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  “Gladys isn’t feeling up to preparing breakfast today, so I’ve taken over.” Lavinia hurried to the stove where the bacon was sizzling, turned the strips and added a dollop of butter to the second frying pan.

  She took an egg out of the basket and rapped it against the edge of a bowl as Gladys had instructed her. Something went wrong, and the slimy mess oozed over Lavinia’s hands. A groan escaped her.

  Gladys clucked her tongue. “Don’t hit it so hard, Miss Lavinia.”

  “Here you go.” Henry held out a damp cloth.

  “Thanks.” She wiped her sticky hands, grabbed another egg and tapped it on the lip of the bowl, doing her best to ignore the handsome man leaning against the counter. Her efforts resulted in a jagged crack. She positioned the egg over the frying pan, careful to get it close enough, and gently pulled the shell apart. The egg plopped into the pan with the sunny yellow yolk intact. So far, so good.

  As she held the spatula and watched the white part cook, trying to determine the right time to flip the egg, the thundering of feet on the stairs announced the children’s imminent arrival. She turned just in time to see the three of them racing through the dining room.

  “I’m going to win!” Alex hollered.

  “Oh, no you’re not.” Marcie shot forward.

  They reached the kitchen doorway at the same time, with Dot right behind. The little girl darted between them, tripping Marcie in the process and bumping into Alex. The three children toppled over.

  Alex dragged himself out of the heap and huffed. “I was first.”

  “No you weren’t. I was.” Marcie popped up and glared at her brother.

  Dot sat on the floor with her lower lip puffed out in a pout. “You’re wrong. I’m the winner, aren’t I, Uncle Henry?”

  “From what I saw, six arms and legs were tangled up together, so that makes it a three-way tie.”

  Lavinia smiled. “He’s right. You’re all winners and get an extra slice of bacon.”

  The bacon! She spun around, grabbed the tongs and flipped the sizzling strips.

  Gladys helped Dot to her feet and dusted her off.

  Marcie sidled up to Henry. “It wasn’t really a tie, was it? You just said that so Dot wouldn’t cry, right?” The precocious girl didn’t miss much.

  Henry ruffled Marcie’s mass of dark curls that Lavinia had yet to wrestle into a braid. “I saw three young Hawthorns burst through that door at the same time, and I couldn’t be prouder. My nieces and nephew know how to go after what they want. If I’d known there was extra bacon to be had, I’d have been racing here, too.”

  Lavinia slid the spatula under the egg and attempted to turn it over, but the slippery thing slid off before she was ready. The yolk broke open. Gladys made preparing breakfast seem easy, but the task was harder than it looked.

  Marcie made a choking sound. “I’m not eating that egg.”

  Alex wandered over and peered into the pan. “Why are you cooking and not Miss Gladys?”

  “She’s not feeling well, so I’m taking over.”

  He glanced at the kitchen table, where Gladys sat holding Dot, and back again. “What’s wrong with her? She doesn’t look sick.”

  “It’s just my joints.” Gladys held up her bent fingers. “They get stiff every now and then.”

  “Then let Uncle Henry cook,” Marcie said. “He’s good at it.”

  Henry placed his hands on Marcie’s shoulders and turned her toward the table. “Your aunt would have an easier time of it without you children getting in her way. Take a seat, and your breakfast will be ready soon.”

  They obeyed him without the usual objections Lavinia encountered. Henry came alongside her and lowered his voice. “If you’d like, I could fry the eggs.”

  The last thing Lavinia needed was for her first attempt at cooking to result in total failure with Henry watching. She could ask Gladys for another egg-frying lesson later when she didn’t have a room full of young critics.

  “You’ll need this.” She held out the spatula to him.

  He chuckled. “And here I thought you’d turn me down.”

  She probably should have. Working side-by-side was more disconcerting than she’d expected. She was all too aware of Henry’s powerful presence. His muscular arm brushed hers as he attempted to salvage the sorry egg, sending a jolt of electricity through her.

