Crestmont by Holly Weiss Page B

improper things, as Papa would say,” Eleanor declared with as much authority in her voice as a nine-year-old could muster.
    “It’s not improper, silly,” her older sister chided. “It just means Isaiah doesn’t like any butter on his bread.”
    “You said it, Peg, my dear. You are wise beyond your fifteen years. Watch the magic, ladies.” Isaiah kept an eye on his audience as he pulled four large loaves out of the oven with a flourish. “Bare naked bread. A superior alternative to cookies.” He flipped one loaf out of the pan and started slicing. Aromas of oatmeal, yeast and salt hit their noses.
    “Here, Peg, run this piece over to Gracie and let her have a taste of heaven.” Peg shook her headno in a “don’t do it” warning as Gracie reached for the butter. “I am offended you might even think to cover up the taste of my oatmeal bread with butter,” Isaiah criticized. “None of that malarkey, girl.”
    Eleanor took one bite out of her slice and set it down on the table. “Well, if there are no cookies, I’m off to find Dora for a game of marbles. Tell Mama I’ll be back in time for dinner, Peg.” Eleanor said.
    “Okay, but less noise, Eleanor,” Peg warned. Turning to Gracie she said, “Getting cooking lessons? Isaiah’s a great teacher. He taught me how to mix the ice cream for the Wednesday picnics.”
    “Gracie, you’re holding that knife like it’s your worst enemy. Courage, young woman; a utensil is your servant.” Isaiah closed his huge hand over hers and worked the knife expertly up and down through the parsley until Gracie’s head started to spin.
    “Okay, now drain those potatoes and put them gently back into the pot.”
    “But you said they went into the serving bowl.” Exasperated, Gracie pushed some wet curls off her face.
    “Later. If we put them back in the pot now, we’ll keep them hot and evaporate any excess water. Nothing should come between those pretty potatoes and this butter. Nope,” he said, spreading her fingers so she dropped the stick of butter on a plate next to the potato pot. “Don’t dump it in one piece. You have to cut it into pieces so it melts evenly. Now sprinkle the parsley all over. No, not in one place. All over. Good. Now take your spoon and stir the potatoes to coat them with the butter and parsley. When you’re ready, turn them gently out into the serving bowl and behold! You have a feast for the eye as well has the palate.”
    “Uh, huh.” Gracie wiped her forehead with her apron and lifted the pot.
    “You have to sing your love into each dish, Gracie. Makes it taste better.” Isaiah’s voice boomed out “If You Were the Only Girl in the World” as he stirred an immense pot. “Know the words to this one? Come on, sing along.”
    Trying to comply, Gracie sang “and I were the only boy…” She held out the last note and gingerly turned the parsley potatoes out into the serving bowl. She stopped promptly when Olivia pushed through the swinging doors.
    “Pudding.” announced Olivia. She stepped up to the stove, reaching on tiptoe to kiss Isaiah.
    “What?” Gracie asked.
    “He always sings that song when he makes pudding. I keep telling him to switch it to a girl’s name, but he says that would be violating the lyricist’s wishes. When he makes soup it’s “I’m Just Wild About Harry.”
    “And ‘Annie Laurie’ when he makes his fancy French cassoulet ,” Peg finished. “Have fun, grownups. I’m off for a swim.” She disappeared through the staff dining room door.
    “Gracie here has a new job cooking for some woman in Eagles Mere, so she’s taking lessons,” Isaiah told Olivia proudly.
    “He’s been real patient with me, Olivia,” Gracie noted. “How did you learn to cook so well, anyway, Isaiah?”
    “Ahem,” he cleared his throat, “the question should be ‘how did you become a master chef?’ please.”
    “Okay, tell me how you became a master chef and such a good singer,” said Gracie, propping herself