Defender

“Paint a sign, telling people to move to Dallas,” Paul suggested.

Merrie laughed gleefully.

“Don’t you encourage her,” Sari told him firmly.

“I only told her what she could paint,” he defended himself.

“Paint a wildflower,” Sari suggested. “You’re great at those. Maybe a wildflower and a log. How about a morning glory curling around a dead stump in a forest clearing…”

“Great idea! Thanks!” Merrie rushed back into her room.

“Nice,” Paul mused.

Sari chuckled. “She really does draw well.”

“I know.”

“Merrie’s shy about her work. I wasn’t sure you knew that she painted.”

“I had her do a portrait of my grandmother,” he said, surprising her. “I had a few photos. She truly brought them to life.” He shook his head. “She should be showing her work in a gallery somewhere.”

“You never showed me the painting,” she said.

He hesitated. “I…sent it to my cousin, in New Jersey, for a Christmas present last year,” he explained. “My grandmother raised both of us. We were like brothers.”

“You never talk about him.”

He shrugged. “No reason to. We don’t see each other. We talk once in a while, maybe text when there’s something to say.”

“What does he do?”

He glanced at her. “Dangerous things. And that’s all I’m saying.”

She flushed. “Sorry.”

He caught her arm as she started to leave the room. “Don’t get your feelings hurt,” he said. “I can’t tell anyone. It’s not just you.”

She swallowed, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“And stop apologizing every second word,” he chided. “I notice that Merrie does the same thing.”

“We’ve done a lot of it, over the years,” she said.

He frowned. “Why?”

She averted her face. “I have to start the yeast for Mandy. She’s making homemade rolls and beef stew for supper.”

“Homemade rolls.” He closed his eyes. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he teased. “I can almost smell them. Nobody makes rolls like she does.”

She grinned. “Mandy has a friend who still makes fresh butter the old-fashioned way, with a churn and a wooden mold. We’re having some with the rolls.”

“What’s a churn?” he asked.

“City boy,” she teased. “It’s a round, oblong container, usually made of thick ceramic. You put fresh milk in it, then you use a dasher—a long stick with a crosspiece on the bottom—to churn the milk until it finally starts to make butter. Then you scoop the butter out and salt it and put it in a mold.”

“Wow. That sounds complicated.”

“It is complicated,” she agreed. “Especially when you’re the person who does the churning.” She grimaced. “Whenever it was churning time, no matter where I hid, my mother would always find me.” She smiled sadly. “But she was sweet about it. I got a whole quarter for my efforts. That was a lot of money to a seven-year-old. I could buy a comic book or an ice cream cone with it.”

“Good luck finding a comic book for that price today,” he scoffed.

“I know.”

“Well, I’ll go scout the perimeter and make sure all the surveillance systems are up and running,” he said. “Call me when there’s food.”

“I will.”

She watched him go out the back door with quiet, faintly worshipping eyes. After last night, she thought they might be closer. But he was as distant as ever. In fact, he seemed even more distant than before.

She went into the kitchen and started taking out ingredients for the rolls. Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day. She had time. Paul wasn’t going anywhere. And she was patient. She smiled and sang to herself as she put yeast and sugar into the mixing bowl and added warm milk to start the yeast rising for Mandy.

* * *

They ate silently. Paul went through the rolls like mad, even forgoing extra stew for them. “You have a gift,” he told Mandy when he was sipping his second cup of black coffee.

“Thanks,” she replied, beaming with pride.

“Who taught you to make rolls?” he asked. “Couldn’t have been her.” He indicated Sari with a grin. “She can only make biscuits.”

“Biscuit bigot,” Sari muttered.

He burst out laughing. So did Merrie and Mandy.

“It was a trainer who came to work with one of the Thoroughbreds,” Mandy said with a smile.

“A horse trainer?” he exclaimed.

She nodded. “He was Australian. Before he became a trainer, he worked in a bakery with his parents, who owned it. He could make anything. He taught me how to make rolls and breads and cakes and even French pastries. You remember, Sari, he had that hunky son who was your age. He spent some time with you while his dad was teaching me new recipes.”

Paul frowned. He didn’t like the sound of that. He was jealous, and furious with himself because he was. “When was this?” he asked abruptly.

“I don’t remember,” Sari said, oblivious to Paul’s expression.

Mandy saw it and winced. “Oh, it was years ago. You were fifteen,” Mandy said. “And I had to make the boy stay in the kitchen with his dad the whole time I was learning, because your father was afraid the boy might make a pass at you.”

“That’s right,” Sari said. She sighed. “The trainer was so nice. Blond and big and handsome.”

“And married,” Merrie added gleefully.