plan to leave that here with them? It would sure make communicating with Chloe easier.
But they could discuss that later. “That stew smells good.”
Miss Whitman straightened. “I imagine you’re hungry.” She turned to the kids. “And I’m sure you are, too. Why don’t we get the table ready? Your uncle can show you where the dishes and cutlery are stored.” She picked up the slate and wrote on it as she talked, and now she turned it around so Chloe could read it.
Hank realized the kids were waiting for him to do as Miss Whitman had asked, so he moved toward the cabinets. He retrieved the dishes and utensils and handed them to the children, who then transported them to the table.
As they arranged things properly, Hank approached Miss Whitman at the stove. “Is there anything I can help with?”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, then nodded toward the counter beside her. “You can slice that loaf of bread and put it on the table, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” As Hank grabbed a knife he noticed there was already a portion missing from one loaf. “Looks like someone’s been doing some sampling,” he said as he began slicing. Then he inhaled the smell of the fresh-baked bread with appreciation. “My grandma used to say that you could always tell how good a cook a woman was by the bread she baked. I think you’d pass even her test with this loaf.”
She raised a brow at that. “But you haven’t tasted it yet.”
“The aroma and how nicely it slices are enough to tell the tale.”
He turned to transport the bread to the table and paused a moment. His kitchen table was of a modest size, square with four chairs situated around it. But this evening, the children had rearranged things so that there were two chairs on one side. Should he say something or let it go?
He glanced Miss Whitman’s way, wondering if he should let her handle this. But she had her back to them and hadn’t yet noticed. There was no way for him to bring it to her attention without the children, or at least Alex, noticing.
He decided to let it go and carried the bread platter to the table as if nothing was amiss.
Later, as they prepared to take their seats, Miss Whitman gave them an apologetic smile from her position at the stove. “I couldn’t find a large serving bowl. So for tonight I think we’ll just put the pot on the table to serve from.”
Hank quickly took the pot from her. He didn’t think he actually owned a large serving bowl. He rarely cooked more than he could eat in one sitting, so he had no needs in that area. He supposed that was yet another thing he’d have to take care of now that his household had expanded.
Miss Whitman placed a folded cloth on the table and he carefully set the pot on it.
She took her seat and he moved to the other side to take his. He’d barely settled when she gave him a meaningful look.
“Mr. Chandler, would you say the blessing for us, please?”
“Of course.” What else could he say? Before he bowed his head, he saw Alex touch his sister’s arm and then fold his hands to indicate they were going to pray. That sort of direction was no doubt why Chloe felt the need to keep her brother close.
Then Hank closed his eyes and reached deep for the words. It had been quite some time since he’d prayed aloud. “Lord, we thank You for granting us safe travel home to Turnabout. And thank You for this meal we are about to partake of. Thank You, too, for bringing someone as generous as Miss Whitman into our midst. We ask that You grant Aunt Rowena’s friend renewed health so that she may get to Turnabout in the coming days. And in all things keep us mindful of Your grace. Amen.”
As he looked up, Miss Whitman softly echoed his amen and gave him a warm smile of approval.
That smile touched a spot inside him he’d thought long dead.
Then she sat up straighter. “Rather than passing this heavy pot of stew around, if you’ll pass me your bowls, I’ll serve each of you.”
“Here, let me help.” Hank stood and reached for Alex’s and Chloe’s bowls. He held them up to the pot while Miss Whitman ladled the thick, rich-looking stew into each. Then he set the full bowls in front of the kids and reached for his own.
Alex and Chloe were mostly silent during the meal, but Miss Whitman seemed to take no notice. She kept the conversation going without apparent effort. She asked him some questions about his sawmill and about his home.
He did his part to keep the conversation going, mostly by asking her questions about her life before she’d moved to Turnabout. But she always answered superficially or changed the subject. Was she trying to act the woman of mystery? Or was she truly hiding something?
When the meal was done, Miss Whitman stood to fetch the cobbler while Hank carried the stew pot to the counter.
He saw what was coming a split second before it happened. Miss Whitman had approached the table with the cobbler and was frowning down at the dish, saying something about hoping she hadn’t let it bake too long.
At the same time Chloe, who had slipped a bit of bread to Smudge, straightened back up just as Miss Whitman was in the process of setting the dish on the table. Somehow her movement jostled Miss Whitman’s arm so that the dish slipped from her grip and landed on the floor with a plop, sending bits of filling and crust splattering in a wide radius.
Chloe slapped a hand over her mouth, a stricken expression on her face. Alex let out a loud oh, but for a moment there was no other sound, no other movement in the room. Then Smudge approached one of the splatters and began delicately lapping it up.
Miss Whitman reached a hand out toward Chloe, but before she could reassure or comfort the girl, Chloe erupted from her chair and, with tears flowing, went running to her room.
Hank felt he should follow her, but what was the point? Even if he knew what words to say, she wouldn’t be able to hear them.
He looked to Miss Whitman and she returned his gaze with a self-reproaching grimace.
“That was my fault,” she said. “I’d forgotten—one of the first rules of interacting with the deaf is to never approach from their blind side if you can avoid it.” She looked down at the mess on the floor, then faced in the direction Chloe had run off.
“Go,” he said, guiltily relieved she wanted to be the one to comfort his niece. “Alex and I will clean this up.”
She gave him a grateful smile. “There’s a bit left in the dish. If you set it aside before Smudge gets to it, you and Alex should still be able to have some dessert.”
“I don’t—”
She made a small movement with her chin that stopped him. Then she glanced toward Alex, who was wearing a helpless, suspiciously watery-eyed look.
Of course—she wanted him to keep the boy distracted.
He rescued the remaining cobbler, placing the pan on the table. “I suppose it would be a shame to let a perfectly good pan of cobbler go to waste,” he said thoughtfully. “What do you say, Alex? Let’s get this cleaned up for Miss Whitman. Then we can reward ourselves with dessert.”
