A Proper Wife

“ARE you sure you won’t have some more of that roast?” James Kincaid asked, smiling at Ryan across the dining room table. “Brimley may have outdone herself this evening, don’t you think?”

Ryan looked up at Agnes Brimley, standing beside him, the usual look of prim disapproval in her eyes.

And well she might disapprove, he thought, his gaze settling on the serving platter in her hands.

Thick slabs of rare, well-marbled roast beef lay covered by a glistening sauce béarnaise. And why not? he thought wryly. The asparagus had been swimming in hollandaise, the potatoes had been adrift in butter.

What was roast beef and béarnaise sauce, compared to that?

“There’s plenty for seconds,” the housekeeper said brusquely.

Ryan smiled politely and shook his head.

“Thank you,” he said, “but I’ve had more than enough.”

More than enough was right, he thought as Brimley cleared the table. Mealtime at his grandfather’s house had become one adventure in dining after another.

In fact, it had almost reached the point where Ryan would have been grateful to see a bowl of plain brown rice appear once again on the table.

Still, he thought, eyeing his grandfather as he went through his familiar after-dinner cigar ritual, the change in diet didn’t seem to have done the old man any harm. If anything, James looked more robust than ever. He seemed that way, too. Lately, instead of announcing that it was his bedtime as the clock approached nine-thirty, he’d taken to settling in for a chat.

For three months now, the topic had been the same. Not, The World and How Much Better it Was Seventy Years Ago: James had given that up, along with Advice on How to Manage Kincaid, Incorporated, and the lecture that began with the words, “Time is passing,” and ended with the admonition that Ryan was going to be thirty-three soon and it was time he settled down.

No, Ryan thought, his jaw tightening. No. Ever since July, when his contract with Devon had expired, the Kincaid Friday night chat had begun with the same half dozen words...

“Have you heard anything from Devon?”

Ryan looked at his grandfather. And there the words were, he thought, smiling politely. He shook his head and gave the response he always gave.

“No, sir. I haven’t.”

“Ah,” James said. “No letters? No phone calls?”

“No.”

“And you have not tried to contact her?”

“No, Grandfather, I have not.”

James nodded. “Shall we adjourn to the library?”

Ryan sighed. Discussion ended, he thought with relief.

“Of course,” he said. “Let me help you.”

“No,” his grandfather said briskly. “Thank you, but I can manage.” He rose from his chair creakily but with surprising speed for a man who had recently passed his eighty-seventh birthday. “Ring for the old witch, will you, Ryan? Tell her to serve our coffee by the fireplace—and tell her she’d better have made that chocolate cream pie as I told her to.”

Ryan’s lips twitched. “I’ll do that.”

He made his way to the kitchen and delivered grandfather’s request—a much more polite version—firsthand. By the time he entered the library, James was seated in his favorite chair. There was a glass of cognac in his gnarled hand.

“Pour yourself a drink, my boy, and come and sit with me.” When Ryan was settled in a chair alongside, James cleared his throat. “Why haven’t you?” he said.

Ryan frowned. “Why haven’t I what?”

“Contacted her. Devon, I mean.”

Ryan’s frown deepened. This was a new tack.