To Love An Older Man

“Nonsense.” She smiled at Beth, and then stepped back to hold the door open for them. “He didn’t worry about keeping me awake forty years ago,” she said, winking at Beth. “The little monster kept me in labor for thirty-two hours.”

Beth darted a surprised look at him.

He glared at his mother. He wasn’t forty yet.

“Mother, this is Beth—” He stopped when he realized he had no idea what Beth’s last name was.

“Anderson.”

“I’m Maude.”

He breathed a sigh of relief as the women took over. Or more accurately, his mother had taken charge. She ushered Beth through the laundry room to the kitchen, sat her down and got her a glass of water. Ida was already in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot. It smelled like her homemade chicken soup. David hadn’t had any in ages.

“Be a love and put Beth’s bag in the blue guest room,” his mother said, “and then come back down and have something to eat.”

She gave him only a brief glance and then all her attention went back to Beth who looked a bit overwhelmed. David didn’t bother telling her he’d had a late lunch and would have a snack later while he worked in his den. He seldom got home early enough to eat dinner at home. Anyway, she was already busy tending to Beth, looking more animated than he’d seen her in a long time.

He carried the bag to the first floor guest room, and then went to his own room upstairs to get out of his suit. At least two hours of work waited for him in his briefcase and…

His briefcase—he’d left it in the car.

Dammit.

He shrugged out of his coat, loosened and pulled off his tie, got rid of the gold cuff links. He hated the possibility of going through the kitchen and getting waylaid. Bad enough he’d lost an hour already, but he had no choice. He needed the briefs and his day planner.

David swore. He’d left his day planner on his desk again. He sat on the edge of his bed and pulled off his socks. God, he hated being thrown off his routine.

“NOW, BETH, anything you need, you feel free to ask.” Mrs. Matthews set the cup of tea beside the glass of water she’d already filled twice, and Beth wanted to cry. “In fact, if you see it, don’t ask, help yourself.”

“You’re being so kind,” Beth murmured, overwhelmed with gratitude for the unexpected thoughtfulness these strangers showed her. “Please don’t make a big fuss. I’m fine.”

“Nonsense. We’re not fussing. Are we, Ida?”

The housekeeper gave a dismissive snort as she ladled rich yellow broth into a bowl. Her round face had been wreathed in a welcoming smile from the minute Beth laid eyes on her. She was probably the same age as Mrs. Matthews, early sixties, Beth guessed. But as slim and tall as Mrs. Matthews was, Ida was short and plump. They made quite a pair in their contrasting red silk and gray chenille robes.

“It’s been too long since David has brought a friend home,” Mrs. Matthews put a carafe of coffee on the table, and then brought out cups. Not mugs, but real china cups and saucers.

“I’m not exactly a friend,” Beth muttered, not sure what David had told them.

“Well, we’re delighted to have you. Would you rather eat in the dining room?”

“This is fine.” Beth watched Ida root through the refrigerator. “Please don’t go to any more trouble.”

She brought out what looked like a lemon meringue pie. Only one small piece was missing. “Trouble?” Ida grunted. “About time there’s someone around here to eat my pastries. Those two take one little nibble and start worrying about their arteries.”

Mrs. Matthews sighed and threw Ida a long-suffering look. “You put a pound of butter in everything you bake.”

“Neither of my parents knew what an artery was and they both lived until ninety-six.” Ida sniffed. “Mind you, they ate plenty of butter and cheese, too.”

Beth laughed. The two women obviously shared a friendship beyond the employer-employee relationship.

Mrs. Matthews laughed, too. “Don’t mind us. Ida and I go back more years than we care to admit.”

“Quit talking and let the poor girl eat.” Ida put two dessert plates on the table and then took a seat and picked up a knife.

“You’re having another piece of pie?” Mrs. Matthews asked, as she sat across from Beth with a cup of black coffee.

“You mind your business, Maude.” Ida smiled at Beth. “So, how do you know our David?”

Beth had just swallowed a mouthful of the chicken soup but she pretended to chew. The truth was pretty embarrassing, yet she didn’t want to lie, either.

“And you tell me to mind my business?” Mrs. Matthews’s perfectly arched brows went up. “Really, Ida, can’t you let the young lady eat in peace?”

Color climbed all the way to Ida’s salt-and-pepper hairline. “Of course. Eat.” She motioned with her chin to Beth before digging into the large wedge of lemon meringue in front of her.

Beth quickly spooned up another portion of the delicious soup. She was hungry but also grateful there’d be no more questions. At least for now.

Mrs. Matthews looked exactly like Beth would have pictured her had she thought about it. Perfectly styled chestnut-colored hair, even at bedtime, perfect teeth, a perfect figure. Her nails were manicured and polished a subtle pink. She looked and smelled rich. Old money rich. Just like David.

Of course they were from old money, according to Tommy. Their family went back to the gold rush days when the Matthews name became a prominent San Francisco fixture. In the legal arena, their firm was number one, if she could believe Tommy. He seemed awfully impressed with that kind of social stuff these days, so she figured he ought to know.

What impressed Beth was the way Mrs. Matthews treated Ida. The woman was a polar opposite—on the frumpy side, her curly graying hair in need of a trim, her roughened hands looked like those of a farmer’s wife.

“Are you ready for another bowl?” Ida asked, and to Beth’s humiliation, she realized she’d practically inhaled her food.

“No, thank you. This was plenty.”

Ida grunted as she got up and took Beth’s empty bowl. “That was hardly enough to keep a bird alive.”

“But I had two pieces of that great bread. Did you make it?”

Ida nodded, her face one big smile. “No store-bought baked goods in this house.”

“She’s determined to make me fat.” Mrs. Matthews sipped her black coffee with a look of phony disdain.

“Don’t mind her. She thinks three strawberries with a teaspoon of fat-free whipped cream is dessert.”

Beth smiled. “Sorry, but nothing beats real whipped cream, or freshly churned butter. I haven’t had either since I left the farm.”

Both women stared at her. Ida spoke first as she set another bowl of soup in front of Beth. “You actually lived on a farm?”

Beth nodded, and silently cursed her big mouth. These people would think she was some kind of hick. She brought her napkin to her lips—a linen napkin, no common paper stuff here. That she’d momentarily been ashamed of her roots shamed her even more. First her parents, and then her brother provided her with a good home in Rock Falls. Better than good, it had been idyllic.

She lifted her chin. “Back in Rock Falls, Idaho. My family has owned it for five generations. We were all born right there in the master bedroom.”

“My heavens.” Mrs. Matthews set down her coffee cup, the china making a pleasant tinkling sound. “How long have you been here in the city?”

“A little over a year.”