toaster and opens the spice cabinet. Be nice , I tell myself. Make conversation .
“Who is Ethel?” I ask.
She taps her fingernail on the counter. “Our housekeeper.”
“Your cleaning lady taught you how to cook?”
“She wasn’t a cleaning lady, she was a housekeeper. She ran the house—cooked for us, made sure mom got up in time to get to the studio, helped me with my homework. Ethel was the best.”
“Is she in L.A. with your mother?”
“No. Ethel moved back to New Hampshire to take care of her sick brother.” Zoe takes a plastic jar of cinnamon out of the cupboard and looks at the date on the bottom. “This is almost as old as I am! Ugh!” She tosses it into the garbage with a shiver. “Do you ever order in breakfast?”
“Did somebody say breakfast?” Gran asks, coming into the kitchen from the clinic.
“Not unless you call toast ‘breakfast,’” Zoe says as she wrinkles her nose. “Something’s burning.”
I leap across the kitchen and pop up the toast.
“Sorry,” I say. “I forgot to tell you about the toaster. You have to watch it every second or it turns your toast into charcoal.” I lift the charred bread out with my fingertips. “Like this.”
“I’ll make you a piece,” Gran says. “Just let me wash my hands first.” She rolls up her sleeves and turns on the faucet, then squirts liquid soap on her hands and scrubs so hard that lather drips into the sink.
“How are Mitzy and the puppies?” I ask Gran.
“Everybody came through the night safely. Mitzy’s stomachache is gone, but I want her to have very small meals today.” Gran rinses the soap off her hands and dries them on a hand towel decorated with bloodhounds.
“I autopsied Dinky,” she says in a quieter voice. “I examined his body to figure out why he died. He was dehydrated and sick with a respiratory infection, but that didn’t kill him. Dinky had a congenital heart defect. His heart wasn’t formed properly, and it wasn’t pumping his blood the right way. Combined with malnourishment and dehydration, he didn’t have much of a chance.” She tosses the towel at me. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault.”
Except for the guy who mistreated Dinky. The poor pup was so weak, he couldn’t hang on any longer. And he had just found a good home. I’ve got to find a way to get to the farmer’s market.
Gran puts more bread in the toaster and bangs down the lever. “I’m sorry there isn’t more to choose from,” she says to Zoe. “I guess we’ve been a little busy.”
“You need to hire a cook,” Zoe says. “Or a housekeeper who will make dinner, at the very least.”
“A cook?” Gran asks.
“You should think about it. Everyone I know has one,” Zoe says as she plucks her lightly browned toast out of the toaster.
Gran opens the milk carton to pour some milk into her coffee. Three drops come out. “No cooks around here,” she says. “And nobody to do the shopping, either.”
Now’s my chance. I swallow my cereal quickly. “Can we go to the farmer’s market?” I ask. “I bet Zoe’s never seen anything like it.”
“Good idea,” Gran answers. “Gabe has clinic duty, so I can take a few hours off.”
Yes!
While Gran shows Zoe how to load the dishwasher—she’s never done that before—I sneak off to the clinic. I want to check in on the pups.
They’re all sleeping.
“Morning, everybody,” I whisper. One of the collies pricks up its ears and rustles a bit. Is there anything cuter than sleeping puppies?
“I’m off to find the creep who treated you so badly. Then we can rescue the other pups—maybe even your brothers and sisters.”
The market is crowded. There are hundreds of stalls selling a little bit of everything. Gran, Zoe, and I start down one long aisle, past a baker’s counter with fresh cinnamon rolls and blueberry muffins, past an Amish farmer and his family selling giant jars of pickled beets, relish, and apple butter. My stomach rumbles.
“How about some hot
“Who is Ethel?” I ask.
She taps her fingernail on the counter. “Our housekeeper.”
“Your cleaning lady taught you how to cook?”
“She wasn’t a cleaning lady, she was a housekeeper. She ran the house—cooked for us, made sure mom got up in time to get to the studio, helped me with my homework. Ethel was the best.”
“Is she in L.A. with your mother?”
“No. Ethel moved back to New Hampshire to take care of her sick brother.” Zoe takes a plastic jar of cinnamon out of the cupboard and looks at the date on the bottom. “This is almost as old as I am! Ugh!” She tosses it into the garbage with a shiver. “Do you ever order in breakfast?”
“Did somebody say breakfast?” Gran asks, coming into the kitchen from the clinic.
“Not unless you call toast ‘breakfast,’” Zoe says as she wrinkles her nose. “Something’s burning.”
I leap across the kitchen and pop up the toast.
“Sorry,” I say. “I forgot to tell you about the toaster. You have to watch it every second or it turns your toast into charcoal.” I lift the charred bread out with my fingertips. “Like this.”
“I’ll make you a piece,” Gran says. “Just let me wash my hands first.” She rolls up her sleeves and turns on the faucet, then squirts liquid soap on her hands and scrubs so hard that lather drips into the sink.
“How are Mitzy and the puppies?” I ask Gran.
“Everybody came through the night safely. Mitzy’s stomachache is gone, but I want her to have very small meals today.” Gran rinses the soap off her hands and dries them on a hand towel decorated with bloodhounds.
“I autopsied Dinky,” she says in a quieter voice. “I examined his body to figure out why he died. He was dehydrated and sick with a respiratory infection, but that didn’t kill him. Dinky had a congenital heart defect. His heart wasn’t formed properly, and it wasn’t pumping his blood the right way. Combined with malnourishment and dehydration, he didn’t have much of a chance.” She tosses the towel at me. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault.”
Except for the guy who mistreated Dinky. The poor pup was so weak, he couldn’t hang on any longer. And he had just found a good home. I’ve got to find a way to get to the farmer’s market.
Gran puts more bread in the toaster and bangs down the lever. “I’m sorry there isn’t more to choose from,” she says to Zoe. “I guess we’ve been a little busy.”
“You need to hire a cook,” Zoe says. “Or a housekeeper who will make dinner, at the very least.”
“A cook?” Gran asks.
“You should think about it. Everyone I know has one,” Zoe says as she plucks her lightly browned toast out of the toaster.
Gran opens the milk carton to pour some milk into her coffee. Three drops come out. “No cooks around here,” she says. “And nobody to do the shopping, either.”
Now’s my chance. I swallow my cereal quickly. “Can we go to the farmer’s market?” I ask. “I bet Zoe’s never seen anything like it.”
“Good idea,” Gran answers. “Gabe has clinic duty, so I can take a few hours off.”
Yes!
While Gran shows Zoe how to load the dishwasher—she’s never done that before—I sneak off to the clinic. I want to check in on the pups.
They’re all sleeping.
“Morning, everybody,” I whisper. One of the collies pricks up its ears and rustles a bit. Is there anything cuter than sleeping puppies?
“I’m off to find the creep who treated you so badly. Then we can rescue the other pups—maybe even your brothers and sisters.”
The market is crowded. There are hundreds of stalls selling a little bit of everything. Gran, Zoe, and I start down one long aisle, past a baker’s counter with fresh cinnamon rolls and blueberry muffins, past an Amish farmer and his family selling giant jars of pickled beets, relish, and apple butter. My stomach rumbles.
“How about some hot
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