“We all did this,” Sara said. “Not just Reede, but all of us. That poor, poor woman. How can we make it up to her?”
“Show her Edilean isn’t full of lying, conniving low-life scum?” Roan suggested.
“That would be a start. Listen, keep her out as long as possible and I’ll get everyone together to do what we can to make her feel welcome. Kim and Jecca are going to murder us. I have to go. I need to—I don’t even know where to begin.” Sara didn’t say any more but clicked off, and Roan went back to the table to Sophie.
“What else do we need?” he asked her as he slid into the booth across from her.
“This is all too much. I don’t know how I’m going to pay you back,” Sophie said.
He wanted to say “Forgive us” but he didn’t. Instead, “Let me work with you” came out of his mouth. “I took a year off from teaching so I could write a novel, a murder mystery that was going to take the world by storm, but . . . ” He waved his hand. “Let’s just say that the world is safe. I’ve been known to cook a bit so maybe I could . . . ” He shrugged.
“Help make nanny sandwiches?”
Roan didn’t understand, so she told what Al had said.
Roan laughed. “Under a pound of beef and Al would think the sandwich was for girls.”
“Maybe I should make a roast beef sandwich that weighs as much as Al—or maybe just his foot. I’d call it The Al.”
“With horseradish sauce?”
“Of course.”
Roan grinned. “What about his wife? Mrs. Eats-Only-Lean?”
“The Two Sticks of Celery lady? Salad with grilled chicken pieces not—”
“Not a whole breast.”
“Of course not. That would be too much. And very, very thin bread. No mayo. Just a little olive oil with a touch of lemon juice. The Mrs. Al.”
Roan leaned back in the booth. “You might have something here. Sandwiches for the people of Edilean.”
“In that case, should I include arsenic or hemlock?”
“Yeow!” Roan said.
“Sorry. I’m sure they’re very nice people and I’m sure they just wanted to help Reede. But when I think of everyone laughing at me because I was working for a man I’d poured beer over, it gets to me. I don’t know how I’m going to face them in that shop. How can I serve sandwiches and soup to people who . . . who . . . ?”
“I guess that in Edilean we tend to take care of our own so much that we forget about outsiders. A few years ago a young woman, Jocelyn, inherited the big Edilean Manor, and we kept it from her that her gardener was actually Luke Adams.”
“The writer?”
“That’s him.”
“And she thought he was the guy who planted the petunias? How angry was she when she found out?”
“Not bad, but all her anger was at Luke, not the town.”
“You’re saying that I should understand and be forgiving, aren’t you?”
“I guess so. At least give us a chance to make it up to you. Will you do that?”
“I’ll . . . ” Sophie looked across the table. “Ask me again on the fifteenth of January.”
Roan smiled at her. “Fair enough. You ready to go? What kind of sandwich do you think a famous writer would like best?”
“One with New York Times Best Seller branded into the bread.”