Chapter 10: The Caterer

The Haverford house at Siasconset sits at the end of a sand road, with gray shingles and a porch that wraps around three sides.

Rémy parked his truck by the kitchen door at a quarter to seven.

The back of the truck held two covered pots, a tray of rice and a basket of warm bread.

"I'll carry the second pot," he said. "You carry the first."

"You don't have to come in."

"I'm not coming in." He lifted the rice. "I'm coming as far as the pass-through. Somebody should stand where you can see them."

I put on my apron.

It was the white one I wear at the restaurant, with a stain on the pocket from last Tuesday's shift.

I tied it behind me, twice, and my hands did not shake.

Mireille stood at the kitchen door in a gray dress.

Beside her was Eleanor's housekeeper, an older woman with a ring of keys on her belt.

"Mrs. Haverford told me to open the back door and then go to bed," the housekeeper said. "I am very tired."

She put her keys on the counter and left.

The kitchen was big, with a copper range and a long wooden table. Through the swing door we could hear them.

Laughter. Glasses. Voices, all in French.

I stood by the door and listened.

"Hartford a été tellement ennuyeux," Preston said, and they laughed. "Les clients, les clubs. Elle m'a même fait un thermos de gumbo."

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