“She is William Cook’s widow.”
“William Cook is the –”
“That’s right. I reserved a table for dinner, but we’ve had a change in plans and Mrs. Cook and I will be dining earlier.”
The young man wiped his hands on a towel under the bar. The room had gone silent. His round eyes strained with the effort of not looking at Ellen, who stared at him, taking in cheeks so buttery they had yet to feel the scrape of a razor. He looked younger than Philip – perhaps Philip had taught him at school. No, most men stopped attending school up here around the age of twelve; Philip couldn’t have been teaching that long. She stepped sideways to accommodate an ache in her hip, and her hand brushed fur. With a cupped palm, she stroked, knuckles expecting to dig into the muscled neck of a dog, and flinched at
