Danielle Steel - 44 Charles Street

“That sounds like fun to me,” Francesca said easily, as Chris made some of the eggs he had bought, and he fried one for Ian too.

“Do you want to come?” Ian asked her happily, and she smiled.

“I’d love to, but I have to work.”

“What do you do?” Ian asked her.

“I have an art gallery a few blocks from here,” she explained to him. “I sell paintings. You can come to see it if you like.”

“Maybe we will,” Chris said as he set the egg down in front of Ian, and then sat down next to him with his own. And then Francesca went back to reading her e-mail while they ate. She’d had another response to the ad, from a woman in Vermont who said she was looking for a pied-à-terre in New York, and was interested in seeing the room that Francesca was renting. She had given her phone number, and said that she hoped it was still available and that Francesca would call. Francesca jotted it down along with another one, but the woman from Vermont sounded more appealing, and it didn’t sound as though she would be there all the time, which might be good. It was very comfortable now the way things were. And Ian seemed like a pleasant addition to the group. He was obviously a nice kid.

She chatted with him again for a few minutes, wished them a fun time at the zoo, and went back upstairs. They had already left by the time she went out.

She had a busy day at the gallery after that and sold another painting. They had been selling well for months—the problem was that their prices weren’t high enough to make much of a profit. She had been thinking of raising them again, and Avery insisted that she should.

It was midafternoon when Francesca remembered the woman in Vermont who had responded to her ad. She dialed the number, and a young woman answered. She sounded about Francesca’s age, and she was cheery and pleasant on the phone. Francesca told her the unit was still available and described it as best she could, without glorifying it. She said that the room was small, and it was a studio, had a pretty view of the garden, and was next to the kitchen, and it had its own bath.

The woman’s name was Marya Davis, and she said it sounded perfect for her. She didn’t need a lot of space, and she said she liked to use the kitchen a lot, and would that be a problem?

“No, I work till seven every night, six days a week, so I’m not home much, and neither are the other tenants. One works at home some of the time, but he keeps to himself. And the other tenant just graduated from college, is a teacher, and goes out almost every night. The house is pretty quiet, and none of us use the kitchen much. I’m usually too tired to cook and just make a salad, or buy something at the deli on the way home. And the others do the same, so the kitchen is all yours.” Neither of her tenants had cooked dinner since they moved in, and she hardly saw them.

“That would be wonderful. I could come down from Vermont next week to see it, if that’s all right with you. Do you think it can wait till then?” Marya asked, sounding worried, and Francesca laughed.

“No one’s beating down my door. I have someone else to call today, but I spoke to you first, so I’ll give you priority on it. When do you want to come?”

“Would Wednesday work for you?” she asked hopefully.

“That would be great.” They set a time, and Francesca jotted it down so she wouldn’t forget if she got busy. And then they hung up. The woman had sounded very pleasant on the phone. And the person she called afterward had found something else. It was already early February, and it had taken her all this time to find two good tenants, and maybe now finally a third. She hadn’t expected it to take this long. But she had been very cautious about who she showed it to, and no one else had suited her except Eileen and Chris, and now maybe this woman who wanted a pied-à-terre. She had mentioned that she was recently widowed and wanted to spend time in New York. And winters in Vermont were hard.

Francesca forgot about her then and remembered the appointment on Tuesday night. She had seen Chris’s son briefly again before he left on Sunday night. She had brought a lollipop home from the gallery to give him. She kept a bowl of candy there for kids. She asked Chris’s permission before giving it to him, and he didn’t object. Apparently their visit to the polar bear had been a big hit, and there was a new tiger cub at the zoo too. Ian loved the lollipop and waved goodbye to her when he left. He was a really cute kid. Seeing children like him never made her want one of her own, she just enjoyed the ones she met. She had fifteen artists to worry about instead of kids. That was enough for her, for now anyway, and maybe forever. Particularly with no man in her life. Crossing paths with kids like Ian was all the kid fix she needed. She didn’t need more. But she could easily see how crazy Chris was about his son. His eyes lit up whenever he looked at Ian.

Marya, the woman from Vermont, appeared at the house on Charles Street five minutes before the appointed hour the next day. She was wearing ski pants, snow boots, and a parka with a hood, and it was a cold day in New York too. She had gray hair cut in a stylish bob, and looked nothing like what Francesca had expected. And she was much older than she had sounded on the phone. She mentioned that she was fifty-nine, and had just lost her husband after a long illness. But she looked like a cheerful, happy person. She was lithe and had a youthful attitude and look, although Francesca was startled to realize she was nearly her mother’s age, but an entirely different kind of person.

And she was much more interested in checking out the kitchen than seeing her room, which she had glanced at rapidly and said seemed fine to her.

“I take it you like to cook,” Francesca said, smiling at her.

“Yes, I do. It’s been my passion ever since I was a little girl. I’m very lucky to be able to do what I love. It never feels like work.” And then Francesca suddenly realized who she was, and how oblivious she had been. She was Marya Davis, the celebrated cook. She had written half a dozen famous cookbooks, and Francesca had two of them on a shelf. She was one of the most successful chefs, and specialized in French cuisine, made easy for the masses and people who were busy. She demystified some of the famous French dishes, and had written an entire book on soufflés. And here she was in Francesca’s kitchen on Charles Street, examining the kitchen and sitting at the table. “I’m working on a new book,” she explained. “And I thought it might be fun to spend some time here while I do. It’s too quiet where I live, particularly now that I’m alone.” She wasn’t mournful about it, just a little wistful.

“Was your husband a chef too?” Francesca asked, curious about her. She had dancing eyes, and a huge smile, and seemed like one of the warmest, friendliest people Francesca had ever met. She was totally unassuming, and she looked completely at home in Francesca’s kitchen. And if she moved in, Francesca realized instantly that there would be some wonderful things to eat.

She laughed in answer to Francesca’s question about her late husband. “He was a banker, not a cook, but he loved to eat, particularly French food. We used to spend a month in Provence every year, while I tried out new recipes. We had a lot of fun together. I miss him,” she said simply, “so I thought it might be good to do something different and move here for a while. But I’ll need to go back to Vermont occasionally to check on the house, and it’s so pretty there in the late spring. But now that I don’t ski anymore, I’d rather be here in the winter months.” Francesca’s own mother still skied at sixty-two, and the two women were close to the same age, but they weren’t even remotely alike. Marya Davis was a woman of talent, substance, humor, and depth. Thalia was none of those. And Francesca was thoroughly enjoying talking to Marya. She was a lovely woman, and Francesca was thrilled to meet her and at the prospect of having her live at the house. She had been lucky with all three of her tenants.