Read Online A Penny for Your Thoughts by Mindy Starns Clark - Free Book Online Page B

the place was quiet. Realizing I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, I stashed the bags in my room and set off for the kitchen, hoping to catch a quiet interview with the maid, Angelina, and maybe find something to eat at the same time.
    I was in luck. I peered around the corner of the kitchen to see Angelina sitting at the kitchen table, snapping some beans. The chauffeur was standing behind her, now dressed in a white cook’sjacket, kneading some dough on the counter, then pausing to stir a pot on the stove. They were speaking softly as they worked, delicious smells filling the room.
    Angelina stood when she saw me, her features offering a guarded smile.
    “Mrs. Webber,” she said. “Can I get something for you? A cup of coffee, perhaps?”
    “Sit, please,” I said, heading toward the table. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I was just hoping I could maybe make myself a little sandwich or something. I never had lunch.”
    “Perhaps a bowl of soup?” the man suggested. “I just made a pot of cream of potato with scallions and peppers.”
    “Sounds wonderful.”
    Angelina gestured toward the man behind her, introducing him as her brother Nick, the cook.
    “You will excuse me if I don’t shake hands,” he said, waving to show me that his palms were covered with flour.
    “The cook?” I asked. “I thought you were the chauffeur.”
    “The chauffeur?” he replied sharply. “I am the chef! I just drove Mrs. Smythe into the city this morning as a favor.”
    “I see.”
    Our eyes met, his almost challenging me. Obviously, this was a man who took great pride in his work. I realized I had insulted him.
    “My mistake,” I said apologetically. “No offense intended.” After a moment, he spoke again, his tone warming.
    “It is quite alright. Have a seat. Angelina, get the lady a bowl.”
    She fluttered around, gathering bowl, spoon, gourmet crackers, and a glass of lemonade. I made a great show of tasting the soup and pronouncing it heavenly—which it was. Nick beamed proudly.
    “So where is everyone?” I asked, taking another sip. “Is Mrs. Smythe okay?”
    “She had a light meal in her room,” Angelina answered, resuming her place at the table, “and now I believe she is taking a nap.”
    “Soup, hors d’oeuvres, dinner,” Nick said, counting off on his fingers. “Good thing you did that big grocery shopping trip this morning, Angelina. Who knew we would need all of this food?”
    I continued to eat as Angelina explained that Marion’s son, Derek, was in the den, returning phone calls from friends, family, acquaintances, and reporters.
    “The phone has been going crazy,” she said. “I did not know what to tell people. I hardly understand what has happened myself.”
    “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, “for all of you.” Angelina nodded, closing her eyes.
    “Mrs. Smythe will be accepting visitors around six,” Nick said. “Things should be quiet around here until then.”
    He continued to cook, and Angelina snapped her beans. As I ate, I began to watch Nick’s movements with interest; there was something oddly soothing about his hands working the dough, rolling it out onto the floured counter, cutting it into perfect rings, which he then pressed into the little cups of a muffin pan.
    “Pecan tarts,” he said when he finally noticed my interest. I nodded, wondering how long he had been a chef. He moved in a professional, efficient manner throughout the kitchen just like the chefs in cooking shows on TV.
    “Have you been cooking for the Smythes for a long time?” I asked.
    “I met the Smythes about ten years ago when they came into my uncle’s ristorante in Florence.”
    “Florence, Italy?”
    “Yes. That is where I grew up. The Smythes took one bite of my pan-seared lamb steak on linguini with garlic and a light pesto sauce and then offered me this job, on the spot.”
    “Goodness.”
    I listened as he described the meal that had so impressed them, thinking that some people might