Nodding, I sat up on the high stool. “Yes, please. Coffee would be great.”
“Cream or sugar?”
“Cream, if you have it.”
Paula opened the refrigerator and shook her head. “Is black all right? You tell me some things you like and I’ll add them to the list.” She handed me the warm black coffee.
“I really don’t know how long I’ll be staying.”
As I spoke, she wrote cream on a long list.
“What are you cooking?”
“Mr. Sherman isn’t much for celebrating holidays. You might have chosen a bad time to visit.”
I looked around the large kitchen and out to the living room. “I hadn’t given his lack of decorations much thought.”
“Oh, no, he doesn’t decorate.”
“I can see how it would be a lot of work for only one person to enjoy.”
Paula checked on her pans before pushing a light on the double oven and looking inside. She smiled and turned my way. “When Peggy told me that Mr. Sherman had a guest, I decided he needed a holiday meal.” She shrugged. “He may not like it, but I have a turkey breast in the oven, gravy on the stove and two different casseroles and mashed potatoes already in the refrigerator. I’ll write out warming instructions. No sense in two people spending the holiday without plenty to eat.”
“It sounds delicious.”
“Now, about your brunch.”
“Is there fruit?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. Mr. Sherman likes his nectarines.”
I lifted my coffee mug to my lips, trying to hide my smile. “Nectarines and coffee sounds perfect.”
“Let me make you an English muffin.” She looked at me. “Or are you one of those no-carbs people.”
“I’m one of those too-many-carbs people.”
I think that won me a few brownie points as Paula grinned and nodded. Soon I was feasting on nectarines, an English muffin drenched in real butter, and coffee. I was also answering Paula’s detailed questions about my eating preferences.
“As I said, I’m not sure how long I’ll be here.”
“Oh, child, you’re changing up my cooking routine, and I couldn’t be more grateful. Mr. Sherman is a creature of habit. I make six meals each week. The next week, I clean out the refrigerator of all the leftovers he didn’t eat. I can almost guarantee which meals will be gone and which will be only partially eaten. Every week, I rotate the menu. If I throw in something new, I’ll find it untouched the next week. I love cooking; I’m even more thrilled to mix it up a bit.” She grinned my way. “Is that why you’re here? To mix it up.”
My muffin and fruit were gone. Apparently, I’d worked up an appetite last night. “I’m here because Mr. Sherman advertised for someone to write his memoir. I accepted the job.”
Her lips came together as she nodded. “He wants someone to write his story?”
“Yes. I mean, he’s an accomplished businessman from what I’ve read so far.”
“I see—a book about his business feats. I suppose there would be people wanting to read about how he has done all he has accomplished.”
“Sometimes these memoirs are more self-indulgent,” I said. “It’s more for the subject to get the satisfaction from telling their story.”
Paula was back to the stove. “He isn’t like that.”
“What do you mean?”
She adjusted the heat on a few of the burners and turned my way. “I suppose that’s for you to learn. No need to have your version of Mr. Sherman’s story tainted by an old woman’s observations.”