Wednesday's Child. Gayle Wilson

pot and poured a stream of black coffee into his mug, which Lorena had already set out on the counter by the stove. He stood sipping it, watching as his aunt broke eggs into the same pan from which she’d just taken the steaming slices of ham. The bits that had stuck to the bottom were churned into the eggs as she scrambled them.

      “You go on and sit down,” she ordered as she did every morning. “Drink your coffee in peace.”

      They had come to an unspoken understanding shortly after he’d arrived, one that satisfied them both. Lorena had desperately wanted to wait on him. At mealtimes he let her. She would bring the platter over when everything was ready, and then she would sit down opposite him, bowing her head as she invoked the Lord to bless their food.

      The first few weeks he had waited through her prayer, eyes defiantly open. After a while he’d given in to her devotion and his own upbringing, bowing his head now as a matter of course.

      Carrying his coffee, he made his way to the sunlit table. It was going to be another warm day, despite the calendar.

      For some reason, that reminded him of Susan Chandler. Maybe it was the memory of her crushed-linen skirt. Or the sleeveless silk blouse she had worn with it. Or how damp tendrils of hair had curled at her temples and against the back of her neck.

      “I thought I’d go into town,” Lorena said right beside him, startling him out of those memories. She set the platter of eggs, ham and biscuits down and then slipped into her place. “I can’t feed a guest what we eat.”

      “Why not?” he asked, putting a biscuit onto his plate.

      “Not fancy enough. That was one thing the bed-and-breakfast association told me. Folks that pay good money to stay in a home expect something special when it comes to food.”

      “There’s nothing more special than what you fix every day,” Jeb said, smiling up at her. The crease between her brows smoothed with the compliment. “I mean it, Lorena. You serve Mrs. Chandler what you serve me, and I guarantee you she’ll be happy as a pig in mud.” His great-aunt wouldn’t have put up with the usual description in that phrase. “Besides, she isn’t a guest in the strictest sense of the word. I don’t think she expects you to go out of your way to cater to her every whim.”

      “She certainly does not.”

      Hearing Susan Chandler’s voice produced a jolt of sheer physical reaction. Jeb raised his eyes to find her standing in the door of the kitchen. She was dressed less formally today in a pair of brown knit slacks and a brown-and-white striped top.

      “I hope I’m not intruding,” she said apologetically. “I smelled the coffee and hoped there might be enough for me.”

      “Of course you’re not intruding.” Lorena pushed her chair back to stand. “You come right over here and sit down. The eggs are still hot. I’ll pour you a fresh cup of coffee.”

      “I can’t take your place,” Susan protested.

      “Yes, ma’am, you sure can. I just sit here to keep Jeb company. I ate a while ago.”

      It was a lie. And since he was already dreading the unpleasant meal this was apt to turn into if their guest did sit down opposite him, Jeb was tempted to call his great-aunt on it, despite knowing how much that would embarrass her.

      “You go on, now,” Lorena urged, starting toward the stove where coffee still occasionally perked up into the glass button on top of the pot, although it had been removed from the burner.

      “I don’t normally eat breakfast.”

      Still hesitating in the doorway, Susan seemed no more eager to join him at the table than he was to have her there. In spite of his own sense of dread, Jeb was suddenly—and bitterly—conscious of the probable reason for her reluctance.

      “Have a biscuit,” Lorena went on, oblivious to the tension between them. “I made that apple butter myself. Or if you’d rather have it, there’s peach preserves in the icebox. I always put the other out because that’s what Jeb likes…”

      The sentence trailed as she poured a stream of steaming coffee into a cup she took from the cabinet. Finally the lack of a response made the old woman turn to face her guest, brows raised questioningly.

      Jeb looked down at the breakfast he had been anticipating only minutes before. He knew he would have a hard time forcing a bite of it through the angry tightness in his throat. And that was a reaction he again couldn’t quite explain.

      “Apple butter’s fine,” Susan said, bringing his gaze up.

      She had started toward the chair Lorena had deserted. Her eyes touched on his for the first time this morning. Again, the same heat of sexual awareness he’d felt last night roiled through his lower body, tightening his groin.

      As if she were conscious of what had just happened, Susan quickly looked away, her gaze fastening on Lorena. The old woman crossed the kitchen and set the cup at the side of the plate she had intended to eat from herself.

      “There now,” she said, beaming at Susan and then at him.

      For an instant, Jeb wondered if his great-aunt could possibly be matchmaking. Even Lorena, die-hard romantic that she was, must realize any effort in that direction would be highly inappropriate. Although, according to the local paper, the body they’d found in the river had been there for years, that man had been Susan Chandler’s husband.

      She was again looking at him, he realized, obviously as uncomfortable with the situation as he was, but for far different reasons. Angered by that as well, he mockingly inclined his head toward his aunt’s empty chair. Susan’s eyes held his a heartbeat before, lips tight, she slipped into it.

      She picked up the linen napkin and unfolded it across her lap. Lorena dipped eggs onto her plate and then a slice of ham from the platter. When she reached toward the covered basket of hot biscuits, Susan again attempted to protest.

      “I’m really not very hungry.”

      Jeb had tried the same argument when he’d first arrived. It was probable that the first bite of Lorena’s cooking would convince her, as it had him, that she was mistaken.

      “And a biscuit,” Lorena said, continuing to draw the basket closer. “Jeb, if you’ll pass that apple butter…”

      He obeyed, watching as his great-aunt placed the apple-shaped glass dish near Susan’s plate.

      “Now then,” Lorena said again, stepping back, her hands crossed in front of her apron as if she had performed some sleight of hand and was waiting for her audience to respond with the proper amount of awe.

      Susan looked as if she wasn’t sure what had just happened. She took a breath, deep enough that it lifted her shoulders. Then she put a biscuit on her plate, split it deftly, and began filling it with the apple butter. She glanced up, finding his eyes on her.

      “My aunt and I were wondering how long you plan to be in town, Mrs. Chandler.”

      Not only did he really want to know the answer to that, Jeb also knew the question would constitute polite conversation in Lorena’s eyes. Never let it be said that he hadn’t done his part to make their guest feel welcome, he thought dryly.

      “I’m not sure. I suppose it depends on how long it takes for certain things to happen.”

      Like getting the autopsy results? Or the accident report? If they even did one of those for something like this.

      “Like what?” Lorena asked, her eyes bright with curiosity.

      “Lorena,” he warned softly.

      “Did I say something wrong, dear? Don’t mind me. I’m just a nosey old woman who never knows when to keep her mouth shut.”

      “It’s all right. I want the medical examiner’s report, of course, but…Actually, I need to stay until I can find out what Richard was doing here.”

      “In Linton?”