mrs. Matthews’s perfectly arched brows went up. “Really, Ida, can’t you let the young lady eat in peace?”
Color climbed all the way to Ida’s salt-and-pepper hairline. “Of course. Eat.” She motioned with her chin to Beth before digging into the large wedge of lemon meringue in front of her.
Beth quickly spooned up another portion of the delicious soup. She was hungry but also grateful there’d be no more questions. At least for now.
Mrs. Matthews looked exactly like Beth would have pictured her had she thought about it. Perfectly styled chestnut-colored hair, even at bedtime, perfect teeth, a perfect figure. Her nails were manicured and polished a subtle pink. She looked and smelled rich. Old money rich. Just like David.
Of course they were from old money, according to Tommy. Their family went back to the gold rush days when the Matthews name became a prominent San Francisco fixture. In the legal arena, their firm was number one, if she could believe Tommy. He seemed awfully impressed with that kind of social stuff these days, so she figured he ought to know.
What impressed Beth was the way Mrs. Matthews treated Ida. The woman was a polar opposite—on the frumpy side, her curly graying hair in need of a trim, her roughened hands looked like those of a farmer’s wife.
“Are you ready for another bowl?” Ida asked, and to Beth’s humiliation, she realized she’d practically inhaled her food.
“No, thank you. This was plenty.”
Ida grunted as she got up and took Beth’s empty bowl. “That was hardly enough to keep a bird alive.”
“But I had two pieces of that great bread. Did you make it?”
Ida nodded, her face one big smile. “No store-bought baked goods in this house.”
“She’s determined to make me fat.” Mrs. Matthews sipped her black coffee with a look of phony disdain.
“Don’t mind her. She thinks three strawberries with a teaspoon of fat-free whipped cream is dessert.”
Beth smiled. “Sorry, but nothing beats real whipped cream, or freshly churned butter. I haven’t had either since I left the farm.”
Both women stared at her. Ida spoke first as she set another bowl of soup in front of Beth. “You actually lived on a farm?”
Beth nodded, and silently cursed her big mouth. These people would think she was some kind of hick. She brought her napkin to her lips—a linen napkin, no common paper stuff here. That she’d momentarily been ashamed of her roots shamed her even more. First her parents, and then her brother provided her with a good home in Rock Falls. Better than good, it had been idyllic.
She lifted her chin. “Back in Rock Falls, Idaho. My family has owned it for five generations. We were all born right there in the master bedroom.”
“My heavens.” Mrs. Matthews set down her coffee cup, the china making a pleasant tinkling sound. “How long have you been here in the city?”
“A little over a year.”
Mrs. Matthews’s brows drew together in a sympathetic frown, and Beth’s defenses soared. “How you must have hated to leave.”
“I’ll say.” Ida placed another bowl of the steaming soup in front of Beth. “Why did you?”
She didn’t know what to say. Not because of Tommy, but because she’d expected disdain, because she’d been prepared to defend her rural childhood.
She shrugged. “My brother works the farm now. He lives there with his wife and three kids.”
“You two aren’t grilling our guest, I hope.”
David’s voice had all three of them turning toward him.
He stood at the door, rolling back the sleeves of his blue oxford shirt, which he’d left unbuttoned at the top. He’d traded his suit pants for jeans and his black dress shoes for battered brown loafers, no socks. The casual look shaved ten years off him, and a totally inappropriate flutter in Beth’s chest startled her.
She hiccupped.
Oh, God. Not now.
Mrs. Matthews turned to her. “Are you okay?”
Beth nodded, and hiccupped again.
Ida jumped up and went to the sink. “Hold your breath for ten seconds while you drink down this water,” she said while she filled a glass. “It works every time.”
“Nonsense. That’s an old wives’ tale.” Mrs. Matthews waved a dismissive hand, but she said nothing more as Ida handed Beth the glass.
She hiccupped again, and then carefully avoided looking at David while she started to down the water. Slowly she counted to ten, and wondered if this evening could possibly get any more humiliating. Nerves hadn’t caused a hiccupping