Page 13 of Is Anyone Listening?
"Wonderful," Tessa said. "Do you do all the cooking?"
"I have help," Ellen said, her tone making it clear she wasn't interested in elaborating. "Enjoy your breakfast."
As Ellen moved away, Tessa caught my eye and mouthed, "Warm."
I couldn't help but smile. In that regard, Ellen reminded me of my father. But that wasn't something I was going to think about now.
We got up and filled our plates at the buffet before taking our seats. The older woman gave me a smile as I pulled out my chair.
"Good morning," she said cheerfully. "I'm Dorothy Winters. Did you just arrive?"
"Last night," I said. "I'm Cassidy, and this is Tessa."
"Where are you from?"
"New York."
"What brings you to Stonecross? Or do I need to ask? More and more women are coming for Ellen's wellness classes."
"We're interested in that, too," I said. "But we're also researching old inns for a book we're writing."
"How lovely!" Dorothy's needles never stopped moving. "And you've picked the perfect inn. I've been coming here for years, and it's my favorite spot. My husband passed away two years ago, and since then, this inn has been my second home. I meet so many interesting people." She gestured at the honeymoon couple with her needles. "That young couple looks like they're in their own little world. Blissfully happy. They remind me of me and my husband a very long time ago. And then there's that poor girl." She lowered her voice, tipping her head toward my wispy neighbor. "She reminds me of how I felt after my husband died. Sad and lost. She's been here three days, barely eats, barely speaks. I tried to chat with her yesterday, but she practically ran away from me."
Before I could respond, the kitchen door swung open, and a young woman backed through it, carrying a tray laden with fresh pastries and a pitcher of juice. As she approached the buffet table, her foot caught on the edge of a rug and she stumbled. The tray tilted dangerously, and she overcorrected, sending a glass pitcher of orange juice sliding toward the edge of her tray.
"No, no, no!" she gasped, lunging for it, but she was too late.
The pitcher hit the floor with a spectacular crash, glass shattering everywhere, orange juice spraying across the hardwood in a sunburst pattern that somehow managed to reach our table, the honeymoon couple's table, and splattered across Dorothy's sensible shoes.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" the young woman cried, her face flushing crimson. "I'm so, so sorry!"
Ellen appeared almost instantly, her expression thunderous. "Sophie."
The single word carried enough weight to make Sophie flinch.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Clarke, I just?—"
"Clean it up," Ellen said sharply. "Now."
As Sophie hurried back to the kitchen for cleaning supplies, Ellen turned to us with a tight smile. "I apologize for the disruption. Did the juice splash on you?"
"No, we're fine," Tessa said.
Ellen moved efficiently around the room, checking on the guests, refilling cups, and murmuring apologies, while Sophie came back with a mop and a bucket and cleaned up her mess with downcast eyes and a defeated posture.
When she got close to our table, Tessa leaned in. "Hey, don't worry about it," Tessa said. "Accidents happen. I once dropped an entire tray of champagne glasses at a party I was catering. Sounded like a bomb went off."
Sophie looked up, surprise and gratitude flooding her face. "Thank you. I'm normally not this clumsy. Actually, that's not true. I am clumsy, but I'm worse when I'm here. Mrs. Clarke makes me nervous."
Ellen's sharp voice cut through the room. "Sophie, when you're finished, please help Chef in the kitchen."
"Yes, ma'am." Sophie grabbed the bucket and mop and fled.
"Well," Tessa said quietly, "Sophie might be someone we could get to talk. She's clearly not a big fan of Ellen's."
"Maybe not a fan, but she is intimidated by her."
"It's still worth a try."
