Beryl looked at her. “Why didn’t you say something? I could have helped with something.”
“It’s all right. Ruthie was fussy today. Poor Kyle was up most of the night with her. You had your hands full as it was.”
“You’re right about that,” Beryl said. “I hope she’s not getting colic. She had a hard time settling, the poor lamb. Why are you making brownies for Willa?”
“Just because she asked nicely.” Joyce smiled. She took out all the ingredients. “And she said she’d be happy to do something for me in exchange. Not that I could think of anything. I don’t mind, though. She’s a good girl. She’s going to be a teacher at the local middle school this year.”
“Good for her.” Beryl got the chicken breasts out of the freezer and put her glasses on to read the directions.
“Lay a bit of foil on a baking sheet, then thirty-six minutes at three hundred forty-five degrees,” Joyce said. She made them often enough that she knew the directions by heart. Not every meal needed to be from scratch.
Beryl went to work on them while Joyce mixed up the brownie batter. She tore off a piece of foil. “What do you want in the salad? Actually, are you firm on that? I’m not in the mood for salad either, it seems. I’d rather have peas. Well, peas and mash, but I don’t see any potatoes.”
Joyce shrugged one shoulder. “Fine by me. Peas it is. There’s some frozen, if you want to use those. And I do have potatoes.” She took two smallish ones out of the bin in the pantry. “Hereyou go. These should cook in about the same time as the chicken.”
“Perfect. You mind if I do jacket potatoes, instead?”
“Not a bit.” Joyce went back to the brownies. “When the chicken’s done, I’ll pop these in. I want to run them over to Willa after we eat.”
Beryl gave the potatoes a quick scrub. “Did you use coffee instead of water in the batter?”
Joyce nodded. “I did.”
“A little extra vanilla?”
“That, too.”
“Butter instead of oil? Oil has no flavor, you know.”
Joyce smiled to herself. “I’m about to melt the butter now.”
“Good.” Beryl set the potatoes alongside the chicken breasts, then got the peas from the freezer.
Joyce glanced at her sister. “I haven’t forgotten a single thing you taught me.”
“Just making sure. I want to go with you,” Beryl said. “When you take those over, I mean. I’d love to see the inside of that house. See where Arlington Marsh slept. Can you imagine? Arlington Marsh himself! And you met him. What a life.” She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.
Joyce snorted at her sister’s sudden bout of starry-eyed admiration for the late movie star. “What are you going to do? Ask the girls for a tour? Bit cheeky.”
“Oh.” Beryl frowned. “I suppose it would be. I just thought maybe they’d invite us in, and I’d catch a glimpse.”
“They might, but don’t you want to relax after the day you’ve had? The girls are lovely, but we might be there a while if we go in. I don’t mind, just making sure you know.”
Beryl thought a moment, then smiled. She took a pan from the drawer under the stove. “Might be nice having a little girls night with the younger set.”
“They’re not that much younger,” Joyce said, laughing. “But I’m up for it if you are.”
“We could bring a bottle of wine. If you have a bottle of wine.”
Joyce looked around, trying to remember where she’d put it. “I do, but I’m not sure where I put it. In the cabinet over the fridge, maybe. I don’t drink much. Certainly not alone.”
“Well, I live here now.” Beryl’s brows lifted. “And I like a tipple now and then.”
Amazed by this new information, Joyce stared at her sister. “Do you?”
Beryl pursed her lips as she emptied the bag of peas into the pan along with a knob of butter. She turned the burner on low. “Gets boring living alone. A little drink is nice once in a while. Not too much, mind you.” The oven beeped. She put the chicken and potatoes in. “Never more than a glass. Glass and a half, tops. Maybe two on special occasions.”
Joyce laughed. “Whatever you like.”
