The door on the landing opened and a couple stepped outside. Arms entwined around each other’s waists, they spared little attention for anyone or anything outside of themselves. As if walking on a carpet of delicately scented rose petals, they drifted down the steps, along the pathway, past the gate in the low white picket fence and out to the street. Robin doubted if they even knew she was there. She watched as they turned toward the beach.
“Love’s Splendid Young Dream,” a male voice commented sarcastically from behind her.
Robin spun around to face the man who had come to stand in the doorway. Tall, leanly muscled, in his late thirties, with thick blond hair and rugged features—Robin recognized him instantly as Eric Marshall.
“Are you the cook?” he demanded without ceremony.
“Um…yes.”
A half-smile lightened his expression. “Then come on. Let’s get started.”
Robin had a hard time making herself move. It was one thing to form a plan of action and another thing entirely to begin it.
He waited, holding the door open. Robin started forward. The closer she got, the more she wanted to turn and run. What did she think she was going to accomplish here?
“This way,” he said after she crossed the threshold.
Robin gained a quick impression of nicely furnished rooms on either side of the wide entryway. A polished hardwood floor continued down the long narrow passage to the rear of the house. At its end, the high-ceilinged kitchen retained the flavor of a bygone era. Nicely preserved, it included a great old cooking range, wide marble countertops and an antique oak buffet that took up a large portion of one wall. Modern amenities had not been rejected, though. Another glance revealed a late-model mixer, a microwave oven and a dishwasher. The walls and cabinets had been freshly painted, while a set of French doors opened onto a small backyard garden.
“What’s your name?” he asked, leaning back against the nearest section of counter.
“Robin,” she said. “Robin McGrath.” That wasn’t completely the truth. Robin was a nickname she’d gone by all her life, and McGrath was her mother’s maiden name. If she used her real name, he would know immediately who she was.
“Well, Robin, I’m Eric Marshall—part owner of this establishment, along with being the manager. Now, what I’d like is for you to show me what you can do.”
“Do?” she repeated.
“Eight hungry people are going to show up in exactly one hour, all wanting their dinner. I promised them a good meal.” His eyes, the same pale blue color as his father’s, moved over her as if in assessment of her ability. “You haven’t come under false pretenses, have you? You really can cook?”
“Of course! But I thought—don’t you want to see my references? Or to hear anything about my training?” Not that she was going to tell him the truth along those lines, either. She’d spent most of last night coming up with what she thought was a good cover story. She’d even persuaded one of her friends who owned a trendy café in San Francisco’s Marina District to back up her claim of having worked part-time for him.
“I believe in letting a person’s work speak for itself. You’ll find everything you need in the pantry and the refrigerator, and the freezer’s through there in the utility room.” He motioned toward a door across the room. “All we want is good, plain food served family style. Nothing fancy. Meat, potatoes, a vegetable. Maybe a pie or cake.”
“An hour isn’t very long,” she cautioned him.
“If you can’t do it, say so now.”
“I can do it,” she said, her chin lifting.
A wicked light began a dance in his eyes. “Let’s hope so,” he said before pushing away from the counter and leaving the room.
Robin released a long breath. This wasn’t exactly the way she’d expected the interview to unfold. But his method wasn’t all that unusual. She knew of a chef outside Paris whose test for a person wanting to learn from him was that person’s ability to make a basic béchamel sauce. If the applicant could do it to his exacting standards, he or she was accepted as the great master’s student.
Plain food, he’d said. Meat, potatoes, a vegetable. If that was what he wanted, that was exactly what she would give him. It would be good, and it would be on time.
She checked her watch and set about looking for ingredients.
NO ONE DISTURBED HER during the hour. She heard people moving about inside the inn, going up and down the stairs, opening and closing doors, raising their voices in greeting and in good-natured disagreement. Several times someone laughed. But no one came into the room, not even to check if she was still there.
Finally, as she adjusted the delicate seasoning of a dill cheese sauce, a young woman appeared as if from nowhere. It was easy to see that she was another Marshall. She shared the same long athletic body type, the same pale blue eyes, the same proud straight nose, well-defined cheekbones and square jaw. On her, though, the look was softer. Thick blond hair fell halfway to her waist, bouncing in a riot of soft unruly curls. A handful of hair had been swept away from her face and caught in a clip at the back of her head.
She grinned when she saw Robin’s startled look. “Oops! I forgot. You don’t know about the kitchen’s back stairs. They’re servant stairs, actually, from when this house was a private residence. It usually scares people to death the first time it happens. They think you’re a ghost or something!”
“Well, it was a bit of a surprise,” Robin admitted, turning back to her sauce. She felt, rather than saw, the young woman come across the room.
“I’m supposed to see if the meal is ready,” she explained. “Eric is busy. He’s on the phone.” She lifted the lid on steaming broccoli and peeked into the oven at the browning roast. “Mmm,” she approved. “It certainly smells good. Would you like me to set the table?”
“Would that interfere with the test?”
“Not at all,” she said. “I almost always set the table.” She started to pull dishes from the huge old buffet. “My name is Samantha, by the way. I’m Eric’s sister. He tried to convince me to be the cook for the summer, but I wouldn’t do it. I can turn out a fairly good meal when pressed, and people seem to like it. No one dies or anything. But to do it every day? No, thank you! I’d rather scrub floors.”
