Mary stood at the center of it with her sleeves rolled, issuing orders.
“Another pot of coffee.”
“More blankets in room seven.”
“Tell that man by the door he is not sleeping in his wagon.”
“He says he’ll be fine.”
“So did every fool who froze in a ditch.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mary hated when people called her ma’am.
At forty-three, she was beginning to understand why Audra had once threatened to throw a spoon at anyone who made her feel unnecessarily old.
The storm worsened.
Wind shook the windows.
Snow pressed against the lower panes.
At eight that night, Clara Jensen came through the kitchen carrying a bowl.
Clara was sixty-two now.
Her hair had gone almost entirely silver, but she still moved through a kitchen with the efficiency of someone half her age.
She had arrived at Blackwater as a frightened young cook decades earlier, convinced employers would dismiss her because of her own large body.
Audra had hired her.
Trained her.
Argued with her.
Eventually made her a partner.
Now Clara placed the bowl in front of Mary.
“Eat.”
“I’m busy.”
“Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Clara stared.
Mary looked at the bowl.
“You’re doing her face.”
“I learned from the best.”
Mary picked up a spoon.
Beef stew.
Potatoes.
Carrots.
Barley.
Audra’s winter recipe.
Mary swallowed.
Then stopped.
Clara saw.
Neither woman spoke.
The flavor was right.
That was the problem.
For half a second Mary expected Audra to come around the corner.
Broad and silver-haired, seated in the heavy wheeled chair she had used during her final years, criticizing the amount of pepper.
Mary put the spoon down.
“I can’t.”
Clara sat across.
“You can.”
“I don't mean the stew.”
“I know.”
Mary looked toward the busy kitchen.
“She should be here.”
“Yes.”
“It feels wrong.”
“Yes.”
“I keep thinking we’ve forgotten to tell her something.”
Clara’s expression softened.
“That's grief.”
“It keeps making appointments with dead people.”
Mary laughed once despite herself.
Then cried.
Clara reached across.
Mary took her hand.
“She built all of this.”
Clara shook her head.
“No.”
Mary frowned.
“Of course she did.”
“She started it.”
“Different.”
Clara nodded toward kitchen.
“You built parts.”
“Reed built parts.”
“Ruth did.”
“Jasper.”
“Saul.”
“Boyd, in his awkward way.”
“Everyone who worked here.”
“Audra hated being turned into the whole story.”
Mary wiped her eyes.
“I know.”
“Then don't do it now because she’s dead.”
That sounded so much like Audra that Mary laughed harder.
“God, you’re annoying.”
“Also learned from best.”
The front door opened.
A blast of snow entered.
Someone shouted.
“Traveler!”
Mary stood immediately.
A young man stumbled inside carrying another person.
A woman.
Unconscious.
Clothes soaked.
Mary’s grief disappeared beneath training.
“Table.”
The dining room moved.
Blankets came.
Warm water.