Promises to Keep (28 page)

S
teffi cups her hands around her Lemon Zinger tea and digs her feet deeper into her Uggs as the chickens peck around her, then reaches next to her for the cookbooks stacked on the bench.

This morning she is going to meet Amy Van Peterson, and she needs to impress. They had a great phone conversation yesterday, although Amy could hardly be heard with children shouting in the background, but she managed to convey that they liked simple, fresh food, and she was desperate to wean her children off the chicken nuggets and pizza they had been force-fed at their previous school before they moved here.

Steffi sat at the kitchen table last night preparing some sample menus. She wanted it to be delicious, without being too complicated. Good, fresh food. Guacamole, hummus and cut-up vegetables that the children could eat when they got home from school. Soy lime chicken, turkey and lemon meatballs, with whole-wheat pasta and brown rice.

As a sweet treat she has made date and coconut balls and figgy oatmeal bars, packaging them up in white take-out boxes with green tissue paper.

She needs two more meals, one of which she will cook today for her mom, Reece and the kids, Lila, Ed and Clay, who are coming up for lunch.

She scours the books, finally slipping small pieces of paper between the pages with the curried parsnip and apple soup, and salmon, watercress and arugula parcels. The market got their fresh fish this morning, so that’s perfect. She can substitute tofu for herself. She slips the books under an arm and stands up.

“See you later, girls,” she says, turning as she suddenly hears the gravel crunch.

Pulling into the driveway is an old red Ford truck. Damn. She had forgotten Mick the caretaker left a message saying he would be coming over to see if everything was okay.

“Of course he’s coming,” Mary said, when Steffi dropped the food in yesterday and told her she’d had a message. “He’s probably heard there’s a cute young lady living there now. I’m surprised it’s taken him this long.”

And look at her. Not that flirting with a cute caretaker is something she’s the slightest bit interested in, not with her sister in the hospital and most of her day taken up with worrying about that, but still . . . She’d rather not be in a nightgown, fleece and Uggs, given the choice.

Steffi walks toward the van, putting on a smile, as a man climbs out with a huge grin.

“I’m Mick,” he says, and Steffi suppresses a giggle. Was Mary kidding? Mick is quite . . .
rotund
, with a long gray beard and twinkly blue eyes. He looks like a lovely man, but a ladies’ man? Hardly.

“I’m Steffi,” she says, and Mick shakes her hand firmly.

“I heard there was a gorgeous lady up on the farm,” he says. “I thought I’d have to come and meet her for myself. And you cook too—I had some cookies the other day that were delicious. Now here’s a girl after my own heart, I thought.”

“Thanks,” Steffi says. “Are you here to feed the animals? Because I just fed the chickens and the goats.”

“Oh I’m just here to have a look around and make sure everything’s in working order. Ladies included.” And as he gives her a cheerful wink, Steffi’s eyes widen in horrified amusement.

“O-kay.” She steps backward. “I’ll just let you get on with it.”

“What’s that you’re drinking?” He leans over and sniffs her cup. “Lemon Zinger, is it? I wouldn’t mind a cup of that. It’s a bit nippy out here now and I’ve been out in the fields for the past hour.”

Mick marches past Steffi and into the kitchen, while Steffi stands there helplessly. Oh God. How is she supposed to get rid of him now?

“I haven’t got long,” she says as she places the tea in front of him. “I have to run into the village and get some groceries. Family coming up for lunch.”

“Husband? Children?”

“No,” she says weakly. “Mom, brother-in-law, few others.”

“Do you have a husband, then?”

“No.” She sighs. “And before you ask, no boyfriend either. And—” she leans forward and looks him straight in the eye—“I’m not in the market.”

“Oh I get it.” Mick nods his head knowingly. “You’ve an eye for the ladies. I don’t blame you. If I were a woman I’d definitely be a lesbian.”

“I’m not a lesbian,” she says. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m just single and happy about it.” And I certainly wouldn’t be interested in a sixty-something man like you. What on earth was Mary talking about?

Mick sits back and puts up his hands. “Okay, okay. I’m just teasing. I have a bit of a reputation around here and I do my best to live up to it. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m old enough to be your father.”

