| |
* * *
Edward tapped his foot, waiting for his father to make up his mind. At least it was Sunday and he did not have to be into work again until tomorrow, which meant he could keep an eye on his father all day long. This was especially useful considering Edward hadn't anything else better to do.
Detective Stone was still on the case, but he'd told him the day before that Ray's trail had run cold.
"Madame Rita is not responsible for his disappearance," Stone said, "nor is she hiding him. Likewise, Mrs. Ruthers, though I daresay I understand now why you thought her capable of it. I hope I'm as feisty as she is when I'm that age."
With no new knowledge to guide him, Edward had decided his energy would be better spent on putting a stop to his father's foolishness.
"Well?" Edward finally asked his father after another minute of silence.
"I'm thinking," Charles Saunders replied.
Edward sighed, exasperated. "What is there to think about? Dr. Shannon says it isn't a choice anymore. You either stop eating things you should not, or your gastric ulcer is going to kill you."
"People don't die from gastric ulcers."
"They do if they don't heed their doctor's warning, continue to eat foods they should not, and rip a hole in their stomach lining."
His father looked hopelessly at him. "But foods taste so bland without salt and cream and fat."
Edward took in a deep breath. "I know, but surely we can find a way to satisfy your cravings. Perhaps all that's needed is a little experimentation."
There was a knock on his father's bedroom door.
"Come in, Myra," Charles called.
The door opened, and Myra stepped in carrying a tray of food.
"What is that?" Edward asked, eying it suspiciously. There was fried pork, potatoes, and pie. Three of his father's most favorite things.
"A little something for your father. I know he didn't eat anything after getting home from the doctor's yesterday, due to his gastric upset, and I thought he might be hungry." She set the tray down in front of Charles, who leaned over and inhaled its aroma.
"Smells delicious," he said, glaring at Edward, "which means I probably shouldn't eat it."
"Probably not," Edward agreed, irritated with Myra. She should know better than to bring his father food of this nature. Normally, she was much more of a stickler regarding his diet.
"Go on and eat it," Myra said, winking at Edward when his father's back was turned.
Edward didn't quite take her meaning. He looked again at his father's plate and saw the same fried, fatty foods that were causing the problems to begin with.
Charles smiled. "At least someone here wants me to be happy in the final years of my life."
He dug his fork into the meat and took a bite. His eyes widened. "This is delicious," he said, taking another forkful into his mouth. Every bite appeared to bring him joy like a child on Christmas morning.
He moved next to the potatoes. "Creamy. You must have used a pound of butter." He insisted Edward try some, and Edward had to admit it was delicious. Possibly the best mashed potatoes he'd ever eaten.
The pie was much the same. His father declared it buttery and flaky and filled with sugar—everything a pie should be. Edward had a bite and had to agree.
"That was one of the best meals I've ever had," Charles declared. "Now I imagine I must suffer for it."
Myra was brimming over with excitement. "Did you really like it?"
His father nodded. "It was delicious. I've never had potatoes so buttery. Please give my compliments to the cook."
"Your compliments have been received, and with many thanks." She tipped her head to him and his eyes widened.
"You made that meal?"
"That's right."
"I didn't even know you could cook. I mean, not like that."
"There are many things you don't know about me... Charles." She smiled shyly.
Edward said, "Myra, thank you for making my father such a splendid meal, but you know perfectly well it will bring him agony later. Frankly, I'm surprised he's not already bending over at the waist."
She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Why should he be? There was nothing in that meal that he's not allowed."
His father looked at her sharply. "Say that again."
She smiled as wide as the Mississippi River is long. "There's nothing in that meal you've eaten that should upset your gastric ulcer."
"But the food..." Edward said, dumbfounded. "Fried pork."
"Baked pork with the fat trimmed," Myra replied proudly.
"And the potatoes?" his father asked. "I tasted a pound of butter."
"You tasted no such thing. Cooking oils and fresh herbs mixed with only a sliver of butter."
"No cream?" Charles asked.
"None at all."
"The pie, though," Edward said, looking as bewildered as his father now. "Surely, the pie..."
But Myra was shaking her head. "Made from scratch, by me, without the use of lard, butter, or anything else you're not supposed to have, Charles." She was clearly delighted that she'd fooled them both.
"But... but..." Edward's father could hardly speak.
"I've been tweaking these recipes for you for some time now," she said. "There's no reason you shouldn't eat delicious foods full of flavor, so long as they don't hurt you. Edward needs you in this world quite a bit longer yet." She paused. "And so do I." She blushed suddenly, her features that of a young girl talking to her crush.
His father was looking at her with an affection Edward hadn't seen on the man's face since his before mother passed away. Edward slowly backed out of the room, leaving them alone.
Downstairs, the front door was just closing. The footman handed him a letter from Detective Stone. Edward ripped it open and read the detective's words carefully. Rage filled him from head to toe.
"I should have known," he muttered to himself, his voice seething with hatred.
"Sir?" the footman said, looking at him warily. He took a step back.
"I should have known!" Edward repeated, much louder and clearer this time. He slammed his fist against the wall.
"Er, shall I fetch your carriage?" the footman asked.
"There's no time for a carriage. I'm going to rip that woman from limb to limb when I find her." He ran from the house, leaving the footman to stare after him.
* * *
