Chapter Three #3
As the lamb defrosted in the microwave, he gathered the rest of the ingredients together, and with the potatoes, onion, and carrots on the chopping board, he got to work, peeling and slicing, frying and boiling.
Soon the kitchen was filled with the comforting aroma of frying onions, lamb, and rich gravy to accompany the smooth sound of jazz.
It had been a while since he’d bothered to cook a proper meal, and Bart found he was quite enjoying the familiar rhythm of preparing food, especially since someone else would be there to appreciate it.
But as he worked, he couldn’t help wishing Penny was in the kitchen with him and that the meal he was cooking was for her.
He wondered what his wife would have thought of his impromptu offer. Penny used to have a rule that they didn’t fraternise with the guests, and he’d broken it within half an hour of Eloise’s arrival.
He should have made an excuse and left her to eat her cake and drink her tea on her own, but he hadn’t wanted to be rude.
She’d seemed lonely and had perked up considerably when he’d mentioned the other guests who were booked in.
His advert had netted him a chap by the name of Mitch Hastings, who’d sounded quite young (by “young” he meant around the same age as Ross), and an older-sounding woman called Evonne Pike.
Hopefully they’d all get along, although it wouldn’t much matter if they didn’t.
It was rare for guests to mingle with each other, as they tended to go their separate ways, only meeting in the breakfast area in the mornings. And sometimes not even then.
“Am I doing the right thing in opening the guest house, Penny?” he murmured out loud, then blew out his cheeks.
He could answer that question himself—he was doing the only thing he could think of to keep this particular roof over his head.
If Eloise was finding it difficult to get a job with her experience, what hope would he have?
Eloise…She was a strange one, he thought.
Not in a weird way, but in a puzzling way.
What was a woman like her doing on her own at this time of year?
Didn’t she have any family? Even if she didn’t like Christmas (and not everyone did, he acknowledged), most people he knew made some kind of an effort—but she was actively trying to avoid it.
What was the story there? he asked himself.
It was none of his business, of course, but he’d nevertheless like to know. Penny used to call him nosy, but he’d simply been interested in people and had enjoyed talking to them.
He’d lost that curiosity when his and Penny’s world had closed in and narrowed to become a succession of hospital appointments and treatments. His focus had been on her and no one else.
Bart didn’t quite know what to make of this resurgence of curiosity, but it was a good thing, right?
If nothing else, it would make him a better host. Most people appreciated him taking an interest; although there was always the odd one or two who wanted to be left alone, and he’d respected that.
From the little Eloise had told him about herself, he concluded she might be one of the former.
At six-thirty on the dot, Bart was ready to plate up, and when he popped his head into the guest lounge, he was pleased to see she’d taken a seat at the table he’d laid for her.
She looked less tense than when she’d arrived, and he concluded the brief rest had done her good.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked. “I’m sorry, I only have lemonade or cordial. I don’t keep any alcohol in the house.” After Penny had died, he’d drunk what was there, and fearing it might be too easy to use it as a crutch for his grief, he’d not bought any more.
“Lemonade will be lovely, thank you.”
“Coming right up. Would you like me to turn the TV on?”
“Not really, but would you turn the music up?”
“You like jazz?”
“I like this jazz.”
Bart chuckled. “Some of it can be an acquired taste,” he admitted.
“Can I infer that you listen to jazz a lot?”
“I do, but don’t worry, I won’t make you listen to it—and I promise not to play my sax when you’re in the house.”
“You play the saxophone?”
“Yes, but not well, I’m afraid. I learnt to play at school, and I was in a jazz band when I was in my late teens and early twenties.
Not professional or anything like that, but it was fun.
” He smiled softly, remembering. “I used to think I was so cool—until Penny informed me I most definitely wasn’t. ”
“Penny?”
“My wife. She died last year.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, well…” Bart trailed off with a sad purse of his lips, before saying, “I’ll get you your lemonade. The shepherd’s pie will only be a minute.”
He was back in a trice, the plate warm in his hand. Placing it on the table in front of her, he said, “Enjoy.”
For the briefest of seconds, he wondered whether she’d ask him to join her. But she didn’t, and he couldn’t decide whether he was disappointed or relieved.
Leaving Eloise to eat her meal in peace, he ate his at the table in the kitchen, and by the time he’d polished off a small portion of sticky toffee pudding and returned to the dining room to clear away her dessert bowl, she had left the room, and that was the last he saw of her all evening.
Which suited him just fine. Fraternising with guests was never a good idea.