Abby
The large dining room feels surprisingly warm and intimate as the plates are cleared away. I lean back in my chair, letting out a small, satisfied sigh.
“I take it that the food was to your liking, Chef Abby,” Reginald says with a smile.
I can’t help but grin. The flavor of fresh salmon, caught earlier today, still mingles with the lemon and thyme on my tongue. “It was delicious,” I say.
Reginald’s smile grows ever so slightly. “It was my late wife’s favorite dish,” he says. But then his face falls as he stares down at the empty space in front of him. “She, uh… She always said that fish was best served fresh.”
There’s a slight silence around the table. I catch Karl’s eye from across the way, and he seems to be a bit perturbed. It’s no wonder; he discovered where he tr
