Whiskey Beach by Nora Roberts

morning room this time. The view’s so nice from there, especially today. Do you want me to do any cleaning in here while you eat—or ever?”
    “No. I . . . No.” After another slight pause. “No.”
    “I got that. Go ahead and eat, and I’ll do what I have to do on this level. That way if you want to go back to work, I’ll be downstairs where I won’t bother you.”
    She stood between him and his laptop, smiling genially in a faded purple sweatshirt with a peace sign dead center, even more faded jeans and bright orange Crocs.
    As arguing seemed time-consuming and futile, he simply walked out of the room.
    He’d meant to stop and have something—maybe a bagel, whatever. He’d lost track of time. He
liked
losing track of time because it meant he was inside the book.
    She was supposed to clean the house, not take on the position as his damn keeper.
    He hadn’t forgotten she was coming. But his plan to stop writing when she arrived, to grab that bagel and take it with him on a walk, to call home while he was out, well, the book sucked that away.
    He turned left, into the glass-walled curve of the morning room.
    Abra was right. The view was worth it. He’d take that walk later if he could find a reasonable route with the snow. At least he could get to the beach steps, take some pictures with his phone, send them home.
    He sat at the table with its covered plate, its short pot of coffee, crystal glass of juice. She’d even taken one of the flowers from the living room arrangement and tucked it in a bud vase.
    It reminded him of the way his mother had put a flower or some game or book or toy on the tray when she brought food to his sickbed when he was a boy.
    He wasn’t sick. He didn’t need to be mothered. All he needed was someone to come in and clean so he could write, live, shovel damn snow if it needed shoveling.
    He sat, wincing a little at the stiffness in his neck, his shoulders. Okay, the Shovel Snow for Pride Marathon had cost him, he admitted.
    He lifted the dome.
    A puff of fragrant steam rose from a stack of blueberry pancakes. A rasher of crisp bacon lined the edge of the plate and a little clear bowl of melon garnished with sprigs of mint sat beside it.
    “Wow.”
    He simply stared a moment, struggling between more annoyance and acceptance.
    He decided both worked. He’d eat because it was here, and now he was damn near starving, and he could be annoyed about it.
    He spread some of the butter she’d scooped into a little dish over the stack, watched it melt as he added syrup.
    It felt a little Lord of the Manor—but really tasty.
    He knew very well he’d been raised in privilege, but pretty brunches with the morning paper folded on the table hadn’t been everyday events.
    The Landons were privileged because they worked, and worked because they were privileged.
    As he ate he started to open the paper, then just set it aside. Like television, newspapers held too many bad memories. The view contented him, and letting his mind just drift, he watched the water, and the drip of melting snow as the sun bore down.
    He felt . . . almost peaceful.
    He looked over when she came in. “Second floor’s clear,” she told him, and started to lift the tray.
    “I’ll get it. No,” he insisted. “I’ll get it. Look, you don’t have to cook for me. It was great, thanks, but you don’t have to cook.”
    “I like to cook, and it’s not all that satisfying to cook just for myself.” She followed him into the kitchen, then continued on to the laundry room. “And you’re not eating properly.”
    “I’m eating.” He mumbled it.
    “A can of soup, a sandwich, a bowl of cold cereal?” She carried in a laundry basket, sat in the breakfast nook to fold. “You don’t have secrets from the housekeeper,” she said easily. “Not about eating, showering and sex. You need to put on about fifteen pounds, I’d say. Twenty wouldn’t hurt you.”
    No, he hadn’t been able to find his anger for months,