“That’s all right.” He rests his tall, lean frame against the back of his chair. “I would rather prefer some company for a while, if you wouldn’t mind? I don’t tend to do very well with solitary confinement.”
The frankness of his confession surprises me, so much so that I don’t catch myself before I ask, “If that’s the case, why rent out the whole place so that you’re alone?”
He grins again. “But I’m not alone.”
“I’m only here to help should you need something.”
“And as it happens, I am in need of a breakfast companion.”He straightens, gesturing toward the kitchen. “Fetch yourself a plate. We will eat together.”
I pale, thinking of Mrs. Jensen and what she would say about me eating her food. “I’m not sure if I should…”
“I would consider it a great personal favor,” he tries again. “It’s boring as well as unhealthy to eat alone.”
“Is it?”
“Quite.”
I stand in place for a few more moments, debating, until I decide that Mrs. Jensen would likely prefer her guest happy even if it means I sit myself for breakfast. Resolved, I disappear back into the kitchen for a plate and a slice of bread.
When I return, he is standing at the opposite head of the table with a dining chair pulled out, indicating with a nod that I am to sit. Still not wanting to upset him, I do so, my heart rate ticking up when he so easily pushes in the chair once I’m seated. I expect him to walk away then but instead he crouches, picking up one of the small white flowers that must have come loose from my hair. He holds it up to me in the center of his wide palm, holding my gaze at the same time, and I take it back with a quiet, “Thank you,” as he straightens with an easy smile.
He must think I’m someone else,I think, setting the fallen flower next to my plate as he heads for his own place at the table. Perhaps he had misunderstood Mrs. Jensen when she said I was her girl. Believes I’m family instead of simply the help. I should correct him. I should. I open my mouth to speak, but as I stare down at the full plate of food before me, I find I can’t quite get the words out that might take away a meal.
Instead, I make a quick sign of the cross, pretending that my moment of hesitation was nothing more than my usual recitation of The Lord’s Prayer before eating. When I look back up, I expect to see him doing the same now that he’s taken his chair, but his eyes are still on me.
“What is your name?”
“My name?” I nibble a bit at the bread while I politely but impatiently wait for him to start eating his own food. “It’s Cora.”
“How fitting for a Catholic.” That grin again. “Is it a family name? A remembrance?”
“No. Or well, I don’t think so,” I tell him, trying to think if anyone had ever mentioned anything remarkable about my name before. “My parents were young when they had me, and their families…” I clear my throat before accidentally confessing a story that would certainly give me away if he really does think I’m someone that I’m not. “They must have simply heard it and picked it.”
“Whispered to them by the stars, perhaps,” he ventures.
I outright laugh at the idea before replying, “Maybe to my father. But not to my mother.”
“She doesn’t make a habit of talking to stars?”
“She does not.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Converse with the constellations?”
I consider him again, trying to determine if he is poking fun at me, but his expression holds only an earnest curiosity.
“I can’t say that I do,” I admit. “Why would I?”
“You pray,” he points out, making it sound like a counterargument rather than a simple observation.
“Yes. To God.”
“ToyourGod?”
TomyGod? Has it ever felt like he’s mine? My mother’s surely. My father’s at times. But mine? As if he can hear the direction of my thoughts, my breakfast companion continues, “You could always choose a new one.”