Part 5 (1/2)
Well, how about some pork chops or a nice juicy steak? She smiled at herself, knowing she'd never talk up to him that way.
A quick trip to the pantry, and Rose found both brown and white rice on the shelves, along with several kinds of nuts, boxed cereals, and oatmeal. ”Have you ever eaten homemade granola bars?” she asked, making small talk as she emerged. ”I have a delicious recipe.”
”What's in it?” he asked.
”Well, let's see - oats, Rice Krispies, marshmallows, and nuts, too. Oh, and sunflower seeds and coconut.”
”Any peanut b.u.t.ter?” He suddenly looked chipper.
She smiled over her shoulder. ”Yes, peanut b.u.t.ter and some honey, too.”
”Sounds tasty.”
”All right, then. I'll make up a nice batch for ya. You can nibble on them all week.” First, though, she set to work making a large chicken ca.s.serole with brown rice to make it more filling to eat for several days. Next she mixed up the ingredients for the no-bake granola bars before readying his weekly dish of scalloped potatoes.
Once the side dish was in the oven, she cleaned the counters and the double sink. Then she swept and washed the kitchen floor, as well as the hallway that led to the first-floor bathroom.
After she had also scrubbed the bathroom, she returned to the kitchen to wash her hands. Looking over at Mr. Browning, she offered to dust and sweep in the small sitting room adjacent to the kitchen. It was the room behind the doorway where he always sat, like a guard. ”Wouldn't you like more of the house cleaned today?” she asked, holding the broom and dustpan. ”I'd be happy to.”
”No, no ... and besides, the sitting room rarely gets used.” He gave an uncomfortable chuckle.
Rose wasn't one to argue with a man, yet it was apparent the dust stood thick on the lamp table not but a few feet from Mr. Browning's chair. ”Looks like the tables could use a good dusting, at least.”
He stared back at her. ”There's plenty to keep you busy in the kitchen,” he said, a gruff edge to his words.
Backing away, she didn't understand why he expected her to clean only the kitchen and one small bath. ”What about your bedding and linens? Don't you want them washed?” At home, every Monday morning without fail, she and her grandmother stripped the beds to wash up all the sheets and towels, and every st.i.tch of clothing from the week, then hung them out to dry on the clothesline. She had no idea when Mr. Browning had last done his laundry.
”I do my own was.h.i.+ng,” he replied, a hint of pain in his eyes.
She guessed he must be telling the truth, since he smelled fresh enough. Even so, she suspected the upstairs had to be languis.h.i.+ng, not getting a thorough cleaning. ”Just want to help out,” she said, going back to sit at the kitchen table to write the next week's grocery list.
”Well, if you want to do something more, you can bake me a chocolate cake,” he suggested, his tone more friendly. ”Would you mind?”
”I know the best German chocolate cake recipe.”
”I should've asked when you first came in.” He seemed embarra.s.sed.
”That's all right.” She brightened and went to the pantry again, closing the narrow door after her in order to get to the shelving behind it, where the flour and sugar were kept.
She was startled by a rustling sound overhead as she reached for the flour. Looking up, she eyed the ceiling. ”Hmm,” she whispered, ”maybe Mr. Browning has mice instead of frogs.”
She carried the dry ingredients to the counter and set them down. Reaching for a clean measuring cup from the cupboard directly above her head, she couldn't remember having seen a single mousetrap anywhere along the kitchen floorboards. Didn't Mr. Browning know it was important to have several set in a drafty old farmhouse? Especially one situated on the very edge of a cornfield.
Glimpsing the man, she saw that his rounded chin had come to rest on his chest, and for a fleeting moment she pictured how his face might appear with a full beard like her father's.
She couldn't very well ask him about mousetraps at the moment. Sighing, she wrote on the grocery list for next week: 3 mousetraps. He could read it when he woke up.
Quickly, Rose mixed together the ingredients for the cake, wondering if today was the lonely man's birthday. Or, if not that, then a ”special memory day,” as Hen's best friend, Arie Miller, now Zook, used to say, back before she and Hen parted ways.
Whatever the cake represented to him, she hoped Mr. Browning wouldn't have to celebrate alone. For the life of her, she wished he'd wake up before she left the house in another hour or so, since now she had to stay to bake and frost the cake.
Once she'd put the cake in the oven, she set the timer and made the frosting. Then she wandered to the window and pinched off the dead heads on the African violets she'd brought over, and tested the soil for dampness.
She walked down the hallway on the south side of the sitting room that led to the back door and looked out past the woodshed, wondering if she'd have time to stop in and see Donna today, after all.
