The Warmest Winter✓

Forty-one

At last it's the weekend and my husband is home. I wake in a good mood seeing his gorgeous face so relaxed in a deep slumber. I press my lips delicately on his, and gently he stirs in his sleep, seemingly tired and spent.

How can he not? He hasn't rested for a good while now and I'm fully responsible for most of his fatigue. I think I need to spoil him today. My subconscious acquiesces and a devious grin crosses my face as I gather several things to do for him.

"Good morning, Lisa." My voice is full of positive energy as I barrel down the stairs while tying my curls into a messy bun.

"Morning, ma'am. You're up early," Lisa replies with a beaming smile, her hair in pigtails, holding a pink feather duster. She's been cleaning the large abstract painting on the wall and only paused upon my appearance.

I take a soft breath, inhaling the cool lemon scent and freshness of the house. "Is Mrs. Prescott here?" I inquire, my eyes taking in the details of my enormous house.

Gosh, I haven't even made a proper tour around. Well, aside from the living room, the kitchen, my bedroom, and of course the library—that as expected it was full of interesting books and journals—and yet there are more places to see within the house.

"No, not yet. She said she'll be a little late today," Lisa replies. "But I'm going to prepare breakfast right away! I'm not as sharp as she is, but I promise to be very quick."

"Well . . . " I clear my throat, smiling. "About breakfast, I'll do it myself."

"Pardon?" Lisa blinks, her bright eyes wide in surprise.

I giggle.

"Call Mrs. Prescott and tell her to take the weekend off. And you, too, Lisa. When you're done cleaning, you're free to go home. I'll see you on Monday, I guess." Saying this, I turn my sleepers towards the kitchen.

"What? Hold on, ma'am." Lisa stalks me. I keep walking, a knowing smile on my face. "You mean, I can just go home even though my shift is not over?" she asks, the speed of her speech a perfect resemblance to her overflowing energy.

"Yes," I reply.

"You'll be cooking yourself this whole weekend?"

"Yes."

"Wow." She sounds surprised and I don't understand why.

"And also"—I stop walking and turn around to face her, just a few steps near the kitchen door—"I'd like some fresh flowers before you leave. Is there a way I can find them this morning?"

"Yes. I know someone who can bring them quite fast! What kind of flowers?"

"I think . . . I'd like a bouquet of red roses, white lilies, and one of yellow tulips?" I mutter thoughtfully, thinking of the places I want to put them. "Yes, those will do. I want them separately, please."

One for the console table in the foyer, another for the kitchen, and the last one for my bedroom.

"Okay. I'll go make a call right away," Lisa replies jovially. "Anything else?" Her sharp eyes give me a hopeful look.

"Well . . . The Vase, maybe? "Do we have the flower vase?" I ask.

"I think so. Ma'am Eleanor bought them when she came here last time. She also loves flowers." Lisa hardly stays still while talking, her whole body moves here and there.

"Okay. Then that's all," I conclude dismissively and Lisa jogs away. "What a character!" I mutter delightfully as I walk through the door.

The kitchen is contemporary. It has wooden floors, light grey walls, and dark grey European cabinets made of something glossy—marble-like. Smiling, I take a small inspection, standing near the granite breakfast bar, above which the vintage crystal pendants are beautifully hanging.