Redemption. Carolyn Davidson
got it all figured out, haven’t you?” he asked, and she took note of the burning resentment in his dark eyes. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a managing woman?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I’ve been called even worse than that.”
His mouth twisted in a sardonic grin. “It doesn’t bother you?”
She met his gaze head-on. “Do I look bothered?” She turned to Jason and issued an order. “Please go and find a quilt we can sit on. I’ll get the food ready.” That she’d brought napkins and plates was probably a good thing, she decided. Three forks and a salt shaker made up the rest of her supplies.
Jason carried a folded quilt into the parlor. “This was in the airing closet,” he said, breathless after his jaunt up and down the stairs. Eyes glowing with anticipation, he spread it on the floor and sat on one edge. “Now what?”
Alicia arranged the small tablecloth she’d brought, then placed the bowl of chicken, the potato salad and the carrots and sliced tomatoes in the middle. A loaf of bread, freshly baked only this morning and sliced into thick slabs, was wrapped in a clean dish towel, and she opened it, tucking the edges beneath the offering. Butter in a small bowl completed the arrangement.
“Oh, dear. I forgot to bring knives for spreading the butter,” she said softly. Her gaze flew to Jake’s. “May I send Jason to the kitchen?”
He nodded curtly, and Jason rose, almost trotting from the room, so anxious did he seem to get this meal under way.
“Don’t spoil this for him,” she said, warning Jake quietly. She bent to arrange the food on their plates.
“I do own some semblance of courtesy,” he told her harshly. “I don’t need a lesson in manners from the schoolmarm.”
“Well, that’s encouraging,” she shot back, looking up as Jason skidded to a stop just inside the parlor door.
“Here you go,” he said, a grin bringing to life a dimple in his left cheek, something she’d never noted up until now. He handed her the three knives and she inspected them with a cursory glance and deemed them clean enough to be used.
She sat on the edge of the quilt, across from Jake’s chair, and folded her hands in her lap. “Shall we say grace?” she asked, and then at Jake’s snort of disbelief, she offered a glare in his direction. “You needn’t join us,” she said politely, “but Jason seems to understand the concept.”
For indeed the boy had folded his hands nicely, waiting for her to speak the words. “My mama used to pray before we ate,” he told her, and then looked up at his father. “Remember, Pa? I always liked it when she did that.”
Jake nodded curtly. “Go ahead, if it gives you pleasure, ma’am.”
His words were brief, and her mind churned as she attempted to decipher his mood. The man was angry again, probably as riled as he’d been on their first meeting. Unless she missed her guess, he was not about to accept her help with Jason.
“What part of the chicken do you prefer?” she asked her host.
“Whatever’s left,” he said. “It’s all food.”
Jason bit into a drumstick. “This is good food, Pa,” he said, the words muffled as he chewed. Some potato salad followed and he relished it for a moment, then swallowed. “My mama used to make stuff like this. Does it have eggs in it?”
Alicia nodded. “And mayonnaise and a touch of mustard and a big onion.”
Jake accepted his plate from her hand and their fingers touched during the interchange. His were warm, hers chilled, and he raised a brow as he looked down at her.
“Surely you’re not cold, Miss Merriweather?” She thought a gleam of satisfaction shone from his eyes as he spoke, and rued the apprehension she’d tried so hard to hide. The man was enjoying her discomfort.
“No, just afraid that I’ve offended you, sir.” She bent her head and took up a wing in her hand, breaking it apart and nibbling at the sparse amount of meat it held. The bones were placed neatly on the edge of her plate and she speared a slice of tomato, shook salt over it, then cut it up with her fork.
“I’m surely more offensive, than offended,” he suggested, and she looked up quickly, catching him with a look of appraisal alive on his face.
His gaze was warm and she shifted uncomfortably under it, feeling self-conscious. Her black boots were large, her hips wider than most women her age, and the size of her bosom was “magnificent,” a gentleman caller had said, long years ago. Back when she had thought there might be hope of a man in her life, and children born from her body.
“Well, you do know how to cook,” Jake conceded reluctantly. “I’ll have another piece of that chicken, if you don’t mind.”
She offered him the bowl and he took a thigh, then glanced at the potato salad. “Would you like another spoonful?” she asked, and lifted it within his reach.
“Maybe a slice of tomato, too.” His voice softened as he grudgingly asked for her help in serving him, but she refused to feel triumph at his expense. The man was making a stab at good manners, and she subdued her own natural inclination to gloat.
“Do you cook often?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the napkin she’d provided. She’d already noticed Jason copying his father’s example, placing the napkin across his lap before he began eating.
“Not very. I don’t have a kitchen of my own.”
“Miss Merriweather lives with Catherine Simpson’s mama and papa,” Jason offered. “Catherine thinks she’s real smart because the teacher has a bedroom next to hers.” He looked gloomy, Alicia thought, as if a bit of jealousy had popped up its ugly head. And then he wiped his mouth, following Jake’s example again and looked hopefully at Alicia.
“Do you think you could come and cook in our kitchen once in a while?” he asked.
“Jason.” The single word was a reprimand and Jake’s lowered brows emphasized the rebuke.
“I just thought—”
“You’re imposing on Miss Merriweather,” Jake said firmly. “She was decent enough to bring us supper tonight. It would be rude to expect her to repeat the gesture.”
No, Alicia thought grimly. Rude was a man who offered cutting remarks to the woman who’d carried a basket all the way across town to his house, a place where that man sat, totally lost in self-pity, brooding day in and day out.
“I’d be delighted to come and cook your supper once in a while,” she said brightly, knowing that Jake was ready to burst with irritation at her high-handedness. “Shall we say once a week?” She smiled encouragingly at Jason.
“That would be…” Jason fumbled for a word to express his delight, and only grinned widely, including his father in the elation he made no attempt to hide.
“Will I be able to take Jason to the general store?” she asked Jake. “I am free tomorrow if that would be a good time for him.”
Jake simmered, she could easily tell from the look he gave her. She had him neatly boxed in, and reveled in the fact. How she could find joy in making him fume was a question she wouldn’t even attempt to answer. She had to admit, there was a certain sense of satisfaction that had accompanied this meal, eaten at his feet, so to speak, and obviously enjoyed by both father and son.
She decided to change the direction of their conversation, and pointed up at the two windows where late afternoon sunlight shone. “I see you decided to uncover your windows,” she said. “It’s an enormous improvement, Mr. McPherson.” Tilting her head to one side, she made a sober observation.
“Perhaps I could bring over a bottle of vinegar and clean them for you tomorrow after Jason and I complete our shopping.”
“I’m