Winnie Griggs - The Bride Next Door

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 well as a restaurant cook.”

The pesky creak that signaled someone was on the stairs sounded, and they both turned toward it.

“Mr. Fulton, I—” Daisy looked toward his visitor and paused. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Everett and Miss Andrews both stood.

“Miss Johnson.” The dressmaker stepped forward. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Hazel Andrews, owner of the dress shop down the street.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I’ve walked by your place a few times. From what I can see through your shop window, you do beautiful work.”

“Why, thank you.” The seamstress studied Daisy with a critical eye. “If you’d like to come in for a fitting, I’d be glad to set up an appointment for you.”

“Thank you for the offer,” Daisy said with an apologetic smile. “As tempting as it sounds, I’m afraid purchasing new clothes is going to have to wait until I’ve taken care of other, more pressing matters.”

The dressmaker tightened the strings to her handbag and nodded. “I understand.” She gave Daisy a head-to-toe look. “Just keep in mind that appearances set the tone for a business relationship as well as a personal one.”

Everett stiffened. Her tone had been friendly enough, but the words carried a barb. Had Daisy felt it?

Then Miss Andrews turned back to him. “I assume I can look for the advertisement to run in the next issue of the Gazette.”

“Of course.” Everett still had his mind on how her words might have affected Daisy as he gave her a short bow of dismissal. “And thank you for delivering the letter.”

Once the door closed behind the dressmaker, Everett turned to Daisy. He still didn’t detect any hint of distress or affront in her expression. Perhaps he’d overreacted. “Was there something you needed?”

She blinked, as if just remembering her errand. “Yes, of course. I wanted to tell you your meal is ready to be served. But there’s no need to rush upstairs if you’re busy. I’ll just keep it warm until you’re ready for it.”

“Thank you. I’ll join you there in a moment.”

He waited until she had started up the stairs to open his letter, smiling in anticipation. Abigail’s letters reflected her personality—they were chatty, exuberant and overly dramatic. He unfolded the missive and leaned back in his chair, prepared to be entertained.