“My father?”
The words sounded natural when she said them.
That hurt too.
“Yes.”
“Some things.”
“Like what?”
She leaned against the doorframe.
“He hated cinnamon.”
I stared.
“He claimed it ruined coffee.”
“He was wrong.”
“I know.”
“He tapped his fingers when impatient.”
“Yes.”
“He never laughed loudly.”
“No. But when something really amused him, he looked down first.”
I looked away.
She knew him.
Not well.
But truly.
I folded the letters.
“Why become a housekeeper?”
Clara seemed prepared for the question.
“Because I needed work.”
“That simple?”
“Mostly.”
“And the rest?”
She took a breath.
“When I found out who you were, I searched your name.”
“Of course.”
“There were interviews. Articles. Photographs of this house.”
I nodded.
“I knew Mrs. Hale still lived here.”
“You wanted to meet her.”
“Yes.”
“And me?”
Clara took longer to answer.
“I wasn’t sure.”
That should have offended me.