Robin conjured a mental picture of the young Samantha. The girl had been five at the time of the accident, which meant she was now twenty-one.
“Cooking every day isn’t that bad,” Robin murmured. “I look upon it as a challenge.”
Samantha pulled a face. “Like other people get off on working in an office from nine to five. No thanks. That’s not for me, either!”
The girl carried the stack of dishes through a swing door into the adjoining room, leaving Robin to dish up the food.
“It’s time to serve the meal, isn’t it?” Robin asked when the girl returned for silverware.
Samantha nodded. “Everyone’s in there except Eric and David.” Her expression dimmed suddenly but quickly cleared again. “I’ll remind Eric to hurry.”
Robin used the next few minutes to lightly dress the meal. She arranged the sprigs of fresh basil she’d found growing in the garden around the roast, placed a square of butter in the center vortexes she’d drawn in twin bowls of mashed potatoes, and ladled a little of the cheese sauce over the two carefully arranged plates of broccoli. Not up to Le Jardin standards but definitely in keeping with her “just plain food” directive.
Samantha burst back into the kitchen, again by way of the rear stairs. “Eric’s on his way. Here, let me help.” Her eyes widened as she took in the dinner display, but she said nothing.
The dining room was filled by a long trestle table set in the center of the room and a half-dozen small tables lining the walls. Pristine white curtains, caught at half length, showcased a row of windows that overlooked the front and side yards. Place settings were laid only at the large table. Near the table’s head, another young woman, again unmistakably a Marshall, gazed at Robin with
undisguised curiosity.
Robin offered a quick smile and hurried back to the kitchen, murmurs of approval from those present already starting to sing in her ears. At the door, she almost collided with her prospective employer.
“Excuse me,” he murmured, his hand shooting out to steady her.
“And me,” Robin returned. She drew away unsettled, but didn’t have time to question her reaction. She had rolls in the oven. If she didn’t hurry they would scorch.
Her fingertips had been desensitized to heat long ago, and she didn’t bother to search for a pair of tongs, not knowing if there even were any. She arranged the rolls on a platter and brought them into the dining room.
She was about to offer them to the diners when the front door closed with a loud bang. The Marshalls at the table stiffened, Eric most noticeably.
Heavy footsteps pounded across the entryway, then started up the stairs. Eric pushed back his chair and stepped into the hall.
“David,” he said curtly. “You’re late. Dinner is already on the table.”
“I’m not hungry,” a younger male voice growled in return.
“You need to eat.”
“I said I don’t want anything!”
“And I say…come to the table!” Cold anger lent Eric’s softly spoken words a sharp edge.
Robin glanced at the two sisters. Their faces reflected their discomfort. The guests, however, were less concerned. The honeymoon pair continued to be aware only of each other, their bodies pressed together from shoulders to hips, as if resentful of the time and attention eating took away from each other. A retirement-aged couple seemed accustomed to what was happening and not unduly bothered by it, and the remaining elderly gentleman appeared more interested in his meal than anything else. Standing beside the elderly man, Robin offered him first choice of rolls.
Just then a teenage boy stomped into the room. His blond hair reached past his shoulders in a tumbled mass of defiance, and his Marshall features were set in anger. He wore torn black jeans, a faded black T-shirt on which a heavy metal rock band’s emblem was barely visible and scruffy black motorcycle boots.
“Sit down and eat,” Eric Marshall ordered gruffly as he accompanied the new arrival into the room.
Aggressive blue eyes flashed resentment, but the young man did as he was told, slumping noisily into the empty chair. He then tossed his head with enough vigor to jingle his single earring, and dug his tightly curled fists into his pockets.
Eric returned to his seat at the head of the table and replaced his napkin. His features were frozen. The sisters looked from him to their youngest brother, silently urging the latter to cooperate.
Robin made her way around the table with the rolls, then slid the still half-filled plate into a vacant space.
“If this tastes as good as it looks…” Eric murmured as she passed beside him on her way back to the kitchen.
“It does!” Samantha cheered, seemingly grateful for anything that might defuse the tension. “The roast melts in your mouth, and this cheese sauce is to die for!”
“It’s delicious,” her sister agreed, and was seconded by the elderly gentleman.
“Are these rolls homemade?” the retirement-aged woman asked.
“Yes, they are,” Robin confirmed.
“I thought so. If this is your new cook, Mr. Marshall, I congratulate you.”
David squirmed in his chair, withdrawing his hands from his pockets only to fold his arms tightly across his chest. He must be close to his eighteenth birthday, Robin realized, but he was acting like a spoiled child.
Eric’s lips tightened, though he gave no other indication that he had noticed David’s failure to start serving himself. His eyes lifted to Robin’s, and for a second she thought she saw a flash of pain.
Safely back in the kitchen, Robin leaned against the counter and closed her eyes. This was harder than she had thought it would be. Meeting them, talking with them… Maybe she should back away. If he offered her the job, she could tell him that she wanted to think about it. Then, at a distance, she could refuse.
