“For someone who claims to respect privacy, you’re pretty nosy.”
Chapter12
Bess
“Feelfree to test your experiments on us any time you like.”
Arno hums as he licks the sugar off his fingers.
Doug looks after the guests and the rooms, but Arno is the chef.This morning when he served me a simple but delicious breakfast, he noticed my notepad with ideas for new menu items and offered me the use of the kitchen and its pantry.
I wasn’t able to take him up on it until I tackled another list in my notebook; the index of dreaded phone calls I compiled last night when I, once again, couldn’t sleep.I thought I’d be busy with those all day, but I was lucky and it went pretty fast once I got to it.
With my checklist complete, it didn’t take long for my mind to start spinning.I ended up downstairs in Arno’s well-equipped kitchen to give my hands something to do.
An inventory of his staples led me to the pumpkin-spiced cruller donuts he and Doug have been snacking on.It’s not really the right time of year for pumpkin, but I found a leftover can in the pantry, and was trying to come up with some seasonal pastries.
Earlier, I tried out a spring strawberry and rhubarb crumble muffin, and for summer I came up with a lavender peach custard tart with a shortbread crust.Both of those also received high praise from the couple.
“I appreciate it.It certainly helped me from climbing the walls today,” I admit with a self-deprecating smile.“By all means, feed those leftovers to the guests,” I suggest, indicating the remaining pastries.
I’d made a dozen of each, so there was plenty left over.
“I’ll set them out with afternoon tea at four,” Doug offers.
It’s one of the charming features The Carriage House offers that seems terribly out of place in the Columbia Mountains but works.It makes perfect sense when you meet Doug McShire, who is a Scot by birth, was raised in the English Cotswolds, fell in love with a Dutchman, and built a life in eastern Washington.
I love how they were able to stay connected to their heritage, while fully embracing and engaging in life in Silence.Their individual and joint histories can be found all over the large and ornate farmhouse.
As I go up the oak stairway to my room, I let my eyes drift over a collection of pictures and art pieces covering the wall; a patchwork of cultures creating a meaningful gallery.
I would love to feel some connection to the Korean part of my ancestry, but it wasn’t something my mother valued or even tolerated.She despised the heavy accent she never seemed able to shed, and claimed to have nothing but bad memories of her life before she emigrated here.
The other half of my genetic pool is a bit of a mystery, although my mother tells me my father was Caucasian.That’s all I know.I have no idea of his heritage.I’ve thought about trying one of those DNA test kits that can give you an idea of your ancestral origins.As intriguing as it seems, I’m not so sure I want to find out more about any possible family.The one I had—have—is taxing enough.
This community has more than made up for my lack of family though.Nobody seems to care where or who I came from; I’m accepted here for who I am.But there are still those rare times—mostly when I’m alone—when I miss that sense of belonging only family can bring.A grounding connection from the past to the future.
Instead, I have a half brother, who appears to pose a real threat to the modest life and legacy I’ve built here in Silence.The more I think about what I stand to lose, the darker my sense of doom returns.
Shaking my head, I try and stop the endless string of thoughts that seems to start up when my hands still, and inevitably sucks the air from the room, leaving me to feel like I’m drowning.
I turn the TV on in hopes it’ll dull the noise in my head, and flip through channels to find something that can hold my attention.I’ve just landed on a home improvement show that looks interesting when someone knocks on my door.
I don’t hesitate opening it, expecting one of the guys, but it’s Hugo standing in the hallway.
God, how I wish I could give in to the urge to throw myself in his arms, grab the few moments of bliss I know I’d find there.But that wouldn’t be fair to him, since I know whatever happens between us has a very limited shelf life.
Not that it wouldn’t be good, because it would.In fact, I have no doubt it would be perfect.I’ve harbored feelings for this man for so many years, it’s hard to remember when it started.
“Is it okay if I come in?”
His somewhat amused question snaps me into the here and now, and I quickly step away from the door I realize I’ve been blocking.He steps inside and pushes the door shut before leaning in for a kiss that tastes bittersweet to me.
“Is everything okay?”I ask, suddenly worried something may have happened to prompt this midafternoon visit.
“Fine,” he responds, taking off his coat and folding his large body into one of the dainty-looking Queen Anne chairs across from the love seat where I was sitting.“But there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
I return to my spot and wrap one of the throw pillows in my arms, bracing for whatever is coming.
