I wipe the hair out of my eyes with my bicep. “If it’s not too much trouble, could you please go to a grocery store for me?”

“Of course,” he says, surprised. “What would you like?”

“I was thinking I could cook you dinner to say thank you for being so kind to me.”

A flush spreads over his cheeks. “That’s not necessary.”

“But I’m cleaning up the kitchen. It would be a shame not to use it.”

Harvey’s expression is pained. “I’m sorry, Miss Whitehall, but Mr. Morelli is due back this evening and I’m worried he’ll think… well I don’t know what he’ll think. But I know he wouldn’t want you cooking for me.”

I remember the way Eli looked in the firelight, slowly rolling up his shirtsleeves. My pelvic muscles clench. If I belonged to Mr. Morelli, he probably wouldn’t want me cooking for another man. But I don’t. So why would it be a problem?

I smile at Harvey. “Mr. Morelli would love for me to cook for you. He told me to make myself useful.”

Harvey’s brow smooths. “Did he?”

Last night Eli told me to ‘be a good girl.’ Surely cooking and cleaning is being a good girl? I cross my fingers behind my back, just in case. “He did. And I can make enough food for everyone. You and Mr. Gretzky and Mr. Schnee and Dolmio and Sal…”

Harvey gives me a rueful smile. “It has been weeks since I’ve had a home-cooked meal…”

I try not to look too excited. “Wonderful. Could I maybe write you a list of ingredients?”

“Of course. What are you going to make?”

The food to cure all sadness. The one thing I feel like eating whenever I’m low. “An old family recipe.”

Harvey finds me a pen and paper and I note down everything I need. When he leaves, I mop the kitchen floors until they’re sparkling clean. As they dry, I move back into the dining room and stuff all the dirty containers and paper into trash bags. Everything that looks useful goes into a big box in the corner of the room. Once the junk is cleared, I polish the dining table and sideboards and push all the chairs back into place. The carpet is still dusty but everything else looks a hundred times better.

Feeling stupidly proud of myself, I go back into the kitchen and get an orange soda. I sit on the clean counter and drink it like I’m the queen of the world.

My whole life I’ve just been there, like a candy cane on a Christmas tree. Zia Teresa did my chores. My teachers and Bobby made excuses for my homework. I was good at singing and ballet, but I didn’t help anyone with it, just like I wouldn’t have helped anyone if I studied Fine Arts at Colombia. No one even needed me to marry Mr. Parker. Mom needed money and Mr. Parker needed a wife with an important last name, but no one needed January Whitehall.