<0021 Good Morning, Bad Diet>
Winter sunlight slipped through a gap in the curtains and tapped Cynthia on the eyelids.
Her eyes opened.
Huh? Where am I?
For a moment, she stared blankly at the beige silk wallpaper on the ceiling.
Oh! I spent the night at Ms. St.Claire’s family home.
Cynthia checked the iPhone on her nightstand.
9:40 a.m.
“Oh. I overslept again….”
Feeling embarrassed, Cynthia cautiously opened her door and stepped into the hallway.
There, as though she had been waiting for precisely that moment, stood Jennifer Flynn in a light gray dress suit.
Miss Flynn inclined her head politely.
“Good morning, Miss Cynthia. Was everything to your satisfaction?”
Cynthia suddenly glanced behind her to see whether someone who actually deserved that form of address was standing there.
“Miss… you mean me?”
“Yes, Miss Cynthia.”
Apparently, getting used to the title was going to be Cynthia’s responsibility.
While Cynthia struggled to produce a coherent reply, Miss Flynn spoke with an almost impossibly fresh smile.
“Shall we arrange your breakfast? We can have it ready whenever you wish.”
“But it’s already nine forty. I really overslept. I think now would be fine.”
“Certainly. May I show you to the breakfast room downstairs?”
…The breakfast room?
Apparently, this house had an actual room devoted to eating breakfast.
Cynthia swallowed the question rising in her throat and followed Miss Flynn downstairs.
Mrs. Vanderwalt was waiting in the breakfast room.
A neat bob with natural strands of gray. A dark gray dress suit. A white gardenia brooch. Black loafers.
Her expression was just as kindly as it had been the night before.
“Good morning, Miss Cynthia. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes. Yes, very well!”
Cynthia’s voice came out unnecessarily loud.
The existence of an entire team of professionals who managed this household was unreal enough. The fact that they existed in such perfect condition in the morning was even harder to accept.
Mr. Pedersson emerged briskly from the passage leading to the kitchen.
A gray suit. Black Oxford shoes. Impeccable posture.
“Good morning, Miss Cynthia. The chef is still in the kitchen. Please let us know if there is anything in particular you would like for breakfast.”
“Oh, um… the chef came in?”
“Yes.”
Cynthia looked from Mr. Pedersson to Mrs. Vanderwalt, then to Miss Flynn.
What are you supposed to order in a house where a chef comes to work to make your breakfast?
While she struggled to answer, Mr. Pedersson asked with a warm smile,
“What would you care for?”
“I’ll just have some cereal with milk.”
Mr. Pedersson began checking something on the iPad in his hand.
“Would mixed-berry granola suit you?”
“Sorry?”
“For the milk, we have Jersey milk, low-fat milk, goat’s milk, oat milk, and almond milk.”
Cynthia paused.
Then, with some effort, restarted her thoughts.
“…On second thought, I think I’d be happy with whatever you give me.”
“Certainly.”
Mr. Pedersson nodded as though this were perfectly natural.
“I’ll ask the chef to prepare a simple breakfast.”
Cynthia relaxed.
A simple breakfast. Cereal and toast, then.
Ten minutes later, she surveyed the dishes in front of her.
Mixed-berry granola in a pottery bowl.
Jersey milk in an enamel milk jug.
Seasonal fruit in a crystal bowl.
A soft-boiled egg in a silver egg cup.
A butter croissant on a bone china plate.
Homemade strawberry jam in a small white porcelain dish.
A glass of orange juice.
Coffee in a Royal Copenhagen teacup.
Cynthia stared at the table.
“This is simple?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Pedersson smiled and nodded.
“Then what does complicated look like?”
“I shall ask the chef.”
Cynthia hurriedly waved her hands.
“No! Please don’t! This is wonderful. Really, wonderful! I feel like I could ask for sushi and it would appear out of nowhere!”
“Sushi… Would you like me to arrange some?”
“What?”
“We can contact a hotel whose sushi chef is originally from Tokyo. They are open today, so I believe that could be arranged.”
