Whiskey Beach Part 9

No, this wouldn't do at all.

She turned the kitchen iPod on low, then gathered ingredients. Once she'd made up a bowl of pancake batter, she went upstairs to find him.

If he was still in bed, it was time he got up.

But she heard the clicking of a keyboard from Hester's home office, smiled. That was something anyway. Moving quietly, she peeked through the open doorway to see him sitting at the wonderful old desk, an open bottle of Mountain Dew (mental note to pick up more for him) beside the keyboard.

She'd give him a little more time there, she decided, and went straight into his bedroom. She made the bed, pulled the laundry bag out of the hamper, added bath towels.

She checked other baths on the way back in case he'd used hand towels or washcloths, checked the gym.

Back downstairs, she carted the bag into the laundry room, sorted, separated and started a load. And shook out, hung up his outdoor gear.

Not a lot to tidy, she realized, and she'd given the house a thorough cleaning the day before he'd arrived. While she could always find something to do, she calculated the time. She'd make him a kind of brunch before she rolled up her sleeves and really got to work.

The next time she went upstairs, she deliberately made noise. When she reached the office, he was up and moving to the door. Probably with the intention of closing it, she thought, so she stepped in before he could.

"Good morning. It's a gorgeous day."

"Ah-"

"Fabulous blue skies." With her trash bag in hand, she walked over to empty the basket under the desk. "Blue sea, sun sparkling off the snow. The gulls are fis.h.i.+ng. I saw a whale this morning."

"A whale."

"Just luck. I happened to be looking out the window just as it sounded. Way out, and still spectacular. So." She turned. "Your brunch is ready."

"My what?"

"Brunch. It's too late for breakfast, which you didn't eat."

"I had ... coffee."

"Now you can have food."

"Actually, I'm ..." He gestured to his laptop.

"And it's annoying to be interrupted, to be hauled off to eat. But you'll probably work better after some food. How long have you been writing today?"

"I don't know." It was annoying, he thought. The interruption, the questions, the food he didn't want to take time for. "Since about six, I guess."

"Well, G.o.d! It's eleven, so definitely time for a break. I set you up in the morning room this time. The view's so nice from there, especially today. Do you want me to do any cleaning in here while you eat-or ever?"

"No. I ... No." After another slight pause. "No."

"I got that. Go ahead and eat, and I'll do what I have to do on this level. That way if you want to go back to work, I'll be downstairs where I won't bother you."

She stood between him and his laptop, smiling genially in a faded purple sweats.h.i.+rt with a peace sign dead center, even more faded jeans and bright orange Crocs.

As arguing seemed time-consuming and futile, he simply walked out of the room.

He'd meant to stop and have something-maybe a bagel, whatever. He'd lost track of time. He liked losing track of time because it meant he was inside the book.

She was supposed to clean the house, not take on the position as his d.a.m.n keeper.

He hadn't forgotten she was coming. But his plan to stop writing when she arrived, to grab that bagel and take it with him on a walk, to call home while he was out, well, the book sucked that away.

He turned left, into the gla.s.s-walled curve of the morning room.

Abra was right. The view was worth it. He'd take that walk later if he could find a reasonable route with the snow. At least he could get to the beach steps, take some pictures with his phone, send them home.

He sat at the table with its covered plate, its short pot of coffee, crystal gla.s.s of juice. She'd even taken one of the flowers from the living room arrangement and tucked it in a bud vase.

It reminded him of the way his mother had put a flower or some game or book or toy on the tray when she brought food to his sickbed when he was a boy.

He wasn't sick. He didn't need to be mothered. All he needed was someone to come in and clean so he could write, live, shovel d.a.m.n snow if it needed shoveling.

He sat, wincing a little at the stiffness in his neck, his shoulders. Okay, the Shovel Snow for Pride Marathon had cost him, he admitted.

He lifted the dome.

A puff of fragrant steam rose from a stack of blueberry pancakes. A rasher of crisp bacon lined the edge of the plate and a little clear bowl of melon garnished with sprigs of mint sat beside it.

"Wow."

He simply stared a moment, struggling between more annoyance and acceptance.

He decided both worked. He'd eat because it was here, and now he was d.a.m.n near starving, and he could be annoyed about it.

He spread some of the b.u.t.ter she'd scooped into a little dish over the stack, watched it melt as he added syrup.

It felt a little Lord of the Manor-but really tasty.

He knew very well he'd been raised in privilege, but pretty brunches with the morning paper folded on the table hadn't been everyday events.

The Landons were privileged because they worked, and worked because they were privileged.

As he ate he started to open the paper, then just set it aside. Like television, newspapers held too many bad memories. The view contented him, and letting his mind just drift, he watched the water, and the drip of melting snow as the sun bore down.

He felt ... almost peaceful.

He looked over when she came in. "Second floor's clear," she told him, and started to lift the tray.

"I'll get it. No," he insisted. "I'll get it. Look, you don't have to cook for me. It was great, thanks, but you don't have to cook."

"I like to cook, and it's not all that satisfying to cook just for myself." She followed him into the kitchen, then continued on to the laundry room. "And you're not eating properly."

"I'm eating." He mumbled it.