Amelia Cobb was washing the seafood, and the sound of the brush echoed intermittently in the kitchen.
Her loose hair fell by the temples, and there was a sense of tranquility about her that came from stepping down from a high position.
At 6:45 pm, the sun had not yet set.
Amelia left the stove, squeezed a glass of watermelon juice, and gave it to Christopher Robinson, who was reading a document with his head down.
A soft thank you slipped from the man's lips.
Amelia held the glass and leaned against the kitchen door, while the oven hummed behind her.
In this dining room at dusk, surrounded by the fragrance of flowers and the mellow French songs, she had the urge to have a heart-to-heart talk.
Perhaps it was the sense of security she had long missed that she saw in Christopher.
Or maybe it was her inner low spirits wanting to find an outlet.
So, she took a sip of watermelon juice, moistened her throat, and said, "I met an old acquaintance today."
Christopher respected her.