She was cracking the eggs when she heard Mr. Caleb come downstairs. His tread on the stairs was familiar to her now. She could tell the difference between his morning steps and his midday steps, between the pace he used when he was going somewhere with purpose and the slightly slower one he used when something was on his mind.
That morning his steps were slow.
He came to the kitchen doorway and stopped.
This was unusual. He never came to the kitchen in the mornings. She brought breakfast to him. That was the arrangement.
She looked up from the pan.
He was standing in the doorway in his white shirt and gray trousers, looking at her with an expression she had never seen on his face before. Not cold. Not warm. Something in between. Something careful and stripped of its usual control, the way a wall looks after the paint has been taken off: still standing, but more honest.
“Good morning, sir,” she said.
“Good morning.”
He did not move from the doorway.
“Rebecca, are you free this evening? After you finish your work here?”
She kept her face still. “Yes, sir.”
“I’d like you to stay a little later today, if that’s possible. I need to talk to you about something.” He paused. “Not about the job.”