Rainy Day Dreams: 2 by Virginia Smith, Lori Copeland Page A

“I’m accustomed to looking after myself. It”—she bit down on her lower lip—“gives me something to do.”
    “Perhaps tonight you could join me for supper.” She displayed an encouraging smile. “The proprietress of the café next door is a lovely woman, and she would enjoy meeting you.”
    Best not to mention the deluge of eager men who would also enjoy making her acquaintance. That would scare this shy violet off for sure.
    A look of interest flashed across Miss Everett’s features, and Kathryn thought she might accept. But in the next moment, the sad mask returned. She shook her head. “Thank you, but I think I’d prefer a tray here. At least for now.”
    Should she insist? Pull the woman out of her self-imposed isolation and into the only society Seattle had to offer, whether she liked it or not?
    With a sigh, she nodded and turned to go. Miss Everett was a grown woman, older by several decades. Certainly old enough to make her own decisions. Whatever events had turned her into this sad, reclusive person were none of Kathryn’s business.
    Promising to return for the tray after she finished her duties, she left.
    Straightening the guest rooms proved not to be as onerous a task as she feared. True, the bed linens did not look as crisply immaculate as hers at home after Mrs. Porter was done with them, but they were at least neat. And though Madame spoke with grim satisfaction of chamber pots to be emptied, she did not find a single one. Apparently guests preferred the solitude of the privy out back. The occasional discarded article of clothing she merely folded with two careful fingers and laid neatly across the foot of whatever bunk was closest. Other than Miss Everett, the hotel was empty of guests, so the work went quickly without distractions. She finished all the rooms on the left-hand side of the hallway in less time than expected and started on the others with a much improved outlook. Running a hotel was not difficult in the least. She directed a smirk toward Madame’s sitting room below.
    She approached the room in the far corner, the one where Madame had installed Jason. After a perfunctory rap on the door with her knuckle, she pushed it open. Whereas most of the guests had left their bed linens in various states of disarray, Jason had taken care to smooth the coverings flat on the bunk in the corner. The second bunk had been stripped in preparation for removal. The linens lay neatly folded at the foot of the bare mattress. Well, he may be rude, but at least he was neat. In a rush of magnanimous charity, she decided to ask if Madame could spare a chair for this room as well.
    Arranged on the smooth covering of the bed in the corner wasan assortment of items—a tidy stack of clothing with a hat resting on top, a shaving kit, a—
    She drew a sudden intake of breath. That was an artist’s palette! The surface was a satisfying mishmash of hues and pigments, blended together in a rainbow-colored jumble. There were paint-brushes in varying sizes too, and made of expensive red sable. And those things there, what were they? She widened her eyes. Were they…
    Her lungs emptied of air. She tiptoed into the room, gaze fixed on a half dozen narrow objects as long as her hand, some of them shriveled and malformed, the others rounded. Why, those were paints in tin tubes with screw-on lids. Monsieur Rousseau used these new paints in his own work, and touted them to all his students. The sealable tubes were so much more effective than pigskin bladders. And more expensive too. Though she had been trying to convince Papa that the higher cost was worth the extra money because paint waste would be virtually eliminated, he refused to see reason.
    So focused was she on admiring the tubes of paint that at first she did not see the canvas. When she did, a chill spread from the back of her neck down her spine and over her entire body, and for a moment she was paralyzed. It had been centered on the wall beside the door