Browning had last done his laundry.
"I do my own washing," he replied, a hint of pain in his eyes.
She guessed he must be telling the truth, since he smelled fresh enough. Even so, she suspected the upstairs had to be languishing, not getting a thorough cleaning. "Just want to help out," she said, going back to sit at the kitchen table to write the next week's grocery list.
"Well, if you want to do something more, you can bake me a chocolate cake," he suggested, his tone more friendly. "Would you mind?"
"I know the best German chocolate cake recipe."
"I should've asked when you first came in." He seemed embarrassed.
"That's all right." She brightened and went to the pantry again, closing the narrow door after her in order to get to the shelving behind it, where the flour and sugar were kept.
She was startled by a rustling sound overhead as she reached for the flour. Looking up, she eyed the ceiling. "Hmm," she whispered, "maybe Mr. Browning has mice instead of frogs."
She carried the dry ingredients to the counter and set them down. Reaching for a clean measuring cup from the cupboard directly above her head, she couldn't remember having seen a single mousetrap anywhere along the kitchen floorboards. Didn't Mr. Browning know it was important to have several set in a drafty old farmhouse? Especially one situated on the very edge of a cornfield.
Glimpsing the man, she saw that his rounded chin had come to rest on his chest, and for a fleeting moment she pictured how his face might appear with a full beard like her father's.
She couldn't very well ask him about mousetraps at the moment. Sighing, she wrote on the grocery list for next week: 3 mousetraps. He could read it when he woke up.
Quickly, Rose mixed together the ingredients for the cake, wondering if today was the lonely man's birthday. Or, if not that, then a "special memory day," as Hen's best friend, Arie Miller, now Zook, used to say, back before she and Hen parted ways.
Whatever the cake represented to him, she hoped Mr. Browning wouldn't have to celebrate alone. For the life of her, she wished he'd wake up before she left the house in another hour or so, since now she had to stay to bake and frost the cake.
Once she'd put the cake in the oven, she set the timer and made the frosting. Then she wandered to the window and pinched off the dead heads on the African violets she'd brought over, and tested the soil for dampness.
She walked down the hallway on the south side of the sitting room that led to the back door and looked out past the woodshed, wondering if she'd have time to stop in and see Donna today, after all.
Standing in the doorway, she noticed the latch was locked. She took in the sweep of the large backyard, where a single rope swing hung from a gnarled old tree. Why had Mr. Browning chosen to rent such a large house? Was he accustomed to this much space in Illinois, when his wife was still living?
The rich chocolate aroma began to fill the house, beckoning Rose to return to the kitchen. She pulled out a chair and sat at the table, leaning her elbows there. Looking around, she was aware of not a single picture of Mrs. Browning anywhere - not even in the sitting room, which, truth be told, she'd peered into twice since working there. It wasn't that she was looking for anything in particular, but she had noticed the lack of photographs, especially of such a well-loved deceased spouse. The English folk she knew - her sister, Hen, included - had oodles of framed photographs sitting on tables and desks, and mounted on walls, too.
There was an interesting framed jigsaw puzzle on Gilbert Browning's wall, however. A majestic snowcapped mountain named Longs Peak near Denver, Colorado - a "fourteener" Gilbert and his late wife had climbed once. "We loved a good physical challenge, the wife and I," he'd said proudly on Rose's first day of work. "Wasn't the only mountain over fourteen thousand feet we conquered together. But it was our very
"I do my own washing," he replied, a hint of pain in his eyes.
She guessed he must be telling the truth, since he smelled fresh enough. Even so, she suspected the upstairs had to be languishing, not getting a thorough cleaning. "Just want to help out," she said, going back to sit at the kitchen table to write the next week's grocery list.
"Well, if you want to do something more, you can bake me a chocolate cake," he suggested, his tone more friendly. "Would you mind?"
"I know the best German chocolate cake recipe."
"I should've asked when you first came in." He seemed embarrassed.
"That's all right." She brightened and went to the pantry again, closing the narrow door after her in order to get to the shelving behind it, where the flour and sugar were kept.
She was startled by a rustling sound overhead as she reached for the flour. Looking up, she eyed the ceiling. "Hmm," she whispered, "maybe Mr. Browning has mice instead of frogs."
She carried the dry ingredients to the counter and set them down. Reaching for a clean measuring cup from the cupboard directly above her head, she couldn't remember having seen a single mousetrap anywhere along the kitchen floorboards. Didn't Mr. Browning know it was important to have several set in a drafty old farmhouse? Especially one situated on the very edge of a cornfield.
Glimpsing the man, she saw that his rounded chin had come to rest on his chest, and for a fleeting moment she pictured how his face might appear with a full beard like her father's.
She couldn't very well ask him about mousetraps at the moment. Sighing, she wrote on the grocery list for next week: 3 mousetraps. He could read it when he woke up.
Quickly, Rose mixed together the ingredients for the cake, wondering if today was the lonely man's birthday. Or, if not that, then a "special memory day," as Hen's best friend, Arie Miller, now Zook, used to say, back before she and Hen parted ways.
Whatever the cake represented to him, she hoped Mr. Browning wouldn't have to celebrate alone. For the life of her, she wished he'd wake up before she left the house in another hour or so, since now she had to stay to bake and frost the cake.
Once she'd put the cake in the oven, she set the timer and made the frosting. Then she wandered to the window and pinched off the dead heads on the African violets she'd brought over, and tested the soil for dampness.
She walked down the hallway on the south side of the sitting room that led to the back door and looked out past the woodshed, wondering if she'd have time to stop in and see Donna today, after all.
Standing in the doorway, she noticed the latch was locked. She took in the sweep of the large backyard, where a single rope swing hung from a gnarled old tree. Why had Mr. Browning chosen to rent such a large house? Was he accustomed to this much space in Illinois, when his wife was still living?
The rich chocolate aroma began to fill the house, beckoning Rose to return to the kitchen. She pulled out a chair and sat at the table, leaning her elbows there. Looking around, she was aware of not a single picture of Mrs. Browning anywhere - not even in the sitting room, which, truth be told, she'd peered into twice since working there. It wasn't that she was looking for anything in particular, but she had noticed the lack of photographs, especially of such a well-loved deceased spouse. The English folk she knew - her sister, Hen, included - had oodles of framed photographs sitting on tables and desks, and mounted on walls, too.
There was an interesting framed jigsaw puzzle on Gilbert Browning's wall, however. A majestic snowcapped mountain named Longs Peak near Denver, Colorado - a "fourteener" Gilbert and his late wife had climbed once. "We loved a good physical challenge, the wife and I," he'd said proudly on Rose's first day of work. "Wasn't the only mountain over fourteen thousand feet we conquered together. But it was our very
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