“No idea what? Is that your father?”
“I have no idea,” he said, his eyes, wide and startled, meeting hers, and
she felt the sudden rush of blood from her neck to her hairline.
“Oh.”
“No, it’s okay—”
“I am so sorry.”
“It’s just that—”
“I only just found the photo hidden away in my father’s closet. I’d never
seen it before. And the chef—he looks so—”
“Yes, he does.” He brooded over the photo silently while Carrie, her face
still burning, watched him. Thoughts whirled in her head; she caught at them,
trying to make sense of them. If Todd Stillwater didn’t know his father—if
that chef was his father—then whatever horrors he had inflicted on the
Kingfisher Inn resonated in his name—in his son’s name—but had nothing to
do—
“But had nothing to do with you,” she whispered. He glanced at her, his
eyes, silvery gray as a blade, tarnished with thoughts, memories.
“My mother fled from my father as soon as she could after I was born. She
took me south to Severluna. I always thought my name—Stillwater—was her
maiden name. But maybe not.” He touched the photo lightly, near the chef’s
face. “That might—that might explain— It must have been something he did—
”
“Yes.”
“The tensions I’ve felt around that place—”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what he might have done? Anything at all?”
She sagged against the table, sighing deeply. “How could I? No one ever
answers any of my questions. I was hoping that you knew what happened. Why
everything fell apart at the Kingfisher Inn, why Hal and Lilith stopped
speaking, why Ella blames somebody with your name for everything, but she
draws in small and tight like a snail whenever I ask.”
His eyes dropped; he studied the photo again, while she studied his eyelashes,
the exact color of his hair, the pale matte brown of a walnut shell, against
the warmer shade of his face. Where does he find that sun around here? she
wondered. He was gazing back at her suddenly, and she felt the fire across her
face again, but not even that could make her look away.
He seemed oblivious; he only said, “I’m glad you brought this; it explains a
lot. I had no idea what I was asking the other night. I don’t want to cause
worse feelings by taking you away from the Kingfisher. Maybe we could work
something out part-time? Let’s think about that. No decisions yet. But while
I’ve got you here, let me show you what I do. I have some bites left over
from lunch you might be interested in. Can I bring you a taste?”
“Sure,” she said dazedly.
“I don’t use menus, but I have written down a few of my recipes. Let me
bring those, too; they’ll give you an idea . . .”
He vanished into the old bank vault. She waited thoughtlessly, amazed at the
notion of snacking on the ideas of the best cook in the county. He returned
with one arm lined with small plates, papers under the other arm. He let the
papers splash on the table, and arranged the little plates like offerings
around her. They held treasures, she saw with astonishment: geometric shapes
of this and that layered on one another, unexpected colors catching the eye,
orange topping cranberry topping an airy cloud of licorice, another of
chocolate, none of it, she suspected, tasting anything like the fruit or meat
or sweet that the colors might suggest. Stillwater pushed a plate toward her,
a tower of diamonds and squares and circles of the thinnest, brightest colors
topped with a coiled ruby garnish, like a designer hat.
For an instant, as she raised her eyes from the lovely little makings to smile
in amazement at him, she saw a stranger’s eyes gazing out of what suddenly
seemed the mask of a beautiful face. Tree-bark dark, they were, flecked with
gold and luminous with an ancient light that had long since faded from the
world she thought she knew.
He lifted the plate.
“Eat.”
PART TWO
WYVERNBOURNE
7