When Maria knocked on her door and told her that supper was ready, she sighed, preparing herself for anything. She was pleasantly surprised that the food was excellent—although she’d never heard of, let alone eaten, enchiladas before—and as the easy conversation slowed, Clara stood from the table, the unusual meal that Maria had provided still tingling on her tongue. “That was delicious, and like nothing I’ve ever tasted before.” Maria’s thick, black braid swung as she turned around and motioned for Clara to sit. “Was it too hot for you, Señora?” she asked as she wiggled her finger at Sage and Saffron, whose job it apparently was to clear the dishes after supper. “Come now, ladies. I am a housekeeper, not a maid.” “Hot?” Clara asked, a quizzical glance at Hank as she took her seat. “Maria’s from Mexico, and we’ve grown accustomed to food the way it’s prepared there,”
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