The woman greeted him with one spoon in hand. “May I help you? I’m one of the proprietors. Name’s Maida. Maida Jepson.”
“I’m Scott Drayco and—”
Maida interrupted, “We were expecting you late last night.”
“Sorry about that. Nasty accident on the Bay Bridge.”
She sighed. “Not again. Then we’re glad you made it safely. Mister Scott Drayco, you’re a celebrity. When you made the reservation, we didn’t realize you’re the new owner of the Opera House. And call me Maida. I can be Mrs. Jepson when I’m ninety.”
He followed her through the doorway. The foyer opened onto a hall with steep circular stairs, a den visible around the corner. The few pieces of artwork were stereotypical beach scenes and the furniture a touch faded. But vases of daylilies adorned a side table with fancy scrollwork and