The timer rang, a reminder that she needed to start dessert. Normally, she liked to use fresh Bing cherries with this quick little bread pudding, but they seemed to have an over-abundance of apples, so that must mean apples were a favorite in this household. She made toast, which she then broke apart and soaked in a mixture of milk and apple jelly. Then she thinly sliced a half-dozen apples and ground up some almonds. Next, in individual custard cups, she layered the milk-and-jelly-soaked toast, the sliced apples, the almonds, then sprinkled sugar, cinnamon and a scant touch of nutmeg on top. She popped the cups into the oven for long enough to heat the puddings through, and seconds after removal served them to the waiting diners.
“Be careful,” she murmured to each person in turn. “The cup is hot.”
David’s plate remained pristine, his arms still crossed in defiance. But as he watched Robin slide the apple dessert into place in front of the others, he sat up a little straighter. Robin winked at him as she served his cup. She received a startled blink in return.
Hiding a smile, she returned to the kitchen to wait. She busied herself by making more coffee and tea, in case the carafes she’d placed in the dining room became empty.
A short time later Eric joined her. “That,” he said, “was superb. I honestly don’t know how you did it in an hour.”
“It’s a little secret called a microwave oven. I partially cooked the roast before I switched it to the conventional oven. I’m not particularly fond of microwaves, but they do come in handy sometimes.”
“If you still want the job,” he said quietly, “it’s yours.”
She hesitated, remembering what she’d planned to do.
“It’s just until the first of September,” he continued. “Our regular cook is due back then.” He paused. “If it’s the money, I could up it a little.”
“No, no, it’s not that,” she denied quickly, causing him to raise a whimsical eyebrow. “Well,” she amended, “not exactly that.”
“What is it, then?” he demanded.
“I thought… I mean to say… There’s a class at the university that I found out about only this morning—”
A tap sounded on the swing door behind Eric. The sister who had yet to be introduced to Robin peeked into the room. “I thought I heard voices,” she explained as her brother moved out of the way. Her face had a maturity that Samantha’s had yet to acquire. But she was not the thirty-two Robin knew the oldest sister, Allison, to be. So she must be Barbara, the one closest in age to herself. At the time of the accident, she’d been ten to Robin’s twelve.
“I’ve offered her the job,” Eric said, “but she seems to be having second thoughts.”
Barbara looked concerned. “Oh, but— What have you been saying to her?” she demanded of her brother, then turned to confide to Robin. “Believe me, Eric’s bark is much worse than his bite. We practically had to force Bridget to take the summer off. She’s been planning this trip to Ireland for years, but she was afraid we wouldn’t be able to cope without her. Especially Eric. She treats him like a favored son. ‘I’ve saved a nice big piece of pie for you, Eric-my-boy. You’re a fine, strapping lad. Go on, have a second helping!’” Barbara laughed. “It’s a wonder you don’t weigh a thousand pounds!”
Eric grinned at his sister’s teasing. “You sound just like her.”
“So,” Barbara continued, smiling sweetly, “don’t let Eric’s rough exterior put you off. If he growled at you, he didn’t mean it. You’ll absolutely love working here. The weather’s wonderful, loads of peace and quiet, fabulous hiking trails. That’s why people actually pay to stay here.”
Robin felt herself caught up in Barbara’s infectious goodwill. But before she could say anything, Eric murmured, “If it’s David’s behavior that upset you, I can’t promise it will change. We have to be up-front about that. He’s defiant and surly, just like any number of other kids his age, but generally he restri
cts his belligerence to me. I’m the only father figure he has.”
Robin looked away. The reason Eric was the only father figure David had was because of her. If she had gone to the beach any other day… If she had noticed the huge wave’s approach in time…
“He ate the dessert she made,” Barbara put in.
“That’s right,” Eric agreed, “he did. Every bite.”
Both of them waited. The ball was in Robin’s court. Her gaze moved from one to the other, lingering longer on Eric. He returned her look levelly. Not only had the passage of years increased his resemblance to the man she remembered so well, but she sensed he possessed the same inner strength. He, too, would do whatever it took to deal with a situation. He had done it in the past and would do it again.
She started to speak but was forced to clear her throat. “All right,” she agreed. “I’ll do it.” And she felt as if the weight of the world had suddenly descended upon her shoulders. Had she done the right thing? She wanted instantly to take the words back, but she couldn’t.
“That’s wonderful!” Barbara cried. She hugged Eric, then Robin, before running off to tell Samantha. The pair in the kitchen could hear her excited voice in the next room.
Robin moved uneasily, reaching out to switch off the coffeemaker. She felt Eric’s eyes follow her.
“It really won’t be so bad,” he said. “We offer a continental breakfast, packed lunches if anyone requests them, then dinner. Your Mondays are free, and if anything else comes up, just tell us far enough in advance so we can make the proper arrangements. Bridget is due to return the end of August, and knowing her, she’ll want to be back at the helm right away.”
“That will be perfect for me, too. Are you sure you don’t want my references? Most people—”
“I’m usually a fairly good judge of character. Between that and the meal you prepared, I don’t have any questions left to ask.”
Room at Heron's Inn Page 2
