seeme d . . . wrong. Wrong to change Aunt Betty’s house.
She turned off the lights and walked into the kitchen instead. This was as Aunt Betty had left it, too, but Kennedy wouldn’t change a thing in it. She loved the old floor-to-ceiling white cabinets. The soapstone counter was worn in a few areas and dipped severely enough that it made some plates wobble. There were dings and scratches all over it. It looked at home in this kitchen.
The table was a worktable, a place where occupants had prepared meals for decades. It was the equivalent of today’s islands. The butcher-block surface was scarred and discolored from years of cooking.
The only changes she’d made in here were adding the desk in one corner and a dark plaid chair with a small end table and lamp in the other.
That chair was her favorite place in the house. She had a view of the backyard. An ancient mulberry tree was outside the window, and every morning she faithfully filled the bird feeder that hung from it. She loved sitting in the chair with a cup of coffee, reading the paper, and watching the chickadees, sparrows, and finches flock to it for their breakfast.
She stared out the window. It was dark now, but the snow that still sat on the grass, and the moonlight shining down through the leafless mulberry branches, allowed her to catch the now-empty bird feeder. They’d even cleaned out the suet holder.
She wondered where the birds slept. She wondered if there’d been enough food to satisfy their hunger. She wondere d . . .
She stood there, staring out the window at the dark backyard and wondering all kinds of nonsense.
The doorbell rang and forced her to pull herself away from her thoughts.
Time to face Malcolm.
The advantage to standing at the window was she didn’t have to heave herself out of the chair in order to answer the door.
Her hands rested on the baby, who obliged her and kicked. “I love you,” she whispered.
She’d do whatever it took to protect this baby. To see her child safe and happy.
“Pizza,” Malcolm said, holding out a pizza box that had a bag resting on top of it. “Are you going to invite me in?”
She opened the door wider and tried not to sigh as she said, “Yes. Please come in.”
Obviously she hadn’t done a good enough job covering her lackluster invitation, because Malcolm said, “That was not the most enthusiastic response I’ve ever had, but I’ll take it.”
She ignored his comment. “Come on back to the kitchen.”
He followed her down the hall and into the kitchen, where he set the bag and box on the table. He opened them while she got plates, napkins, and silverware out.
“Would you like something to drink? I have milk, ice tea, and water.”
“Ice tea?” he asked. “It’s got to be thirty degrees out today.”
She shrugged. She refused to defend the fact that she liked ice tea year-round. It was none of Malcolm’s business. She’d switched to decaf because of the baby, but that was as far as she’d compromise. When she didn’t say anything, he finally said, “Water would be great.”
She got them each a glass and took the seat across from Malcolm, who’d helped himself to pizza and some of the salad that had been in the bag.
She did as well but didn’t take a bite.
“About the Center—” she started.
Malcolm interrupted. “Haven’t you ever heard that business during a meal gives you heartburn?”
“No. You’re the one who pointed out I had a business meeting today at lunch. I like to multitask. So, about the Cente r . . . you said you couldn’t run it from Pittsburgh, and I know Pap is done working. He wants to re-retire. So selling the business to me makes sense. I’ll pay a fair market value. I’ve already had the loan preapproved. It has a big advantage for you. You won’t have to go through the headache of listing the property. You can go back to Pittsburgh—”
Malcolm interrupted her again, and said, “About tha t . . . ”
“Yes?”