floor.
“You can call me Mara. Really, that’s…that’s fine.”
“Mrs. Barnett,” Brock repeated. “We try to keep things a little formal around here.”
Mara hugged Abby tightly as though she was almost frightened by the reality of his world—a world that now had become her own.
“You have two housekeepers?” she asked as the women hurried away. Ermaline vanished down a hall, and Rosa Maria went back to polishing the mirror in the foyer.
“The house is huge.” Brock looked around him as he stated the obvious. Her awe wasn’t lost on him, and he felt a surge of pride at all he had accomplished in the past few years.
“How messy can one man possibly be?” Mara whispered. “And who is this?”
A man wearing a tall white hat, white apron and white cravat knotted at his neck stepped forward and bowed.
“Pierre Britton,” he announced in a clipped voice, “at your service, Madame.”
Mara glanced at Brock. He winked. “Just tell Pierre what you want to eat, and he’ll fix it for you. As long as it’s not hamburgers. Pierre doesn’t do hamburgers.”
“I am a chef, Madame, not a fry cook. I have trained with the finest in France.”
“I’m looking forward to experiencing your cuisine,” Mara said.
Pierre beamed. “The boy grew up with my food, and see how he is? Very healthy.”
“I’m healthy, all right,” Brock said, “as long as I head for the bunkhouse once or twice a week to chow down on grilled steaks and beans with the hands.”
“Oui!” Pierre exclaimed. “Terrible, the things our boy does.”
“Man cannot live by cordon bleu alone.”
“Steaks half-burned and half-raw. Potatoes fried in fat. Beans laced with lard. Mais oui, terrible, terrible!”
Brock gave Mara a lazy grin as he brushed past her. “I love to goad him,” he said in a low voice. “Come on. I’ll show you the house.”
“Tacos, he eats!” Pierre was exclaiming as Brock led Mara and Abby across the warm terra-cotta tiled floor of the foyer. “Tamales, refried beans, nachos and menudo! ”
“And what’s wrong with menudo? ” Rosa Maria snapped as she turned from the mirror she had been shining.
“Cow’s stomach!”
“You feed him snails!”
“Your hot chiles will burn his intestines!”
“And your eclairs will give him a heart attack!”
Brock chuckled as he beckoned Mara into the spacious living room. “They’ve been fighting for twenty-five years. They’re happiest when they’re at each other’s throats.”
Silent, Mara carried her daughter into the place that was the heart of his home. Brock watched her face register admiration and wonder as she gazed up at the huge, rough-hewn beams that crossed the twelve-foot ceiling. Each viga was supported by an intricately carved corbel buried in the wall. The adobe walls had been smoothly plastered in a rosy-brown color, even around niches that contained New Mexico artifacts.
As though seeing his own home for the first time, Brock took in the fragile beauty of baskets woven by Mescalero Apaches, clay pots shaped, painted and fired by Indians of the Santa Clara and San Ildefonso pueblos and kachina dolls carved and decorated by Hopis. Old Navajo wool rugs were spread across the tile floor, their patterns evoking spirit gods and their colors of white, gray, black and brown reminiscent of the landscape.
“I keep a fire going even in summer,” Brock said as he pointed to the colossal fireplace that was an unusual combination of stone and sculpted adobe. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“No,” Mara whispered.
Brock recalled the furniture he had removed from Mara’s apartment and taken straight to the thrift store—snagged plaid sofas, garage-sale lamps, cheap curtains. Todd had been a great friend, a superb athlete and a trusted confidante. Brock had supported his decision to major in history and to start an architectural restoration company. But it hadn’t provided much more than the basics for Todd and his young wife.
To Mara,
“You can call me Mara. Really, that’s…that’s fine.”
“Mrs. Barnett,” Brock repeated. “We try to keep things a little formal around here.”
Mara hugged Abby tightly as though she was almost frightened by the reality of his world—a world that now had become her own.
“You have two housekeepers?” she asked as the women hurried away. Ermaline vanished down a hall, and Rosa Maria went back to polishing the mirror in the foyer.
“The house is huge.” Brock looked around him as he stated the obvious. Her awe wasn’t lost on him, and he felt a surge of pride at all he had accomplished in the past few years.
“How messy can one man possibly be?” Mara whispered. “And who is this?”
A man wearing a tall white hat, white apron and white cravat knotted at his neck stepped forward and bowed.
“Pierre Britton,” he announced in a clipped voice, “at your service, Madame.”
Mara glanced at Brock. He winked. “Just tell Pierre what you want to eat, and he’ll fix it for you. As long as it’s not hamburgers. Pierre doesn’t do hamburgers.”
“I am a chef, Madame, not a fry cook. I have trained with the finest in France.”
“I’m looking forward to experiencing your cuisine,” Mara said.
Pierre beamed. “The boy grew up with my food, and see how he is? Very healthy.”
“I’m healthy, all right,” Brock said, “as long as I head for the bunkhouse once or twice a week to chow down on grilled steaks and beans with the hands.”
“Oui!” Pierre exclaimed. “Terrible, the things our boy does.”
“Man cannot live by cordon bleu alone.”
“Steaks half-burned and half-raw. Potatoes fried in fat. Beans laced with lard. Mais oui, terrible, terrible!”
Brock gave Mara a lazy grin as he brushed past her. “I love to goad him,” he said in a low voice. “Come on. I’ll show you the house.”
“Tacos, he eats!” Pierre was exclaiming as Brock led Mara and Abby across the warm terra-cotta tiled floor of the foyer. “Tamales, refried beans, nachos and menudo! ”
“And what’s wrong with menudo? ” Rosa Maria snapped as she turned from the mirror she had been shining.
“Cow’s stomach!”
“You feed him snails!”
“Your hot chiles will burn his intestines!”
“And your eclairs will give him a heart attack!”
Brock chuckled as he beckoned Mara into the spacious living room. “They’ve been fighting for twenty-five years. They’re happiest when they’re at each other’s throats.”
Silent, Mara carried her daughter into the place that was the heart of his home. Brock watched her face register admiration and wonder as she gazed up at the huge, rough-hewn beams that crossed the twelve-foot ceiling. Each viga was supported by an intricately carved corbel buried in the wall. The adobe walls had been smoothly plastered in a rosy-brown color, even around niches that contained New Mexico artifacts.
As though seeing his own home for the first time, Brock took in the fragile beauty of baskets woven by Mescalero Apaches, clay pots shaped, painted and fired by Indians of the Santa Clara and San Ildefonso pueblos and kachina dolls carved and decorated by Hopis. Old Navajo wool rugs were spread across the tile floor, their patterns evoking spirit gods and their colors of white, gray, black and brown reminiscent of the landscape.
“I keep a fire going even in summer,” Brock said as he pointed to the colossal fireplace that was an unusual combination of stone and sculpted adobe. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“No,” Mara whispered.
Brock recalled the furniture he had removed from Mara’s apartment and taken straight to the thrift store—snagged plaid sofas, garage-sale lamps, cheap curtains. Todd had been a great friend, a superb athlete and a trusted confidante. Brock had supported his decision to major in history and to start an architectural restoration company. But it hadn’t provided much more than the basics for Todd and his young wife.
To Mara,
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