  Taking her cue from him, she adopted a playful tone. “I considered refusing, but since we’re running behind schedule this morning, I decided to let you come to my rescue.” Again. This was their third interaction—and the third time he’d found her in a less than flattering situation.

  He leaned so close that his breath warmed her cheek. “I only come to the rescue of pretty women with piles of curls.” He tugged on one of her curls that had broken free of her pins, let it go and smiled as the spiral sprung back into place.

  Had Henry just flirted with her? The idea seemed preposterous but strangely appealing. Since she had no idea how to respond, she remained silent and focused on her task.

  Several minutes later, they all sat around the table. Every plate boasted crispy strips of bacon and, with one exception, expertly fried eggs that would have made even the finicky chef at the restaurant inside her father’s Royal Crowne Hotel in New York City happy. Henry had taken the remains of her failed attempt. He speared a bite of the egg and ate it with as much relish as the children did theirs.

  He looked up, caught her staring at him and winked. Merriment danced in his blue eyes. It seemed he was just toying with her. She’d been a ninny to think he was drawn to her. Oh, there were sparks between them, however, they weren’t fueled by attraction but by their adversarial relationship. They might have deferred their discussion regarding the children’s future until after Christmas, but it was on her mind. No doubt it was on his, too.

  Alex and Marcie left to walk to school with their next-door neighbor, Norma, a short time later, lunch pails in hand. Dot went to her room to watch her siblings as they headed down Church Street toward the schoolhouse on the west side of Main, which doubled as the church while the small congregation worked to raise the funds needed to construct a building of their own.

  Gladys began to gather the dirty dishes, but Lavinia stopped her. “I’ll see to those. You need to rest.”

  “I’m not one to shirk my duties. If I rub on some liniment, I’ll be fine. Thanksgiving is tomorrow. There’s a meal to be prepared, and I aim to do it.”

  “Now, Gladys,” Henry began, “I’m inclined to agree with Lavinia. Bustling around a kitchen for the next two days when you’re already hurting is likely to make things worse. What you need is someone who could work under your direction. I’m available.”

  Gladys studied him through narrowed eyes. “You can fry an egg, but there’s a lot more work involved in fixing a feast. Are you sure you’re up for that?”

  He nodded. “Provided Lavinia has no objections...” He turned to her. “What do you say?”

  Why must he be so agreeable? And helpful? And adorable? With that boyish eagerness in eyes, she was powerless to resist him. “It appears I don’t have a choice, but it would ease my mind if I knew you’d be able to follow Gladys’s directions.”

  “Ah.” He flashed her a winsome smile and continued, his lovely rolled R a bit more pronounced than usual. “You’re wondering if I can cook. The answer is yes. I’m a long-time bachelor and know my way around a kitchen. Besides, I’ll have Gladys there to make sure I don’t make a mess of things.”

  His confidence eased the tension in Lavinia’s shoulders. “Very well. I’ll leave the meal in your hands then.”

  “Don’t worry. It will be a feast you’ll remember for years to come.”

  Chapter Three

  The blast of pumpkin-scented air that escaped as Henry opened the oven door that
afternoon made his mouth water. He could almost taste the rich filling. Plunging a butter knife into it and marring that smooth surface wouldn’t be easy, but he had to know if the pie was fully baked. He stuck in the blade and quickly pulled it out. Clean.

  Gladys lay on the settee he’d moved into the kitchen and watched as he set the pan on a trivet in the middle of the table. “If that tastes as good as it smells, we’re in for a treat. The custard is smooth, and your pie crust turned out quite flaky. I never heard of keeping the ingredients on ice before, but I’m going to try that next time.”

  “I think every kitchen should have an icebox. I’m surprised Mr. Crowne’s doesn’t.”

  She snorted. “He’s not one to think about making life easier for his household staff. It’s a different story when it comes to his hotels and restaurants, though. I hear they have all the modern conveniences.”

