Little White Lies Read Online Free PDF Page B

certainly didn’t require a clotheshorse to run it.
    A soft tap on the door and a person I suspect is the cook comes and peers through the glass, holding her hand to her eyebrows as if trying to shield her eyes from the emerging sun’s rays. She studies me carefully, then notices my luggage and decides to let me in.
    “Hello, Mr. Richards,” she says with a smile. “I’d shake hands, but they’re all flour. I’m Martha, and, as you might have guessed, I’m the cook.”
    This is followed with a hearty laugh and a slow shake of the head.
    “A.J. said he hired a white man to be the boss around here, but I thought he was just telling another one of his stories. That A.J., he’d rather lie than tell the truth any day.”
    Again a laugh and another head shake. She walks to the stove and then turns around to look me over from a different angle.
    “Of course, he might have just hired you for the day to help him pull this thing off. Would you help him do something like that? Fool ol’ Martha?”
    Before I can answer, she laughs again and shakes her head still one more time.
    “Naw, you look like the real thing. If you were a phony, you would be talking a mile a minute trying to convince me you were for-real, instead of letting me run on and make a fool of myself.” She points to a chair. “Bring your bags in and sit over there. I’ll make you some breakfast.”
    I let the door close lightly so the latch does not engage. I don’t know if the lock is set or not and I don’t want to have to call Martha to let me in again. I grab two bags and leave one to hold the door open while I retrieve the rest and place them in a corner out of the way. Straightening from my task, I brush my hands together and return my attention to Martha who is rummaging in the fridge with her back to me.
    “Martha, I appreciate the offer, but I really don’t want any breakfast right now,” I tell her. “I would rather just… “
    I’m cut off in mid-sentence by a stern look. No laughing or head shaking now. Perhaps I had better reconsider and give in this one time.
    “Well, okay. Maybe a cup of coffee and some toast would be good about now.”
    The smile is back. I should have been a diplomat working for the U.S. State Department or some such outfit. I could have achieved world peace by now instead of running some estate no one ever heard of.
    Martha nods and walks to the refrigerator. Close call. As she goes about her business, I take the opportunity to look around. The kitchen is a fairlylarge room with all the latest equipment. There’s a stainless steel Sub-Zero refrigerator over against the far wall. Martha’s work area is a large island with a sink and a cutting board. Copper pots and pans hang from a wrought iron rack suspended from the ceiling where two skylights illuminate the kitchen as the emerging morning sun begins to compete with the artificial lights.
    The range is a restaurant-style gas stove with six burners of various sizes. The kitchen table sits off to the side. The table is made of oak and could probably accommodate ten or twelve people comfortably. It occupies an area bordered by a bay window at one end. I’m standing on still more oak. The floor is made of tongue and groove oak planks with a clean, but dull finish. It’s a nice way to do it… a bright shine would not fit in this utilitarian atmosphere.
    The diamond shaped leaded glass windowpanes recast the sun’s rays into multicolored lights that dance gently through the room. The overall effect is pleasant and I find I am very much at home already.
    Martha walks over and places a cup and saucer on the table. In her other hand she holds a silver coffeepot. She fills my cup, places the pot on the table and returns to her duties. Somehow the sterling silver pot fits right in the men’s club decor. There’s a partially open door across from me, near the entrance to the kitchen. I lean over and see that it leads to a large pantry for storing kitchen supplies. A