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he’s taking you to the dance next week.”
    “Doesn’t count. Someone arranged that.”
    “Who?”
    “I don’t know. Mother mentioned something once about his mother going to DAR, too, so I think it was the two of them. I could tell the moment he asked me. He sounded so formal and he cleared his throat first. What’s he look like anyhow?”
    “He’s a dreamboat. He must be over six feet tall.”
    “I can tell that. His voice comes down from the ceiling.”
    “And he’s blond. And he smiles. Well, the way he smiles is sort of like he knows you like to look at his smile, so he does it, just to make you happy.”
    “Won’t move me.”
    “You’d know he was smiling. It’s so warm it’d burn you if you stood close. He’s everybody’s dream hero, Jean. Just enjoy it.”
    Jean gave a sharp little grunt. “Let’s go have some cocoa.” She stood up and Lorraine followed her down the stairway. “The cook’s upstairs, so we’ll have the kitchen to ourselves. I really can’t cook, but I can make cocoa. Delia taught me.” She led Lorraine into the kitchen.
    “Have you always had a cook?”
    “As long as I can remember. Oh, sometimes Mother cooks on Delia’s day off. Or on Sunday.”
    “And always a maid, too?”
    “Usually we have an upstairs and a downstairs maid. Most of the help we’ve had are Irish. Mother gets them fresh from Europe and trains them. The first cook I can remember was Swedish. Amanda. She always wore a white cloth wound around her head, I don’t know why, and she swore in Swedish whenever it came undone. I wish I could remember the words. They sounded cute, not bad or ugly at all. Then I could say them and nobody would know.”
    “Did you like her?”
    “Yes, but I felt awful once.”
    “Why?”
    “Lucy and I came in here one night for a snack and I smelled something rotting. Vegetables, I thought. I held my nose and burst out, ‘What’s that awful smell?’ But it wasn’t food at all. It was her feet. Lucy said she only had one pair of shoes and they were too small. She’d cut out the canvas tops, and her toes were lapping over the front edge. I just felt sick. I went back upstairs and didn’t even eat what she gave me.”
    Jean felt along the edge of the counter for the row of ice box doors, opened the third one and stood in the coolness a long time before she found a milk bottle. She edged her way to the rack where pots and pans hung, holding her hands high as she sidestepped in front of them, then felt for the right sized pan and unhooked it.
    “We’ve had Delia for years. Her pans are always greasy, but I like her. She scuffs around in some kind of felt slippers. See that dinner gong in the passageway?”
    “Yes.”
    “You can make little melodies on it, like chimes on a pipe organ. When we got Delia, I showed her how to play a tune. It sounded lovely, but it only lasted a few days. After she stayed a while, she just gonged us to dinner. I think she must be 110 years old.”
    Jean poured in the milk. Then she felt her way to the pantry. “She’s good, though. She always puts the cocoa and sugar right here on this shelf, level with my waist.” Jean reached right for the two containers and set them on the counter. She felt for a spoon from the spoon drawer, found the cocoa tin again and dipped in the spoon, then touched the hollow of the spoon to make sure it was full. She dipped and touched four times, dropping the cocoa into the saucepan each time. Then she did the same with sugar. She stirred it tentatively and carried the saucepan to the stove. The task absorbed all her attention and for a moment, she didn’t talk. She turned a knob and the far right burner ignited. She lost the pan a moment and had to sidestep along the counter until she found it. Then she put it on the burner. Odd, she didn’t feel any heat yet.
    She made her way to the cupboard, brought back two cups and saucers, then sat down at the kitchen table to wait for the cocoa to heat. Lorraine