“Because the roast won't turn itself.”
“I can turn it.”
The cook smiled.
“No, you cannot.”
“I can.”
“The pan is heavier than you are.”
The child frowned.
“That seems unfair.”
“It usually is.”
The girl climbed onto a stool.
“Grandfather says this will be his ranch.”
The cook stopped moving.
Only for a moment.
Then she resumed basting the meat.
“Does he?”
“Yes.”
“He says we're all going to live here.”
The cook's hand tightened around the spoon.
“That's a lot of people.”
The girl nodded gravely.
“My mother doesn't want to.”
“Why not?”
“She says he becomes mean when he owns things.”
The cook looked toward the dining room.
Voices traveled through the walls.
The patriarch was already drinking.
It was not yet noon.
The girl lowered her voice.
“Will you stay?”
The question hurt more than she expected.
“I don't know.”
“Who will make bread?”
The cook smiled sadly.
“Somebody else.”
“I don't want somebody else.”
Before the cook could answer, the girl's mother appeared.
“There you are.”
The woman looked embarrassed to find her daughter speaking with the cook.
“Come. Your grandfather wants everyone in the parlor.”
The girl climbed down.
At the doorway she turned.
“I would let you sit by me.”
Her mother went still.
The cook smiled.
“Thank you.”
They left.
The kitchen became quiet again.
The cook stood beside the roast.
For several seconds she stared at nothing.
Then she wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist and kept working.
At one thirty, the feast was nearly finished.
Three loaves of bread rested beneath linen.
The venison had browned beautifully.
Carrots glistened with butter and molasses.
Potatoes were crisp at the edges.
Stewed apples filled a heavy ceramic bowl.
Green beans preserved from summer had been reheated with smoked bacon.
Gravy simmered in a copper pan.
There was coffee, cider, and a small blackberry preserve jar she had been saving since September.
It was the finest meal she had prepared since the funeral.
She carried everything to the dining room one dish at a time.
Nobody offered to help.
The family sat talking.
The patriarch occupied the heavy oak chair at the head of the table.
The cook noticed immediately.
That chair had belonged to the late owner.
It was broader than the others.
Stronger.
Years earlier, the owner had ordered it rebuilt after noticing the cook never sat during long account evenings.
“You stand because you're frightened of breaking the chairs,” the owner had said.
The cook had denied it.
The owner had looked at her for perhaps three seconds.