“No. No. No. Thank you.”
Cynthia quickly picked up her spoon.
“I’ve suddenly decided granola is my favorite food in the entire world.”
She had poured the Jersey milk over her granola and was chewing her third spoonful when she heard a piano from across the hallway.
Chopin, clear and assured.
Only then did Cynthia remember Louise.
“Has Ms. St.Claire already had breakfast?”
Mrs. Vanderwalt answered.
“No. She is still asleep.”
“…Sorry?”
This time, Miss Flynn repeated it.
“Miss Louise is still asleep.”
Cynthia looked across the hallway.
“Then who’s playing Chopin…?”
“Master Claudie.”
“…”
“He started rather late today.”
Cynthia froze with a spoonful of granola in her hand.
“How old is Master Claudie?”
“He turned six last October.”
“…Oh.”
She nearly dropped her spoon.
After a moment, Cynthia murmured in a very small voice,
“When I was his age, I got praised for hitting a cup with a spoon….”
Just then, footsteps came from the stairs.
Louise was making her way down in her purple track suit, holding the banister and swaying slightly.
She entered the breakfast room with her hair thoroughly disheveled.
The elegance Cynthia had seen onstage and at public appearances was nowhere to be found.
“Good morning, Miss Louise.”
Mrs. Vanderwalt, Mr. Pedersson, and Miss Flynn greeted her in unison.
Caught up in the moment, Cynthia stood from the table and bowed too.
“Mmm….”
Louise waved with her eyes half closed.
“Good morning, everyone….”
She dropped into the chair beside Cynthia.
Then she spent a considerable time staring into space.
Mrs. Vanderwalt spoke firmly.
“Miss Louise.”
“Yeees…?”
“Your breakfast is ready.”
“I’d like some ice cream, please.”
At this extraordinary menu choice, Cynthia froze with her spoon still in her mouth.
Mrs. Vanderwalt did not blink.
“No.”
“My brain needs sugar.”
“After breakfast.”
“You know I have low blood pressure and low blood sugar. My brain gets no circulation in the morning….”
“All the more reason to eat your breakfast.”
Mrs. Vanderwalt remained firm. Louise looked displeased.
“One scoop of vanilla.”
“No.”
“Half a scoop.”
“No.”
Then Mr. Pedersson glanced down at his tablet.
“Oh, and one more thing, Miss Louise.”
“Yeees?”
“You had instant noodles last night. Including all the broth.”
Louise stopped moving.
“…How did you know?”
“We noticed while emptying the kitchen wastebasket.”
“Oh. So even a daughter of this house is under surveillance.”
“Not at all. Inventory management.”
“Liar.”
Mrs. Vanderwalt and Miss Flynn brought out Louise’s breakfast.
“You must maintain proper eating habits, Miss Louise.”
“I am over thirty.”
“Yes.”
“I have a son who starts first grade next year.”
“Yes.”
“Then why am I, a fully grown adult, being scolded?”
“Because you ate instant noodles in the middle of the night.”
Louise turned to Cynthia with the wounded expression of someone who had suffered a grave injustice.
Cynthia hastily looked away.
<0022 Saturday at the Office>
10:45 a.m.
Ready to leave for the band’s rehearsal studio, Cynthia put her backpack on again and came downstairs.
Miss Flynn stood near the entrance.
“Mr. Whitaker’s car has just passed through the front gate. Shall we?”
Cynthia followed her out into the garden.
Something suddenly zipped across her field of vision.
Her shoulders jerked. A wasp?
Then she realized it was a tiny bird, darting among the flowering shrubs by the entrance and stopping in midair.
“…A hummingbird.”
Hummingbirds themselves were not unfamiliar.
She had occasionally seen them in Boston and Brooklyn.
Not a common sight in the middle of a city, but the sort of tiny bird you might be lucky enough to spot in a flower-filled park in summer.
The problem was that it was January.
Cynthia pointed at the hovering bird.
“It’s January… and they’re still in the United States?”
Miss Flynn calmly explained to the wide-eyed Cynthia,
“This is New Orleans. Two or three spend the winter in this garden each year, so we provide sugar water for them.”
