ELENA
I’m elbow-deep in flour, directing Leah on a proper kneading technique, when a small commotion at the back door announces the arrival. I wipe my hands quickly on my apron.
Margaret sweeps into the kitchen with grace and poise and our eyes immediately lock.
“Elena. I wasn’t aware you were... preparing,” Margaret says, her voice polite but edged with surprise. She glances around the disorganized room. The judgment swims in her eyes even without uttering the words.
“Welcome, Margaret,” I say, keeping my own tone perfectly calm. “There was a staffing issue. I’m handling the lunch preparations for you.”
She gives me a tight smile. “How... resourceful. Well, I always do enjoy cooking. Perhaps I can assist you.”
She gives Leah her bag, washes her hand before she takes over the kneadin
