"Mr. Creed," one of the ladies said. "Wherever did you study food preparation?"
"Why, in Paris, of course!" Rachel gushed.
I hadn't done anything of the kind. I was, in fact, self taught. But Rachel's lie set so well with the guests I didn't have the heart to correct her.
This morning she'd been charming and sweet, though I wondered how she'd react to a large crowd and long lines of hungry customers waiting to be seated.
I didn't need to worry: she had done an excellent job with the serving. She had a natural rhythm about her, an athletic grace that was evident in everything she did. I loved watching her move. She could be walking down a flight of stairs or carrying platters in and out of a busy kitchen, it didn't matter.
She was, in my eyes, a work of art.
Over the next few days Rachel and I settled into our routines. Afternoons, she'd shop for groceries, and I sawed off tree limbs that overhung the roof. Word on our food had gotten out, and we were doing ten tables of breakfast with the locals, more than half our capacity. Beth hired a teenager, Tracy, to help Rachel with the waitressing duties. Bob Pocket, the banker, had become a regular, and even Jimbo and Earl showed up twice, though they were disappointed to find us fresh out of squirrel both times.
Thursday morning, after our last breakfast guest had been served, I noticed Beth packing leftovers into a picnic basket.
"Hot date?" I said.
She didn't look up. "Sick friend."
Though Beth had been pleasant all week, she'd never gotten back to the degree of friendly she'd been prior to Rachel's comment about the pirate. She added four bottles of water to the basket and headed out the door without elaborating further. But as I saw her step out the door with the basket, my mind flashed to the quaint little church I'd passed the previous week, and the lady I'd seen carrying a similar picnic basket up the church steps.
"Think she's got a fella?" Rachel said.
"Why would you jump to that conclusion?"
"Might explain why she's acting so weird."
Rachel was hand-washing the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. A few strands of hair kept falling over one of her eyes. She straightened up, stuck her bottom lip out and tried to blow them off her face, but that didn't work. She tossed her head, but that didn't work either. She sighed, wiped her hands on her apron, and tucked the errant strands behind her ear. Then she said, "Are you still happy doing this?"
She extended an arm when she said it, indicating the kitchen, but I knew what she meant. It was a lot of work, and not the type I'd done before, at least not exclusively. For more years than I care to remember, my days consisted of hunting people or trying to keep from being hunted. I had acquired-okay, stolen-billions of dollars from the world's wealthiest and most dangerous criminals. Rachel didn't know I was a paid assassin, but she knew I was pretty comfortable financially. She, herself, had become a multi-millionaire through her association with me.
"We could be anywhere in the world right now," she said, "doing anything we've ever wanted to do."
"True."
"And?"
"It's been a nice break for me," I said.
"Just to be clear: if you could be anywhere in the world, doing anything you've ever wanted to do, this is what you'd choose?"
I glanced around the kitchen and back at her. "At this exact moment in time? Yes."
"Uh huh. And why's that?"
"For starters, I've always wanted to vacation with a beautiful girl."
"Not a gorgeous one, like me?"
"I meant to say gorgeous."
"A gorgeous girl like me that you love with all your heart."
"Exactly."
"But?"
"But I've also learned that I need to stay busy."
"You love to cook," she said.
"I do love to cook. But I wouldn't want to cook for a large restaurant, or have to prepare more than one meal a day. I also enjoy working with my hands, but I wouldn't want to be a full-time maintenance guy. This place," I gestured the way she had, "doesn't require too much cooking or maintenance. I get to hang out with you, and we've got the beach, the sun, the sand…"
"But there's something else."
I paused. "There is something else."
We looked at each other a minute and she said, "Are you going to tell me or do I have to beat it out of you?"
"I feel ridiculous saying it out loud, but…"
"But?"
"There's something going on in this town," I said, "some type of mysterious presence. A power that comes and goes."
"A power."
"Surely you've felt it."
"Jesus, Kevin. I'm supposed to be the crazy one."
I shrugged, thought about saying "you're still plenty crazy," but didn't.
She looked at me curiously. "It's almost like paradise to you, now that you've got these projects going."
"For now it is."
Rachel nodded, and went back to loading the dishwasher. "You're expecting a lot from me, after inviting me to go on a vacation with you," she said.
I let that comment hang in the air, and worked her entire conversation around in my mind as I scrubbed down the kitchen surfaces. The first two weeks of our coastal vacation had been right out of the millionaire's handbook, and Rachel had loved the five-star resorts in Virginia and Georgia, the limos, fancy restaurants, luxurious pools and spas.
Now that I thought about it, she hadn't been remotely enthused when I brought up the idea of hitting St. Alban's and checking out a quaint little B amp;B called The Seaside. But she agreed to come, and she did it for me. Then, a day into our stay, I'd thrown her into a waitressing job she wouldn't have tolerated under any other circumstances.
I thought about Rachel's comment, and what she'd asked me, and realized there were probably a hundred places she'd rather be right now. On the other hand, I couldn't help but notice her mental condition had improved dramatically since we'd come here. It seemed to change the moment we found that kid on the ant hill. Or maybe the moment just before, when we were exposed to the power for the first time.
"I never thought to check on that kid," I said.
"You mean Tracy?"
"No, I meant -"
"Where is she, anyway? I thought she was hired to help us clean. All she's doing is food service."
"Beth said she starts full time on Monday."
"She's kind of creepy, don't you think?"
"Beth or Tracy?"
Rachel turned to face me. "Both. But this Tracy girl, I don't know. She's like a robot or something."
"You mean because she's always happy?"
"Exactly. She's too happy. You know that movie, Stepford Wives? She's Stepford happy. In fact, everyone in St. Alban's seems to have that sort of vacant happiness."
Rachel hadn't just hit it, she'd knocked it out of the park. I wondered if the collective happiness among the locals had anything to do with the strange feeling I'd experienced.
"I've noticed that," I said. "Everyone we've met here is cheery to the point of seeming programmed."
"Except for the gang guys that tried to rape me that first night."
"Rape you? They said they were offering you a ride."
"And you said you're a pencil pusher for Homeland Security."
"I -"
"Only you happen to know a lot about explosives and computers and rescuing people from Lucite jail cells."
"I also know a lot about cooking and cleaning. But anyway, those gang guys aren't from St. Alban's."
"How do you know?"
"Their car had Georgia plates."
She studied me a moment. "Is that the sort of thing pencil pushers notice?"
I got back on the subject of our kitchen helper. "I'm sure Tracy was just happy to get the job. This is a pretty tough economy for a small town like this."