  Henry wasn’t surprised. From what he’d seen, Paul Crowne put his hotel empire before everything else, even his own family. They were expected to do his bidding, just as his employees and vendors were. Henry had seen that himself when Jack landed the contract for the iron work at the Crowne Jewel Hotel in Philadelphia. Mr. Crowne had barked orders at Jack. The domineering man had been just as demanding with Pauline, whose artistic bent had earned her the right to plan the hotel’s décor.

  To her credit, his eldest daughter hadn’t cowed under the pressure. Pauline had stood up to her father regarding the work. She did so again when she fell in love with Jack and chose to marry him against her father’s wishes. She’d held her head high at the wedding, even though her father had refused to come and forbade his wife from attending, too.

  At least Lavinia had shown up. Whether she’d chosen to defy her father or not, Henry didn’t know. She was understandably reserved that day, glossing over the matter of her parents’ glaring absence with well-rehearsed comments. Despite her aloofness, he’d detected a note of sadness in her bearing and pain in her eyes.

  His attempt to make her feel more welcome at the wedding had resulted in disaster. She hadn’t heard him coming and had started, causing her to drop the piece of cake she’d been holding. Her mortification led to a temporary collapse of the barrier she’d erected. In that moment, he’d seen a joyless young woman trapped in a lonely existence.

  If only she could break free, as her sister had. But from what he’d seen so far, Lavinia was more deeply entrenched in the ways of her father’s world than before. Worse yet, she wanted to whisk the children away and immerse them in that life, too, which wasn’t going to happen. They deserved to be happy. So did their devoted aunt, who was trying hard to prove that she was capable of caring for them.

  Henry smiled at the memory of Lavinia staring at the frying pans that morning with determination befitting a military commander facing a ruthless foe. If only she could bring that stoutheartedness to bear in her dealings with her iron-fisted father.

  “Don’t be daydreaming, Mr. Henry,” Gladys chided. “This meal won’t fix itself.”

  He roused himself from his musings. “You’re right.”

  “At least you took a pleasant journey, judging by that smile.”

  The front door opened, and childish laughter filled the entryway. Lavinia and the children had returned. With school finished for the day, the holiday recess was officially underway. Despite the terrible losses they’d suffered the past year, they would celebrate with a meal sure to help ease the heaviness in their hearts.

  Dot burst into the kitchen first and flung herself at him. “We’re back, Uncle Henry.”

  “I see.” He scooped her into his arms. “It must be cold out there. Your cheeks are rosy, and your nose is red.” He popped the tip of it with a finger.

  The little girl giggled. “The hot cocoa will warm us up. Is it ready?”

  “It will be. I just have to fill the mugs.”

  “And put whipped cream on top, right?”

  “By all means. I can’t imagine cocoa without it.”

  Marcie and Alex arrived, followed by Lavinia, who greeted Gladys, plumped the pillows behind her and pulled up the throw that had slipped off the side of the settee. “How are you feeling?”

  “A bit better.”

  “Helping Henry isn’t too taxing, is it?”

  Gladys glanced at him and actually smiled. Her gruff exterior didn’t fool him. He’d seen the longing in the housekeeper’s eyes when he’d joked with the children. Not that he let on that he’d been watching her. If he had to guess, he’d say that the longtime servant had faced difficulties in the past, which had left her hardened. How sad. Life was meant to be enjoyed not endured.

  She returned her attention to Lavinia. “I’m not much help, other than keeping him company and serving as his taster. Mr. Henry is a far better cook and baker than I’ll ever be. Just wait until you sit down to the meal tomorrow.”

  He eagerly awaited Lavinia’s response. He’d poured himself into the preparations in the hope that she’d see how supportive he was of her plan to make this year’s holiday celebrations the best they could be. The fact that he was enjoying himself immensely was a bonus. He embraced any excuse to spend time cooking. His opportunities to do so were few and far between, but one day...

  No. He wouldn’t be opening a restaurant after all. He’d been granted the privilege of caring for the children, and working well into the night wouldn’t fit with his new role in their lives.

