Then I set about making the batter so it could rest for a bit. After that, I toasted an English muffin for Tempie and sent Chassie up with that and a tray of accoutrement for the pancakes. While she was gone, I got the oven warming and the bacon frying. When she got back, I gave her a set of tongs and instructions and set up the griddle to heat.
It was then I realized this was the first time I’d spent any with Chassie alone, and knowing what I now knew, I was at a loss for anything to say.
Though, glancing at her, she seemed content with silence.
I rarely was, so I asked, “Did you have fun in London?”
“That restaurant Battie took us to for dinner was really good,” she said. “And I haven’t seen Mrs. Pattinson for a while. It was nice to see her.”
She said this.
She didn’t whisper-say it.
That was what tweaked me about her earlier.
She still had a quiet voice, but her words no longer practically disappeared the minute they left her lips.
“Well, I had a blast,’ I replied. “François was hysterical.”
As she nudged bacon, she gave me a shy smile. “He was pretty funny.”
“I loved how he was with Prue,” I remarked.
“He’s got a crazy-big crush on her,” she replied with a teeny smile on her mouth.
He didn’t, since I highly suspected he was gay.
I wasn’t falling into a stereotyping. He wasn’t effeminate or anything like that.
It was just that he was so comfortable around women, especially four attractive, interesting women (says me), which would immediately make a straight man go on the prowl with at least one of us.
Though, one could say he did go on the prowl with Prudence.
Hmm.
I poured batter.
She watched.
“I used to cook a little when I was in Bath,” she offered.
I fought hard not to show a response to this throwaway comment that was far from throwaway.
Okay, was it good she was talking about her other life?
I didn’t know.
And it was so hush-hush, I didn’t think to ask.
Then again, I’d spent time with her, and she’d never mentioned it before.
“Just ready-meals and such. Take and bake. Things like that,” she went on. “So not real cooking, like this.”
“My grandmother used to say that every woman should have a month’s worth of meals in her inventory that she can cook without a recipe.” I leaned toward her and said sotto voce, “But she was from a different generation.”
“Do you have a month’s worth of meals in your inventory?” she asked.
“Yes. My lasagna, which I’m thinking of making you all tonight. And spaghetti with meat sauce. Tuna casserole. Tacos.”
