Page 18 of Passion at the Lake

She moved back from the door. “Come in, dear. I made an omelet that has your name on it.”

“I really should get on into town.” I followed her inside. The aroma made my mouth water.

She shook her head. “Nonsense. Grace and Dirk joined us for breakfast every day. You and I will be trading off the cooking on occasion.” She waved toward another room and huffed. “He’s useless in the kitchen. Don’t let my nephew near anything more complicated than the coffee machine.”

So, she wasn’t alone in this large house, mansion or whatever. “I’m sure he’s not that bad.”

She stopped and turned with a shrug. “Just a small exaggeration. He can handle the toaster.”

The kitchen was modern and spacious, the complete opposite of anything in the cottage. “You have a lovely house.”

She giggled. “No. This is his. I’m in the house right over there.” She pointed in a direction without windows. “I promised my sister I’d see to it that he doesn’t starve to death. The man was subsisting on nothing but toaster waffles and frozen pizza. Quick way to an early grave, if you ask me.”

He sounded like a long-ago version of me, before I learned to appreciate the merger of math and chemistry that recipes represented.

The class I took on the chemistry of food and nutrition had turned my view of cooking around. Breadth requirements in college had forced me into a choice between that and symbolism in renaissance art. For geeky me, the simple mention of chemistry made the decision easy.

She pulled a plate from the oven. “I hope cheese and mushroom is okay.”

It smelled scrumptious. “Of course.” I followed her to the table.

“Orange juice?” she asked, lifting the pitcher.

I nodded. “Yes, please.”

She poured a glass, pulled out a chair, and sat across from the plate she’d set on the table. “Sit and tell me all about yourself. Your sister didn’t explain anything except that you came down from Boston. That’s a long way.”

I nodded. “Long drive.” Before sitting, I pulled the money out of my pocket. “I’m told I need to pay you for the rent. I’ll have to get the other half out of the bank.”

“You should give that to my nephew.” She nodded toward the door. “He should be down when he’s done exercising.” She picked a piece off the muffin on her plate. Following my eyes, she added, “Don’t be self-conscious. We already ate.”

I re-pocketed the bills and pushed my glasses up my nose. “Actually, I’m Grace’s stepsister.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “I think it’s nice of you to look after her dogs on such short notice.”

“It was nice of her to give me a place to land.” I forked a bite of omelet into my mouth.

Her raised eyebrow asked the question I didn’t want to answer fully right now—why did I need a place to land?“I’m on my way to see my mother in Florida.”

“Visiting family is always nice.”

I finished chewing another bite before answering. “This is an excellent French-style omelet.” It was creamy smooth without any browning.

She beamed. “Oh, I just threw it together.”

“You’re being too modest, Marge. Most people don’t know how to cook like this.”

“Do you like cooking?”

I nodded with another mouthful. “Love it.”

We spent a few minutes discussing breakfast recipes before she showed me around the house.

“You’re free to use the washer and dryer in here,” she said pointing out gleaming new appliances.

Of more interest to me was a spot she called the sunroom, with a nice couch and desk for using my laptop.

“And it’s not a problem if I hang out here to do my computer work?” I asked.

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