44 Charles Street

Francesca forgot about her then and remembered the appointment on Tuesday night. She had seen Chris’s son briefly again before he left on Sunday night. She had brought a lollipop home from the gallery to give him. She kept a bowl of candy there for kids. She asked Chris’s permission before giving it to him, and he didn’t object. Apparently their visit to the polar bear had been a big hit, and there was a new tiger cub at the zoo too. Ian loved the lollipop and waved goodbye to her when he left. He was a really cute kid. Seeing children like him never made her want one of her own, she just enjoyed the ones she met. She had fifteen artists to worry about instead of kids. That was enough for her, for now anyway, and maybe forever. Particularly with no man in her life. Crossing paths with kids like Ian was all the kid fix she needed. She didn’t need more. But she could easily see how crazy Chris was about his son. His eyes lit up whenever he looked at Ian.

Marya, the woman from Vermont, appeared at the house on Charles Street five minutes before the appointed hour the next day. She was wearing ski pants, snow boots, and a parka with a hood, and it was a cold day in New York too. She had gray hair cut in a stylish bob, and looked nothing like what Francesca had expected. And she was much older than she had sounded on the phone. She mentioned that she was fifty-nine, and had just lost her husband after a long illness. But she looked like a cheerful, happy person. She was lithe and had a youthful attitude and look, although Francesca was startled to realize she was nearly her mother’s age, but an entirely different kind of person.

And she was much more interested in checking out the kitchen than seeing her room, which she had glanced at rapidly and said seemed fine to her.

“I take it you like to cook,” Francesca said, smiling at her.

“Yes, I do. It’s been my passion ever since I was a little girl. I’m very lucky to be able to do what I love. It never feels like work.” And then Francesca suddenly realized who she was, and how oblivious she had been. She was Marya Davis, the celebrated cook. She had written half a dozen famous cookbooks, and Francesca had two of them on a shelf. She was one of the most successful chefs, and specialized in French cuisine, made easy for the masses and people who were busy. She demystified some of the famous French dishes, and had written an entire book on soufflés. And here she was in Francesca’s kitchen on Charles Street, examining the kitchen and sitting at the table. “I’m working on a new book,” she explained. “And I thought it might be fun to spend some time here while I do. It’s too quiet where I live, particularly now that I’m alone.” She wasn’t mournful about it, just a little wistful.

“Was your husband a chef too?” Francesca asked, curious about her. She had dancing eyes, and a huge smile, and seemed like one of the warmest, friendliest people Francesca had ever met. She was totally unassuming, and she looked completely at home in Francesca’s kitchen. And if she moved in, Francesca realized instantly that there would be some wonderful things to eat.

She laughed in answer to Francesca’s question about her late husband. “He was a banker, not a cook, but he loved to eat, particularly French food. We used to spend a month in Provence every year, while I tried out new recipes. We had a lot of fun together. I miss him,” she said simply, “so I thought it might be good to do something different and move here for a while. But I’ll need to go back to Vermont occasionally to check on the house, and it’s so pretty there in the late spring. But now that I don’t ski anymore, I’d rather be here in the winter months.” Francesca’s own mother still skied at sixty-two, and the two women were close to the same age, but they weren’t even remotely alike. Marya Davis was a woman of talent, substance, humor, and depth. Thalia was none of those. And Francesca was thoroughly enjoying talking to Marya. She was a lovely woman, and Francesca was thrilled to meet her and at the prospect of having her live at the house. She had been lucky with all three of her tenants.

They talked about the details a few minutes later. Marya thought the price was fine, and the room was all she needed, and she was delighted to be near the kitchen. It was the perfect setup for her.

“I hope you’ll let me try some of my new recipes on you,” she said shyly, and Francesca looked delighted.

“It would be an honor, Mrs. Davis.” Francesca smiled warmly at her. She was so sweet, she almost wanted to give her a hug.

“Please call me Marya, or you’ll make me feel very old. I suppose I am, I’ll be sixty next year.” She looked at least ten years younger than she was, and she was so simple and unassuming that it was endearing, and easy to feel close to her. Francesca could hardly wait for her to move in. She was planning to drive back to Vermont that afternoon, and promised to be back in a few days.