Their Mistletoe Matchmakers. Keli Gwyn

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СКАЧАТЬ concern. He would see that they wrote to her once she returned to Philadelphia. In the meantime, he had to do something to make her feel more welcome. “Gladys shared your menu with me, but is there anything special you’d like me to make?”

      His request earned him a hint of a smile. “Since you ask, did the woman who gave you lessons teach you how to make lemon meringue pie?”

      “Of course.” Mrs. Goodfellow had been known for that particular pie. “I’ll whip one up right away.”

      Lavinia stood, mug in hand, and he shot to his feet. “I’ll go see how the children are doing.” She crossed the room, paused in the doorway and turned to face him, wearing a warm smile. “Thank you, Henry.”

      “My pleasure.” He liked seeing her happy. She would only be here a few weeks, but perhaps he could add a little joy to her life—before she faced the future and the difficult parting that was to come.

      * * *

      A tempting assortment of savory scents filled the air the following afternoon. The dining room table, although much smaller than the one at which Lavinia had eaten her Thanksgiving dinners back home, was groaning under the weight of the dishes already on it as Henry carried in yet another.

      Clad in a black cutaway coat, white shirt and white silk cravat, he looked as fine as any waiter in her father’s restaurants. He’d even draped a white linen cloth over his arm. The children, their eyes as big as their dinner plates, delighted in his performance.

      She had to admit he’d impressed her, too, both with his cooking and his appearance. More than once, she’d caught herself staring at him, which wouldn’t do. He might be an incredibly handsome man, as well as a talented one, but he was also the man intent upon exerting his rights as the children’s guardian.

      He found a spot to squeeze in the gravy boat, surveyed the spread and nodded at her. “All’s ready for your dining pleasure, milady.”

      Dot tugged on Lavinia’s sleeve. “Why did Uncle Henry call you that?”

      Alex answered before Lavinia could. “It’s what a waiter in a fancy restaurant calls a fine lady.”

      “How do you know?” Marcie asked. “You’ve never been to a place like that.”

      “My friend Frankie went to San Francisco, and he told me.”

      “Frankie fibbed. He’s never been there. His sister told me so.” Marcie gave her head a toss and stuck her pert little nose in the air.

      Gladys put a finger to her lips and frowned. “Shh. Children in fancy restaurants don’t squabble.”

      Henry removed the cloth from his arm and took his place at the head of the table.

      Lavinia waited until the children were quiet to speak. “Your uncle put a lot of work into this meal. What do you say to him?”

      The children chorused their thanks.

      She sent Henry a smile. “I’ll add my thanks to theirs. Everything looks and smells great. Would you like to say grace?”

      “I’d be happy to.” As soon as all heads were bowed, he began. “Thank You, Lord, for this meal we’re about to enjoy and the special people around this table. We think of two loved ones who are no longer with us, and we thank You that they were in our lives for as long as they were. Be with us in the year ahead, guiding us in the paths You would have us take. In Your name, I ask these things. Amen.”

      Silence followed, broken by sniffles from the girls. Even Alex swiped at his eyes. Lavinia struggled to breathe, which was not an easy task given the ache lodged in her chest. Unable to speak, she grabbed the nearest bowl, scooped some mashed potatoes and helped Dot do the same.

      Henry picked up the serving fork and carving knife. “Who wants a drumstick?” His well-timed question dispelled the fog of grief that had descended. Excited chatter soon filled the room.

      They lingered over the meal, enjoying the delectable dishes. Lavinia sampled each one. Although everything tasted good, she agreed with Marcie. Stuffing was her favorite, and Henry’s was the best she’d ever had. His cooking was on par with that of the chefs her father hired for his restaurants.

      To Lavinia’s surprise, Gladys was the last one done. She dabbed at her mouth and laid her napkin on the table. “You outdid yourself, Mr. Henry. Everything was delicious.”

      He smiled. “I’m glad you liked it. I noticed you tucked in a fair amount.”

      “I reckon that’s because food tastes better when someone else fixes it.”

      He acknowledged Gladys’s compliment with a wink. “Is anyone ready for dessert?”

      Alex shook his head. “I’m too full.”

      “Me, too.” Dot patted her stomach, producing three resounding thumps as evidence.

      “I can squeeze in one more bite of stuffing.” Marcie forked a bite, ate it and licked the tines.

      Lavinia overlooked the informality. It’s what the children were used to. There would be time enough to teach them proper etiquette when she got them back home. “I suggest we wait awhile. It’s a clear day. Perhaps the children would like to play outside, provided they put on their coats first.”

      They voiced their approval of the plan and darted out of the dining room.

      Gladys hopped up and began clearing the table, prompting Henry to stand as well. The children raced through the room and headed for the back door, with Marcie in the lead.

      Lavinia rose and reached for Dot’s plate.

      “You don’t need to do that, Miss Lavinia. I’m feeling a bit better this afternoon, and I want to help. It’s the least I can do after Mr. Henry did all the cooking. You two go on out and enjoy watching the children romp around.”

      Lavinia wasn’t eager to spend time with Henry after their talk the day before. Following the startling revelation that he was an accomplished cook, she’d left the kitchen to collect her thoughts. Before she could, he’d shown up in the parlor bearing the prettiest mug of hot cocoa she’d ever seen with artfully carved chocolate curls on top of creamy white whipped cream. If she wasn’t mistaken, he’d even added a pinch of cinnamon to the steaming beverage.

      She still couldn’t believe that he was trained by a student of Mrs. Elizabeth Goodfellow, the renowned cooking instructor who’d run the most highly regarded cooking school in the country, conveniently located in Philadelphia.

      And she, Miss Lavinia Hélène Crowne, daughter of a highly successful hotelier, couldn’t even fry an egg. If only she’d been allowed to learn some basic cooking skills, as many of her friends had, she would be able to provide meals for the children. Henry could do so, but she had to rely on Gladys.

      Henry was quick to thank Gladys for her offer of help. “I put the block of ice in a pan at the base of the pie safe and covered the door with some towels, so you can store the leftovers there.”

      Gladys sent him one of her rare smiles. “You made us an icebox? How clever.”

      He laughed. “You haven’t seen it yet. СКАЧАТЬ