“Oh, you’re a smart one, you are. Eat your breakfast. I’ve got to see that those children are fed before they go off to school. And Miss Laura,” she continued, bustling back to the stove. “Eats like a sparrow. Never takes the time to sit down and start the day with a decent meal. ‘Just coffee,’ she tells me. Well, you can’t fuel a body on coffee.”

Laura’s body seemed fueled fine to him, but he didn’t think it wise to mention it. Mrs. Williamson might be fond of him, but he didn’t imagine she’d approve of him luring the mistress into hot, sweaty bouts of sex.

“She’s going to make herself sick, like Miss Katie did last year.”

Michael stopped brooding, looked up. “Kate was sick?”

“An ulcer.” Even the idea of it insulted her. Mrs. Williamson stopped flipping pancakes to turn around to him. “Can you imagine that? Overdoing, undereating, over-worrying until she was flat on her back. Well, we took care of that right enough.”

“She’s okay now? She looks great.”

“Fit and fine. And expecting, too.”

“Kate’s pregnant?” The grin split Michael’s face. “No shit?” He winced when she sent him a narrowed look. He remembered she didn’t care for such language in her kitchen. “Sorry.”

“We’ll overlook it, this time. She’s got herself healthy and happy, our Kate. That man she married won’t let her get away with that kind of nonsense. There’s a sensible man, one who knows how to take care of a woman.”

“They look good together.” Classy, Michael thought, frowning down at his plate. But then, Byron had grown up in Southern comfort, and Kate was, in every way that mattered, a Templeton. “They fit,” he added.

“That they do. It’s a good feeling to see Miss Kate happy, and Miss Margo so nice and settled. And what’s Miss Laura got but those two angels to raise on her own?” She gestured with her spatula, stopped for a breath. “It’s a good thing her parents are coming back for a time. There’s no one in the world straightens out a tangle like Mr. and Mrs. T.”

When the door opened, she closed her mouth, not wanting to be taken for gossiping.

“Mrs. Williamson, I—oh, hello, Michael.”

Laura looked as fresh as a rosebud in her neat pale yellow suit. Not at all like the woman who had sobbed out his name the night before. Unless you looked at the eyes.

“Hello, Laura. Mrs. Williamson took pity on a starving man.”

“Blueberry pancakes. The girls will be in heaven.”

“Sit down, Miss Laura, and have a plate now.”