She pointed to a feeder hanging from a tree branch.
A hummingbird hovered in front of it as though fixed in place, drinking its sugar water with admirable dedication.
“With enough food, they can make it through a New Orleans winter.”
“I can’t tell if they’re lazy or smart.”
“Of course, whether they are truly lazy or simply prefer the winters here is something we would have to ask the birds. Only a small number spend the winter, though.”
Miss Flynn breathed in the mild winter air and smiled.
“Around March, more hummingbirds begin arriving from the south, one after another. Then this garden becomes a hummingbird airport.”
She seemed genuinely delighted by the thought.
Cynthia murmured,
“A hummingbird airport.”
“Yes. Arrivals and departures operate simultaneously.”
Cynthia watched one hummingbird get cut off by another at the feeder and retreat backward.
“…No security screening, then.”
“That is still under review.”
Miss Flynn’s sense of humor was no less formidable than anyone else’s in this house.
Cynthia was only just managing to restore her understanding of the world after the winter hummingbirds when she saw Claudie beside the fountain.
He was stroking something’s mane.
Cynthia rubbed her eyes.
“Is that… a horse?”
Claudie looked up from petting the pony and smiled as though nothing could be more ordinary.
“This is my friend Napoleon.”
Cynthia nodded in a daze.
“A horse in the garden….”
“A pony.”
Mr. Pedersson, who had followed them outside, corrected her with a perfectly relaxed smile.
“The stables at the Devillis Estate were converted into a garage in 1918. We no longer keep horses.”
Cynthia pointed at Napoleon.
“B-but that’s a horse.”
“A pony.”
This time, the correction came from Mrs. Vanderwalt, who had appeared beside them without Cynthia noticing. She delivered it with impeccable dignity.
Cynthia broke into a cold sweat and corrected herself.
“Yes. That’s a pony.”
“Precisely.”
Clap, clap, clap.
Mrs. Vanderwalt, Miss Flynn, and Mr. Pedersson applauded as though she had done something genuinely praiseworthy.
Cynthia was fairly sure this did not warrant applause.
She was receiving it anyway.
Through it all, Claudie kept stroking the pony’s mane with the most peaceful expression in the world.
Cynthia murmured,
“His friend is a pony… When I was six, my friend was a teddy bear….”
“Claudie likes teddy bears too, of course. Napoleon is not his only friend.”
Louise’s voice came from behind her.
She was emerging from the house in sunglasses and a lavender formal dress.
Louise went over to her son, knelt, and hugged him.
“Mommy’s dearest Claudie. Will you be good while I’m away today?”
“Yes, Mommy. Have a good time playing.”
As mother and son embraced, the black Lincoln Continental rolled to a quiet stop beside the fountain.
Mr. Whitaker stepped out with his usual decisive movements and courteously opened the rear door.
“Good morning, Miss Louise. And Miss Lenosky.”
“Good morning, Mr. Whitaker.”
Louise waved to him. Cynthia bowed almost reflexively.
“Oh, hello….”
“Time to go to the band office, Cindy.”
Louise took Cynthia’s hand and pulled her along.
Cynthia hurriedly—but very politely—bowed goodbye to Claudie, the three members of the household staff, the pony, and the hummingbirds.
“Just the people, please! In you go!”
Louise steered Cynthia into the Lincoln’s back seat.
Even after she was seated, Cynthia kept looking out at the garden.
Claudie had one arm around the pony’s neck and was waving at the departing Lincoln.
Cynthia murmured,
“Wow… Most ordinary people don’t get to pet a pony in the morning….”
Louise settled back into her seat.
“Most don’t, I suppose.”
“So you do realize that.”
“I do have some sense of what is normal in society.”
A sense of what was normal in society?
Cynthia could not let that pass.
“But you just got scolded for asking for ice cream first thing in the morning.”
Louise was silent for a moment.
Then she adjusted her sunglasses and pushed out her lower lip.
“That is not a societal issue. It is a family matter.”