Page 70 of Impossible Love

“Come on in for some tea,” Phyllis tells me.

As I follow her into the kitchen I glance over my shoulder to watch the SUV pull away. Cal glances out the window and catches me looking. His mouth curls in a slight smile.

“Take a load off,” Phyllis says, gesturing to a chair at the kitchen table.

I offer to help Phyllis, but she waves me off. “The minute I need help to make a pot of tea is the moment I need to be put out to pasture.”

She’s a dancer in her kitchen. An artist. She fills a kettle and lights the ancient gas stove. It’s not the pioneer wood stove I once imagined, but I wasn’t too far off the mark. When the burner ignites into a tall flame, she sets the dented copper kettle in place and pulls a blue-and-white bone china tea set from a high cabinet.

It’s comforting watching her. I’ve been waited on by housekeepers and cooks my whole life, but this is different. Phyllis isn’t preparing tea for me because she has to. She’s preparing it for me because she wants to.

It’s very motherly, and kind.

She sets a serving tray on the table with sugar, cream, and cups and saucers. I reach out to help steady it when things start to clatter. That’s when I really notice the round oak table. The wood itself looks antique, with a center pedestal base that extends into four claw feet. The top is about two inches thick, and the surface is hand-painted.

I trace my fingers along the decorative border of greenery and purple-and-white irises.

Phyllis sees me admiring the table.

“Cal’s mother was the artist around here,” she says, filling the teapot with boiling water before she sits down across from me. “Stella could ride anything and rope better than most men, but she had a hand for making things pretty too, like this table. Remind me later to show you the pergola at the side of the house. She had Jamie build it, and then she somehow wrangled flowering vines to grow all over it, even the ones that had no earthly place in this part of the world.”

“She was a pianist too.”

“A good one. You must have seen her piano at Cal’s place.”

I nod. Phyllis places a cup and saucer in front of me and pours. It’s black pekoe, hot and fragrant.

“Was Stella your sister?”

Phyllis looks up, surprised. “Oh, heavens no. I was married to Jamie’s late brother, Murray. I was his second wife.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I still miss that grumpy old coot.” She gets up and starts on another chore.

I let my gaze travel around the kitchen, wondering which of the homey touches I see were left by Stella MacLaine. Cal’s mother is everywhere here, especially in the hearts of her family. They’re lucky that they can look around and see that she was here, that she lived. That she loved them.

I have no memory of my mother, aside from a few photos. I grew up in my father’s penthouse apartment, the one he purchased right after she died. There was never anything of her there. He said he wanted a fresh start, so he got rid of almost all of her belongings and swept her away from our lives. Nothing of her remained in my father’s heart, either, as far as I could tell.

Phyllis places a small sandwich plate in front of me. It’s a pile of thinly sliced roast beef between two thick slices of homemade bread. She sets a condiment tray nearby, with lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise, and mustard.

“Wasn’t sure what you like on your sandwich.”

“I…” I look up at her and smile. “I’m not all that hungry.”

Phyllis barks out a laugh. “Honey, you came back from San Francisco like you were rode hard and put away wet.”

“What?” I nearly choke.

“You look tired, honey. I know you had a big meeting, and then that storm hit. I hope Cal didn’t work you too hard.”

I pick up the sandwich and take a giant bite, willing my cheeks not to burn pink. If I’m chewing, I can’t sputter and stammer and say something stupid. Because rode hard and put away wet? I hope to hell that’s nothing more than a down-home ranch expression.

I lift the top slice of bread and slap on a healthy dollop of mayo, then add some lettuce and tomato. Now that I’m eating, I realize I was starving. And this is the most delicious roast beef sandwich I’ve ever had. It’s more of Yosemite Ranch’s hand-trimmed and aged merchandise, no doubt.

“Eat up,” she says sweetly, pointing at my plate.

“Nobody escapes this kitchen without eating something.” Jamie walks in, his voice booming, and takes a seat next to me. “I saw Cal outside. I haven’t seen him that happy since I taught him how to shoot my daddy’s Winchester 1894 when he was eight.”

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