Page 38 of The Only One Left

I think of last night’s wind and how it seemed to jostle the entire house. My mind turns, wondering if that’s what caused the crack. And if there are more just like it now scattered about Hope’s End. And, if a few wind gusts can do all that, how much damage an actual storm would cause. The thought sends me rushing down the remaining steps, eager to be on solid ground. Well, as solid as ground can be atop a cliff that’s being eaten away by the ocean.

In the kitchen, I find Archie at the stove, looking like he’s been cooking for hours, even though it’s barely past seven. A stack of pancakes sits atop a platter on the counter, along with a plate full of bacon and a basket of fresh-baked blueberry muffins.

“Nice to see a fellow early riser,” I say.

“It’s Tuesday,” Archie says. “Delivery day. All the groceries for the week arrive bright and early every Tuesday.” He gestures to the food on the counter. “Help yourself, by the way. There’s fresh coffee, too.”

I make a beeline toward the coffee and pour myself a mug. The scent alone perks me up.

I take the mug to the counter and down half the coffee in three huge gulps.

Archie notices and says, “Rough night?”

“I had trouble sleeping.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. New place and all that. Probably didn’t helpthat the wind was wicked last night.” At the stove, Archie measures out some Quaker Oats from a cardboard cylinder and dumps them into a pot of boiling water. “We always get a few gusts, being up here on the bluff with nothing to protect us. But last night was something else.”

That doesn’t explain what else I heard during the night. I know what wind sounds like. And it doesn’t sound like footsteps. I think again of Mary. Had she heard them, too? Couldthatbe the reason she left so suddenly?

“Did Miss Hope’s previous nurse ever mention hearing things or having trouble sleeping?”

“Mary? Not that I can recall.”

I reach for a muffin on the counter and start peeling away the liner. “How well did you know her?”

“Well enough, I guess. Nice girl. Seemed to be great with Miss Hope,” Archie says, proving Jessie wrong about only Mrs. Baker not calling Lenora by her first name. “Can’t say I’m a fan of the way Mary left, though. I understand this place isn’t for everyone. But you don’t just leave in the middle of the night.”

“There were no signs anything was wrong?”

“Not that I saw.”

“So she had no problems with Miss Hope?”

“I don’t think so.”

“And Mary never mentioned being nervous around her?”

Archie, stirring the oatmeal now bubbling on the stove, turns my way. “Areyounervous around Miss Hope?”

“No,” I say, aware the reply is too fast, too emphatic. To cover, I take a bite of muffin. It’s so delicious that I already know I’m going to be eating a second one, with maybe a third to snack on later.

“It’s good, right?” Archie says. “I coat the blueberries in flour. Keeps them from sinking to the bottom.”

“Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

“Here,” he says, turning back to the pot. “I pretty much grew up inthis kitchen. Started as a dishwasher when I was fourteen. By eighteen, I was the sous chef.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Almost sixty years.”

I pause, the muffin top in my hand lifted halfway to my mouth. “So you were here in 1929?”

“I was. Me and Mrs. Baker are the only two left from the good old days.”

“Were you here the night of—”

“No,” Archie says, also too fast and emphatic. “None of the help was here that night. Including Mrs. Baker. She’d left Mr. Hope’s employ earlier that day.”

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