Gabriela puts a hand on her hip. Her eyes narrow. “Well, what’s she like, then?”
Bert raises his chin; a challenge. “Soup.”
At this, I can’t help but smile.
“Well, you’ve still got a bit of soup left,” she says, throwing a dish towel over her shoulder. “You and Myrna will have to share.”
Bert mutters under his breath, and I feel a little sorry for him. He’s a grumpy old thing, that’s for sure, but I like his gumption. Standing up for his hungry (albeit fictional) woman like that? That’s gallant, in my book.
“Don’t you worry, love,” he says, pushing his own bowl toward the empty setting. “You have mine. There’s a good girl.”
Now Bert’s face is transformed. His eyes are soft and admiring. His lips curve into a helpless smile. At first I think he’s smiling at me, but the truth takes only a second to dawn. He’s smiling at Myrna. On one level, I find this unimaginably sad. On another, it’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.
“Listen,” I say on impulse. “I’ve barely touched my soup, and I’m not hungry. Perhaps Myrna would like to … finish it?”
I brace myself, aware that Bert might be insulted by the offer of leftovers for Myrna. He frowns at me, but after a quick assessment, gives a gruff nod. “She’d like that very much. Thank you, young lady.”
I give Bert back his bowl and place mine in front of “Myrna.” I start to leave, then hesitate by Bert’s chair. “Myrna’s a lucky lady, you know that? I’d sure like to have someone to look out for me when I … I can’t do things for myself.”
Bert continues to frown at me, but it’s a little different now. Less irritated. More thoughtful. “You never know, young lady,” he says. “Maybe you will.”
3
Eve
Present day …
The man standing before me isn’t what I expect. For starters, he’s at least five years younger than me—thirty, tops—and he has a smudge of dirt on his left cheek. His eyes are deep-set, his skin is olive, and his hair is tawny. He’s … gorgeous. But in green shorts, a thin white T-shirt, and sturdy boots, he’s too disheveled to be the manager. I glance again at the small gold-plated sign next to the doorbell: ROSALIND HOUSE. GIVING THEM PEACE, GIVING YOU PEACE OF MIND. I’m definitely in the right place.
“I’m Eve Bennett,” I say. I have a brief flash of myself standing onstage, accepting the award for most promising graduate at the Institute of Culinary Education in New York, and another flash of Mother’s face when I told her I was applying for a job at a residential care facility for the elderly. “I have an interview at two o’clock. For the cook position.”
I wait for a greeting, a handshake, an Oh yes. Please come in. But the man just stares. I see a glint of recognition in his eyes and my heart sinks.
My last job interview had been a tough one, too, but at least I’d got a hello. It was ten years ago, at Benu, the hot NYC Asian fusion restaurant (back when Asian fusion was the next big thing). Simply landing an interview for an apprenticeship at Benu was nothing short of a miracle. Word among my friends at the culinary school was that Min-Jun, the head chef, hired only blood relatives to work in his kitchen, for fear others would steal his famous brown sauce recipe. I met with Min-Jun in the kitchen, and rather than shaking my hand, he’d supplied me with a knife and a bag of carrots to julienne. In the hour I spent there, he barely said a word to me. Later, when he offered me the job (which I declined, stupidly), he told me it was the way I looked at the carrot, like I was in love with it, that got me over the line.
The disheveled man still hasn’t spoken. I wait for him to curse me or slam the door in my face but instead he shuffles back and lets me inside. I step into a bright foyer with a sweeping staircase. Low polished timber side tables sit alongside well-stuffed pastel furniture. Though I haven’t been inside many residential care facilities, I suspect this is a very nice one. A three-story shuttered colonial with a huge, rambling garden. It reminds me a lot of … well, my house.
“Are you Eric?” I ask.
The man turns, gesturing for me to follow. “No.”
“Oh,” I say, relieved. “So … uh … you are?”
“The gardener.”
He disappears around a corner and I have to run to keep up. I catch him at the end of the corridor, where he is already knocking on the door.
“Eric?” he says through the door. His gaze touches mine briefly. “Eve Bennett is here to see you.”
The door swings open. The man standing there has a thick mustache and, unlike the gardner, is smiling.
“Hello,” he says brightly. “You must be Eve. I’m Eric.”
The gardener makes himself scarce and I take Eric’s extended hand. “Good to meet you.”
“Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in.” He ushers me inside. “Is that a British accent I detect?”
“East London,” I say. “But I’ve been in the United States nearly fifteen years.”