Page 45

I load everything onto a tray and head for the study. The door is ajar, but I knock anyway.
“Marie, I told you I’m not—“ The man’s voice breaks off as I enter. Jim Sterling looks both exactly like and nothing like I expected. He has Luke’s strong features, but grief has carved deep lines around his eyes and mouth. He sits in a leather chair by the window, a photo album open on his lap.
“You’re not Marie,” he says, frowning.
“No, sir. I’m Lila. Luke asked me to stop by.”
“Ah.” He studies me. “The neighbor girl. The one who cooks.”
“That’s me.” I set the tray on a side table. “I made breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That’s okay.” I start arranging the plates anyway. “But I drove forty-five minutes to make you these eggs, and my ego’s a little fragile. Would you mind at least telling me if they’re terrible?”
He eyes me for a long moment, then sighs. “You’re not going to leave until I try them, are you?”
“Probably not,” I admit. “Luke says I can be stubborn.”
Something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe. “He would know.”
To my surprise, he actually takes a bite of the eggs. Then another. Soon, he’s finished half the plate.
“These are... quite good,” he says, sounding almost surprised.
“Thank you.” I gesture to the photo album. “May I?”
He hesitates, then nods. I settle into the chair opposite him, and he turns the album so I can see. A beautiful woman with Luke’s light blue eyes smiles up from the pages.
“Sarah,” he says softly. “My wife.”
“She’slovely.”
“She was everything.” His voice catches. “Some days, I still expect to hear her laughing in the garden or scolding me for tracking mud on her clean floors...”
“Tell me about her?” I ask gently.
He looks startled, then thoughtful. “She loved roses. Grew them everywhere, even though I told her they were too much work. And she made the worst coffee you’ve ever tasted, but she was so proud of it, we all pretended it was perfect...”
As he talks, he continues eating almost absently. When he finishes, I replace his plate with the smoothie.
“Luke says you’re starting your own business?” he asks suddenly.
“Yes, sir. Private chef services.”
“Sarah would have loved that. She was terrible in the kitchen—except for one dish. Her chicken and gravy.” He smiles faintly. “She made it every time Luke or I was sick. Swore it could cure anything.”
“Luke has mentioned his mom’s chicken and gravy,” I reply with a smile. “Maybe I could make it for lunch?”
His eyes mist slightly. “I wish Sarah was here to eat it with me. She always said good food could cure anything.”
We spend the next hour looking through photos while he tells me stories—about Sarah’s beautiful singing voice, Luke’s first piano recital, family vacations and holiday disasters and all the small moments that make up a life.
When Marie checks in, she looks shocked to find Mr. Sterling not only eating but talking and even smiling.
I stay through lunch, making Sarah’s chicken and gravy. I keep it simple but tasty—wanting it to wrap around him like a remembered hug. The sauce is silky smooth, and I smile, remembering how Luke said his mother’s gravy had lumps. Luke’s father eats every bite.
“Luke was right,” Mr. Sterling says as I prepare to leave.