Standing in the doorway, she noticed the latch was locked. She took in the sweep of the large backyard, where a single rope swing hung from a gnarled old tree. Why had Mr. Browning chosen to rent such a large house? Was he accustomed to this much s.p.a.ce in Illinois, when his wife was still living?
The rich chocolate aroma began to fill the house, beckoning Rose to return to the kitchen. She pulled out a chair and sat at the table, leaning her elbows there. Looking around, she was aware of not a single picture of Mrs. Browning anywhere - not even in the sitting room, which, truth be told, she'd peered into twice since working there. It wasn't that she was looking for anything in particular, but she had noticed the lack of photographs, especially of such a well-loved deceased spouse. The English folk she knew - her sister, Hen, included - had oodles of framed photographs sitting on tables and desks, and mounted on walls, too.
There was an interesting framed jigsaw puzzle on Gilbert Browning's wall, however. A majestic snowcapped mountain named Longs Peak near Denver, Colorado - a ”fourteener” Gilbert and his late wife had climbed once. ”We loved a good physical challenge, the wife and I,” he'd said proudly on Rose's first day of work. ”Wasn't the only mountain over fourteen thousand feet we conquered together. But it was our very first.”
He'd explained that, all in all, they'd hiked fifteen mountains in the ”fourteener” category before his fortieth birthday. ”We were young then,” he'd said. ”We called ourselves 'weekend warriors.' We would have hiked a mountain every weekend, if the Good Lord had allowed it.”
She'd gotten the distinct feeling that something had altered their pa.s.sion for hiking mountains around the time Gilbert Browning had turned forty, though he hadn't said just what.
Later, after the cake had cooled enough to frost it, Rose bid Mr. Browning good-bye and let herself out, feeling rather sad the man would be alone with his memories for yet another week.
The sun was high overhead when Rose hurried down the steps and made her way across the side yard to the waiting horse. The mail carrier was coming up the road, stopping at the house two doors away.
Going to Alfalfa, she gently tapped her fingers on the mare's muzzle, caressing her. ”I'll get you some water over yonder,” she whispered, leaning closer again. She'd seen a well on the side of Donna Becker's house and a.s.sumed the friendly woman wouldn't mind if Rose gave her horse a drink.
She was looking forward to seeing Donna again, as she'd been invited before to her charming home, which was as snug and well kept as Gilbert's was drafty and untidy. She'd learned recently that Donna was a distant cousin of Arie Miller Zook through marriage. What a small world! The first time Rose had taken tea with Donna, Rose had been surprised to learn of the connection to Hen's former close friend. Hen's best friend, thought Rose as she watered Alfalfa and gave her a sugar cube.
Later, when they were having cookies with some raspberry tea with honey, near the kitchen window, Donna again brought up the relations.h.i.+p she shared with Arie, Rachel Glick's cousin. ”Rachel has a job opening at her little fabric shop. She's been interviewing potential employees all week.”
”Oh?” Right away, Rose thought of Hen. She hoped Donna might fill in the blanks, since Hen hadn't given her much to go on other than that she'd applied for the job.
”Can you keep a secret?” Donna said, eyes twinkling.
”I'm ever so gut at that.” Rose smiled.
”Well, my cousin told me she's very excited about your sister, Hen. What a cute nickname!”
Rose nodded her head, explaining how her older sister had gone from Hannah to Hen as a youngster. ”It's remarkable that any of us keep our given names, especially if we have younger siblings, ya know,” she said, then sipped her tea.
Donna laughed. ”Whatever her name, Hen made a very good impression on Rachel and the other clerk.”
”I can certainly vouch for Hen's ability as a seamstress. And she knows what fabrics and colors Amish find acceptable.”
Donna smiled. ”Sounds like a good fit.”
Rose laughed at the pun. She was curious how Donna's family had come to have an Amish cousin, but before she could ask, here came Farley, barking for a treat. Donna rose quickly and went to the counter, taking a treat from a cookie jar. ”This one's spoiled ... and not just a little.”
”Hen really wants a puppy.” Rose didn't know why she brought it up.
”I'll bet it's for her daughter, right?” Donna said. ”Every child longs for a pet.”
”I wouldn't be surprised.” Rose thought Donna must know more about her sister than she was letting on. She steered the conversation to the reclusive neighbor. ”How's Mr. Browning's health, do ya know?”
”Mental or otherwise?” Donna glanced out the window toward the older house. ”I don't know what to do to help him. He sits and broods most of the time, at least when I've gone over with a pie or cookies. He must miss his wife, but it can't be good for him to hole up in that house.”