She was aware of his problem with Mrs. Quinn, she had said. As was the entire town, he thought glumly. But the young woman looked quite apprehensive at the thought of cooking for such a punctilious crowd. And who could blame her? Besides, she had confided shyly. What with one thing or another, while she took care of her ailing husband and made ends meet, she hadn’t really noticed her own condition. Until now. And he wouldn’t want a cook who turned green in the mornings and got queasy looking at an egg dribbling out of its shell and lolloping into the frying pan, now, would he? No amount of money would tempt her. Just as well, he thought as he left her. There wouldn’t be much once the guests had been driven away because he couldn’t feed them. Even Ridley had found another place to eat, and Judd could hardly blame him for that. Odd, though, that he’d stayed around for Mrs. Quinn’s lumpy porridge and rubbery fish, only to vanish at the prospect of Judd’s cooking. He, at least, could follow his mother’s recipes.