  “I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.” Lavinia’s words lacked conviction, and her smile appeared forced, which was puzzling.

  Marcie bounded up to him. “I’m going to eat lots, Uncle Henry.”

  “Me, too,” Alex added.

  Henry shifted Dot to a more comfortable position on his hip. “How about you, Dimples? Are you going to fill your plate?”

  She nodded so enthusiastically that her curls bounced.

  “And what will be on it?” Henry asked.

  “Food.”

  Laughter erupted all around him, but he managed to keep a straight face. “What kind of food? Turkey? Stuffing?”

  “She doesn’t like stuffing,” Marcie informed them. “But I do. Mama’s stuffing tasted so good.” The normally exuberant girl’s shoulders drooped, and her voice took on a sorrowful tone. “I wish she was still here to make it.”

  “I miss her, too, sweetie, but I know she’d want us to be happy.” Lavinia wrapped an arm around Marcie and drew their niece to her side. “I think a cup of cocoa would be just the thing to cheer us up, and I heard your uncle say he’ll have it ready for you soon. Why don’t we get you out of your coats so you’re ready for it?”

  The children trooped after Lavinia and returned shortly—without her. “Where’s your aunt?”

  “In the parlor,” Alex said, “putting another log on the fire.”

  “Very well. If you’ll take a seat at the table, I’ll serve you.”

  They clambered into their chairs on the side opposite the pies and awaited their treat. He prepared the drinks with his back to them, carried over the steaming mugs and set one in front of each of them.

  Dot clapped and squealed. “It has whipped cream and chocolate curls.”

  Marcie smacked her lips, and Alex nodded appreciatively.

  “I made a cup for you, too, Gladys.” He handed her one.

  “Why, thank you. It’s right fancy.”

  “What about Aunt Lavinia?” Dot asked. “She likes cocoa, too.”

  “I’ll take her some while you stay here and keep Miss Gladys company.”

  Moments later, he entered the parlor, mugs in hand. He held one out to Lavinia, who was seated in Pauline’s favorite chair, gazing at the fire. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you.” She took the cocoa and stared at it. “You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

  “What do you mean?” He
sat in Jack’s wingback armchair and sipped the tasty beverage.

  “This isn’t an ordinary cup of cocoa.”

  “I thought the children would appreciate that.”

  “I’m sure they do, but...” She set her mug on the side table and turned to face him. The sadness he’d seen all those years ago had returned. She must have been thinking about her sister. “You could have told me you know how to cook.”

  So that’s what this was all about? “What difference does it make?”

  “You said you know your way around a kitchen the way a bachelor does, but it’s obvious you know a lot more than that. I saw the pies you made. They’re not the work of a novice. Have you worked in a restaurant or something?”

  He’d spent as much time as possible in the one inside his hotel, but he didn’t advertise that fact since many men thought of cooking as women’s work. The miners he served appreciated a man who could broil a steak or whip up a mess of beans, but they didn’t come west expecting to eat white fricassee chicken or ragout of onions. If they knew he was a trained chef, he would become a laughingstock.

  “I don’t see why it matters, but I received some instruction.”

  “Where?”

  She was certainly persistent. That trait could serve her well when she encountered obstacles. He’d have to remember that, since she seemed to consider him one. “Back in Philadelphia. I made some wrought iron railings for a widow who’d been a student at Mrs. Goodfellow’s cooking school when she was young. She paid for the materials, but I offered her free labor in exchange for lessons.”

  “Why did you want to learn? Few men would.”

  He rubbed the chair’s smooth wooden arms. “I happen to enjoy cooking.”

  “It’s certainly a useful skill. You’ve proven that.” She picked up her mug and took a sip. A bit of the whipped cream remained on her upper lip, but she swiped it off with a finger and popped it in her mouth. She pulled out her finger, stared at it and blushed. The heightened color did nice things for her fair complexion. “Forgive me. That wasn’t very ladylike.”