The Delaney Woman by Jeanette Baker

slowly.
    â€œGood.” Kellie stood and took Heather’s hand. “Shall we start dinner?”
    Heather nodded and skipped alongside Kellie. In the kitchen, she pulled a chair out from the table, climbed on it and sat down on the edge of the counter. “I like cooking,” she confided. “Da lets me stir the pots and mash praties. What I really like is to crack the eggs, but I’m not allowed.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œEggs are dear and I might waste one.”
    â€œI see.” Kellie thought a minute. “Perhaps we can figure out a recipe where it doesn’t matter if an egg or two is wasted.”
    Heather clapped her hands. “Today? May I crack one today?”
    â€œYou may.”
    â€œWhat will we make?”
    â€œYour father’s favorite.”
    â€œDa likes shepherd’s pie before anything. Everyone knows that.”
    The child tilted her head thoughtfully. “This is nice. It’s like having a mum, but you’re not like other mothers, are you?”
    A cold fist closed around Kellie’s heart. She wet her lips. “Why do you say that?”
    â€œKathleen Mallory’s mum is red-faced and she smokes cigarettes.”
    â€œIs Kathleen your friend?”
    â€œShe’s my best friend and so is Mollie Malone.”
    â€œWhat is Mollie’s mum like?”
    Heather narrowed her eyes, deep in thought. “She’s nice but she doesn’t say much,” she pronounced at last. “She gives us puddings and tea but she never speaks to us, not the way you do. She’s not pretty either, not like you.”
    Kellie’s heart craved these children. “Do your friends come to visit often? I could make a pudding and tea.”
    Heather’s cheeks glowed. “May I?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œShall I ask Da?”
    â€œI’m sure he’ll agree.”
    Heather frowned. “I don’t usually have friends over.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œDa doesn’t make puddings and he needs quiet to work. But I don’t mind,” the child said sunnily. “May I crack an egg now?”
    Kellie laughed and moved toward the refrigerator. “You may. Shepherd’s pie requires an egg and it doesn’t matter in the least if the cracking isn’t perfect.”
    The sound, filtered through the hallway and around several corners, was unmistakable and beautiful, the pipes. Kellie stopped, mesmerized. Another tune from her youth, “Isobel Mackay.” “He’s very good, isn’t he?” she whispered.
    â€œDa’s one of the best,” confided Heather. “Wait until he’s warmed up.”
    The pie was delicious. Kellie noted with satisfaction the odd look on Tom’s face after he’d tasted the first mouthful.
    â€œDo you like it, Da?” Heather asked hopefully, her own food forgotten. “Miss Delaney and I made it together.”
    â€œI like it very much, love,” her father answered slowly. “It’s one of the best I’ve tasted.”
    â€œI cracked the egg myself.”
    â€œDid you now?”
    Heather nodded. “Miss Delaney said it didn’t matter if the cracking isn’t perfect. But it was, wasn’t it, Miss Delaney?”
    Kellie nodded, her heart full. She was falling in love with a seven-year-old girl. “Absolutely perfect. Why don’t you call me Kellie?”
    Heather maneuvered her fork loaded with beef, mashed potatoes and vegetables into her mouth. “Tomorrow night we’ll have a pudding. Kellie promised.”
    Tom stared. “Since when will you eat peas and carrots?”
    â€œI made them myself,” the child said. “It wouldn’t be right if I didn’t eat them.”
    â€œI see.” Tom reached across the table and ruffled his daughter’s hair. “Perhaps you should make dinner every night.”
    Heather dimpled. “Perhaps I should. But what will Kellie