Page 8 of The Homemaker (The Chain of Lakes #1)

Chapter Eight

Alice

Life is a journey.

But don’t forget it’s still a circle.

Sunday morning, I tend to the garden on my hands and knees, picking vegetables for the day’s meals. At the sound of laughter, I glance over my shoulder.

Blair and Murphy have returned from a run, and they’re stretching by the back door.

He says something, and she throws her head back in laughter.

Then she pulls the tie from her hair, letting her thick, sweaty tresses fall down her perfectly tanned back.

She’s the blonde I used to dream of being before tiring from my roots growing out.

Murphy opens the back door, and Blair lifts her leg. He squats in front of her to remove her shoes. She lovingly runs her hands through his hair, her enormous diamond catching the sun’s rays like God himself is winking at her for finding the perfect man.

I have no good reason to hate her, but it’s going to be a long summer, and I’m afraid I’ll do it anyway.

After I finish in the garden, I set the basket of veggies aside and run back to my place to wash up and slip on a light blue dress with a white collar and buttons.

Minutes later, I’m in their kitchen with my strappy pumps and white apron, cleaning the vegetables while the breakfast casserole cooks in the oven.

“Good morning, Alice,” Mr. Morrison says, his voice deep and husky. Manly, like his pungent spice cologne.

“Good morning,” I say, scrubbing the vegetables from the garden. “A breakfast casserole is in the oven. Can I get you coffee?”

“Is there red meat in the casserole?” he asks, pulling a glass bottle of water from the fridge.

“Turkey sausage, per Mrs. Morrison’s request.”

“I’ll take my usual, Alice. Thanks.” He saunters out of the kitchen.

I sigh, shutting off the water and drying my hands before pulling a steak wrapped in butcher paper from the fridge. As soon as I have it seasoned and in the hot cast-iron skillet to sear, I serve Mr. Morrison his coffee.

“Murphy!” Blair squeals playfully from the other side of the house.

Mr. Morrison rolls his eyes, lifting his cup of coffee to his lips as I set a fork and steak knife on a cloth napkin next to his saucer. “How would you feel about staying in the main house this summer so we can kick those two out into the guesthouse?”

“Oooh … a promotion already? ”

He shakes his head. “I’m kidding. Sort of.”

I return a polite grin before heading back to the kitchen to turn the steak.

After it’s flipped, I trim the flowers I cut from the bed on the south side of the house and arrange them into a vase for the dining room table, anything to keep from thinking about Murphy playfully doing god knows what to his future wife.

“Oh, wow. You work on Sundays?” Blair asks, tightening the sash on her white robe, towel wrapped around her head.

“Good morning. And yes, I work on Sundays. Can I get you coffee?”

“I’ll make it. You don’t know how I like it.” She reaches for a mug.

“Splash of soy milk, dash of cinnamon.” I smile, wiping my hands on a towel.

Blair’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows lift a fraction. “My mom prepared you.”

“Yes, Miss Morrison.”

“Please,” she rolls her eyes and shakes her head, “don’t call me Miss Morrison.

My name is Blair. I’ll be a Paddon soon.

And I can get my own coffee.” She pours the coffee into her cup and retrieves the soy milk from the fridge, so I transfer Hunter’s steak to the lower oven and check on the casserole in the top oven.

“So you cook, garden, and arrange flowers?” Blair asks, plucking the jar of cinnamon from the hidden spice rack. “What else do you do for my inept father?”

“I’m going to mend a button on his shirt after breakfast. And while everyone is eating, I’ll make the beds and water the houseplants. Then I’ll?—”

“That’s enough.” Blair laughs while shaking her head and recapping the cinnamon.

“Never mind. I don’t want to know. It’s all too weird.

” She sips her coffee. “My mother used to mend my dad’s shirts.

” She eyes me. “But she didn’t do it wearing a dress and heels.

I thought my mother was sick, but it’s clearly just my father who is unwell.

” She heads into the dining room before I can respond.

I finish the arrangement and pivot to take it to the dining room just as Murphy steps into the kitchen with chaotic wet hair, navy shorts, and a white polo shirt.

Despite my breath catching, I find a quick smile. “Good morning, Mr. Paddon.”

He pauses, opening the cabinet door to the glasses. “How do you know my last name?”

I don’t miss the hope in his eyes.

“Miss Morrison said she’ll be a Paddon soon.”

He presses his lips together after a few seconds and nods while retrieving a glass.

“Can I get you coffee?”

“Um, sure. Thanks. I like it?—”

“Black,” I say, taking two steps and stopping with a hard swallow.

“How do you know that?”

“Mrs. Morrison told me.”

She did not.

“It’s strange that she knows that,” he says.

“Not really. She’s observant and resourceful.” I continue to the dining room.

After everyone finishes breakfast, the kitchen is clean, beds are made, and I’ve mended the missing button, I head outside to check the stock of towels by the pool and raise the sun umbrellas.

When I turn the corner, Murphy glances up from his book. He’s in a lounger by himself .

“Did you get left behind?”

He rests the open book face down on his chest and slides his aviator sunglasses to the tip of his nose. “Blair and Vera went shopping. And Hunter took one of his cars for a joyride.”

I open the towel bin. “And you didn’t get invited on his joyride?”

“He invited me, but I passed because he smokes cigars on his joyrides, and even in a convertible, I end up eating half the smoke.”

I crank up the sun umbrella over one of the tables. “Is there anything I can get you? A drink? Music? Sunscreen?”

“Hunter has a turntable in his study with an impressive vinyl collection,” he says.

I blink several times before nodding. “I’m aware. But I don’t think he’d want me bringing it out here by the pool for you.”

Murphy deflates because I don’t take the bait.

I lace my fingers behind my back. “Anything else?”

“Do you play pickleball?”

I glance toward the court. “I have played. I’m not that good.”

“No?” He cocks his head to the side. “You seem like the type of person who is good at a lot of things.”

“Why do you say that?” I squint against the sun, using my hand on my forehead as a visor.

“You cook, clean, sew, garden, arrange flowers. And make the perfect steak. Need I say more? Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Plenty.”

He stares at me as if I’ll change my answer. When I don’t, he pushes his glasses back up his nose. “Are you originally from Minnesota?”

“Wisconsin.”

“What brought you to Minneapolis?”

My facade is precarious at best. He brought me to Minneapolis.

“Urban amenities.”

He shifts his attention to the water and the lone orange pool float in the middle. “Are you married?”

“Why? Do you need advice before you say your vows?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Do you have advice before I take my vows?”

“My mom would say, don’t think you can change her. Blair will change, because people do. But she’ll become who she needs to be, not who you want her to be.”

“I shouldn’t expect her to be a homemaker if that’s not who she is now?”

I smile and pick up a few dead flower petals before they blow into the pool. “Exactly,” I say with a tiny laugh while walking away.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he calls.

I stop without turning.

“Are you married?”

I continue walking.