Chapter Twenty-Five
A s soon as Vickie exited the room, Thatcher glanced around at his surroundings. The room was painted a warm yellow with ornate white crown molding. The navy couch and matching recliner held yellow throw pillows that exactly matched the wall color. He glanced up at the artwork hanging over the couch. He wasn’t an art expert, but he was pretty sure it was a reproduction of a Van Gogh that showed an outdoor café. Her living room was simple but tasteful.
Two large white bookshelves sat on either side of the TV. The shelves were full of books, mostly classics, but he also spotted several Dean Koontz and Mary Higgins Clark titles. Vickie hadn’t struck him as a suspense reader, but the more he got to know her, the more he realized she might be full of surprises.
A series of framed photos caught his eye and he rose from his spot on the couch to get a better view. In the first one, Vickie and two other girls, one redheaded and the other blonde, stood smiling in front of a cannon. All three wore park ranger uniforms. He guessed it was her stint as a ranger at Shiloh when she was in college. Except for her hairstyle, she’d hardly changed over the years.
The next one was more recent. Vickie and an elderly woman were perched on a porch swing. Vickie’s head was thrown back in laughter and the older woman grinned mischievously at the camera. Thatcher couldn’t help but wonder what she’d said to make reserved Vickie laugh like that.
The third and final photo was of a couple dressed in formal attire. Her parents? He peered closely. Even though Vickie didn’t bear much resemblance to the woman with the upswept blonde hair and icy blue eyes, he could see that they shared the same petite stature.
“Are you hungry?”
Her voice startled him, and he jumped, embarrassed to have been caught looking at her photos. “Sorry. I was just looking at your bookshelf.”
She grinned. “It’s fine. Look all you want.” She walked over to where he stood and pointed at the middle photo. “That’s my gram. If you like the food today, you’ll have her to thank. She taught me everything I know about cooking.” She paused and pointed at the blonde woman in the next photo. “And if you don’t like it, you can blame my mom. She thinks cooking is something you should hire someone to do.”
He laughed. “I’m sure it will be delicious.”
She cocked her head toward the other room. “Come on, then.”
Thatcher followed her through an arched entryway and into the next room. The walls in the combination dining room and kitchen were painted a deep red. He took a seat at the rectangular cherry dining table. A bowl of some kind of salad and a platter of croissants was in the center of the table. “Wow, placemats and everything.” He met her eyes. “I guess I’m more of a TV tray kind of guy,” he said sheepishly.
Vickie flashed him a smile. “I don’t blame you. I have dinner in front of the TV way too much.” She gestured at the table. “But I loved the finish on this table and even though it’s larger than I need, I couldn’t resist buying it. So I jump at any chance I have to use it.” She stepped around the kitchen counter and picked up two red plates. “I hope you like chicken salad,” she said, holding the plates up. She sat the plates down on the table. “Is tea okay? It’s sweet though, in case that makes a difference to you. I also have bottled water.”
“Sweet tea sounds great.” He watched as she poured two glasses and brought them to the table. She put his glass in front of him and took her seat. “Dig in,” she said, passing him the bowl of chicken salad. “There are croissants, but if you don’t like them, I have some plain wheat bread."
“Croissants are fine. Makes me feel like I’m back in France.” He couldn’t help it. He wanted her to think he was cosmopolitan. He may not be as well-traveled as some, but he’d at least crossed the water once.
“Ah, mais oui.” She grinned as she plucked a croissant from the platter. “So you’ve traveled to France?”
He nodded as he heaped chicken salad onto his croissant. “Only once. It was during graduate school. I went to Normandy to see the D-Day Beaches.”
“Aren’t they incredible?” Her green eyes widened. “And the American cemetery there is such a moving sight. I really think the only thing that I’ve ever seen that comes close is Arlington.”
He passed her the chicken salad. “I wish every American could visit Normandy.” He shook his head. “As the Greatest Generation dies off, I’m worried that we as a people will forget about the sacrifices that were made.”
Vickie nodded. “I know what you mean.” She daintily scooped some chicken salad onto her croissant and set the bowl back in the center of the table.
“Would you like for me to offer thanks?”
“Please do.” She bowed her head.
He said a quick blessing, thanking God for the food and the hands that prepared it. He hoped Vickie wouldn’t notice that his voice shook a little. Even as a small boy participating in Vacation Bible School, praying out loud had always made him feel self-conscious.
“This is delicious,” he said after his first bite.
“I’ll thank Gram for you the next time I see her.”
He grinned. “The recipe might’ve come from Gram, but I think you’re underestimating your culinary talent.”
She looked pleased. “I’ve had my fair share of disasters, but I enjoy cooking.”
They ate in silence for a minute.
“So let’s discuss your fee,” he said finally. “What are your thoughts?”
Vickie looked at him and narrowed her green eyes. “I haven’t thought much about it.”
Thatcher gave her a tiny smile. “I guess I don’t have to tell you that I’m not exactly a millionaire. But I do want to make sure to pay you fairly for the time you put into the project.”
“At this point, it’s kind of hard for me to say. Since we really don’t know how much time we’ll spend working and all. Would it be weird to gauge how many hours I work and then decide?”
He thought for a moment. “Okay,” he said finally. “As long as we have the fee determined soon, I’m okay with doing that.” With one last bite, Thatcher finished his lunch. “Tell you what, I’m going to go ahead and bring the books I checked out in here.” He motioned toward the kitchen counter. “I’ll just set them out and that way we can get started as soon as the table is clear.” He slid his chair back from the table and went to collect the books. This was feeling far too much like a social call. It was time to get to work.