Ridgewell stepped back, the careful distance reasserting itself, and Evelyn smoothed down her apron and followed Lily back out to the party. The interview was brief and awkward, the reporter more interested in the drama of beating Sara Mitchell than in the actual cooking. But Evelyn answered the questions as honestly as she could, talking about her mother's recipes and Mrs. Chen's techniques, and the importance of treating food with respect. "And what about the rumors?" the reporter asked, his pencil poised over his notepad. "About your relationship with Mr. Ridgewell?"
"Mr. Ridgewell is my employer. I'm his cook. That's the entire relationship." "But surely "I'm sure of very few things in life," Evelyn said firmly. "But I'm absolutely sure that I've done nothing wrong, and neither has Mr. Ridgewell.
If people want to make up stories for their entertainment, that's their choice. But, it doesn't change the facts. The reporter scribbled notes and asked a few more questions before wandering off to interview other party guests. Evelyn watched him go with a sense of weary resignation. The story would be printed with whatever angle made it most interesting, and there was nothing she could do about it.
"That was well handled," Mrs. Chen said, appearing at her elbow with a cup of cider. "Firm, but not defensive." "I'm so tired of defending myself." "I know, but it's almost over. People are already moving on to other scandals.
Give it another month, and you'll be old news." "And then what?" Mrs. Chen looked at her carefully. "Then you decide what you want your life to look like, not what other people want for you, not what circumstances force on you, what you actually want." It was a dangerous question.
Evelyn had spent so long just surviving that she'd forgotten to think about what she wanted beyond the next meal, the next day, the next crisis. The party wound down as the evening grew cold. People started loading into wagons and heading home, calling out thanks and congratulations. The ranch hands who lived in the bunkhouse helped clean up, moving with the easy efficiency of men who'd worked together long enough to need few words. Evelyn was washing dishes when Thomas found her.
She hadn't even realized he'd stayed. "That was something," he said, picking up a towel to help dry. "The party, I mean, and the competition last week. Ma would have been proud." "Yeah, she would have."
Evelyn handed him a wet plate. "How are things back home?" "Better. I've been working for Patterson at the boardinghouse. Maintenance and repairs, mostly.
It's steady work, and he doesn't mind that I'm not much of a talker." Thomas carefully dried the plate. "I'm sober. 3 months now." "Thomas, that's wonderful."
"It's one day at a time, but I'm managing. He set down the plate and turned to face her properly. I came here to say I'm sorry for pushing you into this job, for drinking away our parents' legacy, for being a burden instead of a brother. You deserved better. Evelyn felt tears prick at her eyes.
You were grieving. We both were. People handle it differently. That's generous, but it's also letting me off too easy. He met her eyes directly.