The Sweetest Summer(77)
She hurled those suckers in the colander without a second of hesitation. Clancy laughed. “That was wicked good, kiddo. Now your next job is to take this sprayer”—he pulled the faucet extension as far as it would reach—“then sprinkle the berries until they’re clean.” The kid yanked the nozzle out of Clancy’s hands.
“Chris likes to help in the kitchen,” Evie said from behind the butcher block. Clancy noticed that she’d used the genderless name and continued to keep her distance.
“We cook a lot together, and we always make pancakes on Sundays back in . . .”
Clancy pretended he hadn’t noticed her awkward pause. He busied himself with flipping the sausage while keeping an eye on his kitchen assistant, who was drowning the living hell out of those berries. He began talking to himself, hoping Evie would share in the conversation. “This is freshly ground turkey sausage from a butcher here on the island. No antibiotics or growth hormones, free-range kind of bird raised on the mainland. Perfectly spiced, too.” He glanced over his shoulder. “There’s even fresh sage . . .”
Evie had taken a seat at the butcher-block island. She had her hands gripped together and her head lowered. The sight of her shoulders hunched like that hit Clancy hard. He studied the elegant line of her neck, bent low, and couldn’t imagine how desperate and afraid she must feel. If everything went well, Clancy would know soon enough. He’d know everything. And he would do whatever he could to help her.
“The blueberries look good, Chef Jellybean.”
“Hey! That’s my name!”
“I know!” Clancy grinned at her. “Now let me turn this off, okay?” He had to wrestle the faucet from the death grip of his sous chef. For the next fifteen minutes his assistant was indispensable—she helped set the table, flip the pancakes, and pour the milk, all while Evelyn sat in silence, trying to smile pleasantly when it was obvious she was about to lose it. They ate at the island, but since he had only two stools, Clancy had to pull up a dining room chair for himself. He sat so low that his chin barely cleared the butcher-block surface, which Christina thought was hilarious. Her aunt said almost nothing through the meal.
When they’d finished eating, Evelyn volunteered to clean up, which gave Clancy a chance to grab the sheets from the dryer and make the guest bed. With that task completed, he had to go. Roll call was in just a few minutes.
“Evie, may I have a quick word with you, please?”
She turned slowly from her work at the sink. Christina was busy at the dining room table, humming to herself as she used a dishtowel to dry every plastic cup or bowl Clancy owned, though not a single one had been used in the course of making breakfast. Evelyn was a smart cookie.
She joined him at the juncture of the hallway and living room, but immediately circled around so that she would have both Christina and the front door in her line of sight. Clancy raised an eyebrow. Did she think this chat was a trap? Maybe she still thought this whole thing was a trap, and that he was setting her up.
He sighed and smiled sadly. “Look, Evie, I have to go into work and I don’t know when I’ll be back. I never know, unfortunately. But I want you to know you are welcome to stay. I want you to stay. Just don’t answer the door or the phone and you’ll be fine.”
Evelyn raised her ethereal green eyes to his, and Clancy saw tears begin to form. She shook her head.
“So? Will you be here when I get back?”
“I”—she looked around his house—“I don’t know.”
“Fair enough,” Clancy said.
“We don’t have anywhere else to go at the moment, but I . . .”