Millie and Clara rushed through their morning routine, both painfully aware they were running late. By the time they pushed through the kitchen door, they were slightly out of breath.
The kitchen was already alive—coffee brewing, pans sizzling, dishes clinking. Sandra and Andrea moved in and out of the dining room with practiced speed, trays balanced on their arms.
Sheila’s eyes snapped to them immediately. “Tardiness is something Mr. Jameson—and I—do not tolerate.”
Millie winced and dropped her gaze. “I’m really sorry, Sheila. It won’t happen again.”
“It better not,” Sheila said, all clipped efficiency. “Eat something quickly. Then I need you two upstairs. Three guest rooms on the second floor.”
“The unoccupied ones?” Clara asked, already reaching for a piece of toast.
“Yes,” Sheila