Steffi breathes a sigh of relief.

“Not that I wouldn’t have chanced my arm were I a few years younger. Don’t you get lonely up here on your own? I always think the same thing about Mr. Mason, always here on his own. This is a house for a family.”

“Mason was here on his own? I thought he had it rented out before I moved in, and he wasn’t ever here.”

“There was someone here this past year, but before that he came most weekends. Sometimes with his children, sweet little things, but that hoity-toity wife of his never came. Doesn’t think this village is good enough for her.”

“Really?” Now Steffi’s interested. “I don’t really know her at all . . .”

“I’m not one to gossip,” says Mick, who clearly loves to gossip. “But let’s just say she never tried to fit in here. I always felt a bit sorry for him; she seems so negative, and she wasn’t exactly polite to the locals. You don’t talk down to people if you have class. Now Mary, at the general store? She may not come from Texas oil money, but she has more class than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Aha, Steffi registers. There’s obviously mutual admiration, hence Mary’s flattering description of Mick. She smiles.

“Mary seems like a lovely lady.”

“Oh she is. Husband’s a drinker, though. Such a shame. Woman like that ought to have a good man to take care of her.”

“Someone like you?” Steffi ventures.

Mick colors, then suddenly becomes gruff. “Well, thanks for the tea. Ought to be getting along.” And off he goes, pulling out of the driveway with a crunch and a squeal.

“So much for my cute-caretaker fantasies.” Steffi sits on the sofa next to Fingal, who sighs with pleasure and raises a lazy paw, placing it on her arm. “Looks like I’ll have to be a lonely old spinster here. You and me. We can grow old together.”

Fingal sighs, as if he understands, then closes his eyes.

“Yeah, okay. So I’m boring you. I’m going out to do some shopping, then I’ll be back. You watch the house.” She leans down and gives him a kiss, noting, with only a tiny amount of alarm, that she is now having conversations with a dog.

 

The front door of the Van Peterson house opens and there is no one there. Steffi looks down to see a very small, blond, curly haired person, with chocolate all around its mouth.

“Hello.” She crouches down. “I’m Steffi. I think I’m here to see your mommy.”

The small person turns around and wanders off, leaving Steffi on the doorstep, not sure what to do.

“Um, hello?” she calls into the hallway, admiring the polished black-wood floor and sisal rugs, albeit with a couple of large dog pee stains in the corner. “Hello-oo?”

No answer. She steps inside and pushes the door closed, then follows the direction the small child took, down a hallway lined with pictures of a perfect family, and into the type of kitchen that Steffi has always dreamed of having.

Huge, with two islands, sofas at one end and a big fireplace, French doors open along one entire wall onto a lovely stone terrace flanked by a grand old hedge of clipped yew.

“Hello?” she tries again. “Anyone here?”

Hearing children’s voices, she passes through a doorway in the kitchen and finds two children in the pantry. One of them is on top of a stepladder, passing chocolate from the top shelf down to the little blond boy who answered the door.

“Ah,” says Steffi. “Um. I’m not sure you should be doing that. I think that’s perhaps a little dangerous, standing on the top of that ladder, and I’m quite sure you shouldn’t be eating chocolate at ten o’clock in the morning. Is your mom around?”

The little girl at the top of the ladder looks at Steffi. “I think she’s upstairs in the laundry room. Would you like some chocolate? You can go upstairs.”

“Actually, I think I’d be a lot happier if you got down from that ladder. How old are you?”

“Six and a half.”

“And how about you?” She turns to the little person, who holds up two fingers.

“Two? That’s very old.”

“Can you help me?” The girl holds out her arms and Steffi swings her down.

“I’m Amelia.” She extends a hand and formally shakes Steffi’s. “Nice to meet you.”

“Goodness, that’s impressive,” Steffi says. “It’s nice to meet you too. And what’s your name?”

“His name is Fred,” Amelia says. “He doesn’t talk much.”

“Oh. Okay. Do you want to come with me while we go and try to find your mom? I don’t know where the laundry room is.”

“Okay,” Amelia says. “And I’ll show you my room too.”

