She notices Audrey isn’t employing her cane today. The thud of the stick on the floorboards might have announced her presence.
“I normally rise early. I’ve never been a particularly deep sleeper.” Audrey taps her forehead. “Busy mind. And ‘Anyone else’ is only me, Miss Mercer. It’s just the pair of us. And these two.”
Ozzie and the black terrier she met yesterday scramble past Audrey and over to Kate.
“Hello again, little one,” Kate says.
The terrier’s stumpy tail wags back and forth, causing her entire body—including her whiskers—to shake. Kate scoops her up and is rewarded with a lick on the cheek, then she kneels, holding her out to Ozzie, who touches his nose to hers and the tail wagging begins again.
“This is Sophie.” Audrey nods at her dog, now squirming out of Kate’s arms.
“This is Ozzie.”
“Yes.” Audrey peers down at him. “We shall have to get the measure of you, hm?”
Kate finds this to be a rather haughty remark toward a dog, but she lets the comment slide in the spirit of unfamiliarity. A moment later she wonders whether it was meant for her.
“Well, come along then,” Audrey says with a brusque clearing of her throat. “Time for breakfast.”
She leads Kate back through the sitting room and down the hall to the kitchen. She’s clearly moving better than she was yesterday, but still very slow, a little too careful.
She stops inside the doors. “I smell coffee.”
“Yeah,” Kate says. “I was up early, so I put it on.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Audrey says with a grave expression. “I’ve been running on the bloody stuff for decades.”
Kate’s mouth twitches. Between that and the baking show, perhaps they’ll get along after all.
“I usually just have an egg and toast when we’re vacant.” Audrey moves toward the refrigerator. “Nothing fancy. And no fry-ups. I can’t stand potatoes.”
“That’s fine,” Kate says, though she wonders what sort of person hates potatoes. “What can I do?”
Audrey heaves a sigh. “If you must, go ahead and get the Marmite and whatever you like for your toast, and some mugs, and bring them through. The coffee, too, I suppose.”
“I like Marmite on my egg and toast, too,” Kate says, opening a cupboard at random in search of it.
“Some prefer jam or marmalade, but I think a salty punch wakens the morning nerves better than sugar.” Audrey fishes the eggs out of the fridge. “Top cupboard beside the stove.”
Kate retrieves it, along with some mugs and the coffeepot.
Audrey gestures to the swinging door. “Head into the dining room. I’ll come through with the breakfast.” She drops an egg onto the tile floor and curses.
Kate moves forward. “Do you need a—”
“I only need you to go sit down, Miss Mercer.”
Kate purses her lips on a retort and pushes open the door to the dining room with her hip. She sits at the table where they ate dinner yesterday, stomach tightening on a small knot. She wishes Audrey wanted her here. It’s uncomfortable, but she thinks of her dad’s message in the guest book. She doesn’t want to leave just yet.
She swallows that realization as she surveys her surroundings in the morning light. The dining room is brighter than the other rooms. One entire wall is floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the dark woods at the back of the inn. Outside, a muted, pale light diffuses through the clouds. It looks like the rain has stopped now. Kate takes in other details she was too distracted to notice last night—the framed prints of various plants sketched in black and white on the walls, the long buffet table, and the smaller dining tables positioned around the room for when the Oakwood is full of guests—and an eerie feeling of isolation comes over her, as though she’s the sole occupant of a restaurant after hours.
She’s musing on the last time she and Adam went out to eat when Audrey appears in the kitchen doorway with a tray. Kate’s instinct is to leap up and help, but she already knows better.
Audrey settles herself down. “Thank you,” Kate says, then pours the coffee, slides a cup to her. It’s a good sign that Audrey wants to eat with her.
As Audrey reaches for the cup, Kate gets a closer look at her hands. They’re speckled with age, as one would expect of a nonagenarian, but the knuckles resemble the knots of a tree, and two of the fingers on her right hand are bent to the side, as though they were crushed at one point. Whatever it is, it’s more than just age. Kate tries not to focus on them; she knows how it feels when other people stare at her scars.
Audrey picks up the jar of Marmite, struggles to open it. “Bloody lid.”
Kate waits. After a momentary battle, Audrey glances at her, then nods curtly.
“It might need a younger hand.”
With a forced wrench, Kate releases the yellow lid and hands the little jar back to her. She watches Audrey for a moment.
“Eat, Miss Mercer,” Audrey says, fixing her with a pointed glare. “You’re thin as a rail and paler than cheese.”
Kate swallows, indignant, but pulls the plate toward her. She is hungry. “You can call me Kate,” she says.
They sit for a couple of drawn-out minutes, eating their eggs, before Audrey speaks again. Her tone is businesslike.
“So, then. My housekeeper has gone and hired a woman I know nothing about to live in my house.” One thinning white eyebrow arches. “Tell me a bit about yourself, so I have some vague idea who I’m cozying up with.”
It’s a fair question, but Audrey’s inquiry isn’t as straightforward as she thinks it is. How do you tell someone you just met that your life is in the middle of a massive renovation? That you wake up every morning and go to bed each night not entirely sure who you really are, what you want, or where you’re going? Kate sips her coffee, buying time as she rakes together a few scattered details. Just enough to form a pile resembling a whole person.
“Well, I’m thirty-three. I was born in Shropshire, but I moved to London for uni, and I’ve lived there ever since.”
“Do you have any siblings?”
