Page 131 of Perfect In Every Way

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.”