Steffi is sitting on Amelia’s bed, with a silver plastic crown on her head and an American Girl doll on her lap, when a small blond woman sails past the bedroom carrying a basket of laundry. She glances in, keeps moving, then swiftly doubles back just as Steffi stands up and starts to apologize.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know where you were and Amelia—”

“Oh GOD!
I’m
so sorry. I totally forgot you were coming.” She gestures to her pajamas. “Who let you in?”

“Fred.”

The woman groans. “I can’t believe it. The children know they’re not supposed to open the door to strangers. Amelia, you should be keeping an eye on Fred. Where’s Tucker?”

“Playing Wii.”

“Oh God. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’re Steffi.”

“Yes.” Steffi remembers the crown and whips it off her head. “And you must be Amy.”

 

By the time they are sitting together at the kitchen counter, Steffi already knows that she and Amy are going to be friends. She has always trusted her instincts, and immediately, from the very first second Amy opened her mouth, she knew she’d be her kind of person.

“I’m a total disaster in the kitchen,” Amy is confessing as she tucks into one of Steffi’s figgy oatmeal bars. “Big Tucker—that’s my husband, everyone calls him Big Tucker—well, Big Tucker despairs of me. He keeps buying me cookbooks”—she gestures over to a groaning bookshelf above the desk in the kitchen—“but it’s like reading double Dutch, to me.”

“So what do you eat?” Steffi is genuinely interested.

“Anything that can be heated up. I’m excellent at take-out food too, but the choice here isn’t terribly good. That’s the thing. We were in the city for so many years I never had to cook. When we first bought out here we thought it was going to be a weekend place; I never thought it would be permanent.”

“So how long have you been out here permanently?”

“Almost a year. I know, I know, why did we move?” She talks quickly, with a smile, and her hands flutter as she talks. She is very expressive, has large brown eyes, a quick mouth, a ready laugh. “The kids. Three kids and the city—it was just too . . . oppressive. But this is really my husband’s dream. I sort of feel I’d be happy anywhere as long as I have my family and a couple of friends.”

“Have you found the friends?”

Amy nods enthusiastically. “Lots. Well, maybe not friends, to be honest. Lots and lots of other mothers from the school, but not really close friends. That’s okay, though. I’m very self-sufficient.”

“Me too.” Steffi smiles. “And you only need one or two.”

“Right! So tell me about you. How on earth have you ended up here? And are you loving the peace and quiet—I suspect you are—or are you dying of loneliness?”

“Right first time,” Steffi says, and goes on to tell her how she came to be living at Mason’s farm. She is just telling her about Fingal when the back door slams shut and a man appears in the kitchen.

He must be Big Tucker, Steffi thinks, before remembering that she had walked down the hallway of family photos, and if Big Tucker looked like the man standing in the kitchen, she would definitely not have forgotten.

So who the hell
is
he? One thing’s for certain: if she thought she’d left all the cute men behind in New York, she was sorely mistaken, for he is
exactly
, but
exactly
, her type. Dark skinned, large brown eyes, rumpled dark hair. He stares at Steffi, whose heart skips ever so slightly, their gaze holding for a split second longer than it needs to, before she cracks first and looks away.

“Hey, Stan,” Amy says, entirely unaware of the effect he is having on Steffi. “Are you done?”

“Yup. Bookshelves are up.”

“Do you know Steffi? She just moved into Mason’s farm. Steffi, this is Stan.”

“I heard about you.” Stan walks over and shakes hands with Steffi, who is turning information over in her mind. Stan, Stan, why is this familiar? “I meant to come over and check up on you but haven’t had the chance. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. Oh, you’re Stanley the handyman!” she yelps, suddenly realizing.

“Most people just call me Stan. Stanley makes me sound like a sixty-year-old.” He grins.

“That’s what I thought.” She grins back, and then the awkward silence descends.

“I need to pay you!” Amy shrieks, breaking it, as she leaps up from the chair and grabs her bag. “I’m so sorry. I always forget. Here.” She stuffs a pile of notes into his hand and Stan thanks her, then turns to leave.

“Is he as hot as I think he is?” Steffi leans forward, whispering, when he has left.

“Who? Stan? Are you kidding? You think he’s hot? He’s a kid!”

“What? How old do you think he is?”