Margaret nodded. She tilted her head as she took me in. “I’m sorry. You look familiar. If you don’t mind me asking, are you Donovan’s sister?”
His sister.
I didn’t know if he had a sister. Then again, I knew very little about the man.
My lips came together. “No, no relation.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “Oh.”
I shook my head with a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Margaret.”
“You too, Julia.”
The open floor plan glistened with a fresh shine and the generous amount of sunshine coming through the large windows. The frozen bay caught my attention. The snowdrifts glistened like motionless waves from yesterday’s wind. Soft white clouds floated in a blue sky above the horizon. As I turned around in the living room, I was bombarded with the memories of last night. I quickly spun back to the windows, fearful we’d left clues of our night’s line-erasing on the glass pane.
I took a step one direction and then the other, tilting my head to see from different angles. A sigh of relief came at the cleanliness of the window.
“Strange smudge,” Margaret said, coming up behind me.
I spun toward her. “Excuse me.”
Warmth came from my toes, radiating toward my neck and cheeks.
The tips of her lips curled in a friendly way. She shook her head. “Very unusual,” she said. “Rarely are Donovan’s windows in need of cleaning on the inside, just normal dust and air particles. This morning there was a rather large smudge right in the area where you are looking.” She shrugged. “The good news is it cleaned with no issues.”
I took a deep breath. “That is good news.”
“Enjoy some breakfast.”
I nodded, walking through the dining room on my way to the kitchen. A quick inspection of the table let me know that it was clean. I could only hope that it had been cleaned by Van as he’d said, not Margaret.
If she knew the cause of the smudge, she also knew I wasn’t Van’s sister.
Why do I look familiar?
Before I could give that more thought, my stomach growled at the delicious aromas filling the air.
The six-burner stove was filled with pots and pans as a petite older woman with dark black hair tended to each one. Such as her daughter, this woman also wore blue jeans and flat white tennis shoes. Instead of a sweatshirt, she had on a plain black top with a long black sweater over the top. Around her waist was an apron, reminding me of the ones my grandmother would wear when we baked cookies or she let me help her with something.
“Hello,” I called out over the sounds of bubbling and simmering pots.
Mrs. Mayhand, or Paula, quickly turned. Wiping her hands on her apron, she scanned me up and down. There was a moment of contemplation on her part before she smiled. “Hello. So you’re Mr. Sherman’s guest.”
“I am. My name is Julia.”
She nodded. “My name is Paula. Most people call me Mrs. Mayhand.” She winked. “I think it’s because they think I’m old. I’m not too old to remember my first name.”
I grinned. “It’s nice to meet you, Paula.”
Her smile broadened. “And you too. What may I get you for” —she looked at the clock— “lunch or is this breakfast?”
Technically, it was somewhere in between. “We could call it brunch.”
Paula walked to a far counter, pulled a coffee mug from a peg. “I have a pot of coffee over here. It’s my indulgence while I cook. Would you like a cup?”
I laid my computer bag on the kitchen table and walked to the breakfast bar “I don’t mind serving myself.”
“I’m only here one day a week. Let an old lady have her way.”