I made myself slow down long enough to offer the weekend cook a smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Klein.” The plump woman looked up in surprise as she set a jam-smeared plate in the dishwasher rack. “Miss Julie! Did you need something?” A horrified look on her face, she started toward the breakfast room. “That Lindy—what did she forget this time?”“Oh, no, Lindy’s doing a great job.” I kept forgetting my place, apparently. Which was not the servants’ areas. “I just wanted to tell you in person how much I enjoyed the . . . the scrambled eggs. You must have a special secret for making them so tasty and moist.”“Goodness me! Why, thank you, Miss Julie!” She pressed a hand to her bosom, and her florid complexion turned even redder. “Must be the extra pat of butter in the skillet, and of course not overcooking them.”“I’ve got to remember that next time I—” I started to say, scramble eggs for Grandpa. I covered the heart-stopping surge of homesickness with a cough.
