MacKalvey House
by Carol Ann Kauffman
Young American Michelle Rosemont visits a quaint, little village in England after graduation and decides to stay. She takes a job as photographer for a historical magazine and is drawn to Kenneth MacKalvey, an older British author whom she has admired from afar. Their mutual attraction is instantaneous. But they are opposites in every way. Twists and turns at every corner heighten the suspense in this village mystery. Will his dark and shady past cause Michelle to run away? Will issues of abandonment at birth stop her from trusting him? Can they find happiness together despite their major differences? Or will old family scars and secrets keep them apart forever?
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Excerpt:
Chapter One
Too Many Cooks
“Yes, sir.”
“And do not bother me with this nonsense again!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why is it suddenly so bloody difficult to find suitable, decent, dependable domestic help? My father never had any trouble finding or keeping suitable staff. Are the whole lot of these new domestics slow on the uptake?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“They’d all rather be on the dole than work for a decent wage.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What the hell has happened to this country?”
“I have no idea, sir.”
“Thank you, Edwards. I’ll not be needing you for the rest of the evening. Get some rest. You look tired, Bernard. See you in the morning.”
Bernard Edwards gave Mr. MacKalvey a slight nod and disappeared down the hallway and into his room. It was harder and harder to find suitable, decent household help because Mr. Kenneth MacKalvey was becoming more and more demanding, increasingly irritable, and terribly unpleasant. Bernard remembered a discussion with a former employee, the sweet, wonderful, Italian cook, Loretta Colavita.
“Bernardo, does he think he owns us? He is so critical! Nothing is ever to his satisfaction. He is never pleased with anything. He never smiles anymore. He’s never happy. I hardly recognize the sweet, wonderful gentleman who hired me years ago. What the hell happened to him? He nitpicks about every tiny thing we do. He wants constant perfection. And then he goes on and on like some nag of an old woman. He can be so mean and vindictive. He treats us all like pond scum. He’s nasty.”
“I know, Loretta. I think he must be a very sad man on the inside.”
“Yeah, well, on the outside, too.”
“I’m so sorry to see you go, my dear. You are a terrific cook. And you are… delightful company. You are truly a wonderful woman and… and a joy to be around. And I… I…” he stopped himself.
“Well, I’d rather scrub toilets in a men’s prison for the criminally insane than stay in the same house with the likes of that foul bastard and cook for him one more day. If I cook him one more meal, I swear it will be laced with arsenic. Goodbye to you, my dear sweet Bernardo, and good luck to you, too. When are you going to get disgusted enough to leave that miserable fart all alone, which is what he truly deserves?”
“Oh, dear Loretta, I’m afraid it’s not that easy. I’ve been with his family since I was a child. You could say we grew up together.”
“Except that one in there, he never grew up. He’s still a mean-spirited little rich boy, who has lost his charm, if he ever hadany charm in the first place, which I am beginning to doubt.”
“Oh, that’s not true, dear Loretta. He’s a good man.”
“I know, I know. I’m just so angry with him at the moment.”
“He will regret this day, I assure you, and he will beg you to come back. Goodbye, my dear Loretta. And until that day comes, I shall miss you. Terribly.” Bernard gave her a hug.
“Well, until that cold day in hell comes, I shall miss you, too, sweet man,” said Loretta, kissing one cheek, and then the other. She patted his cheek. She looked deep into his eyes. And the exceptional Loretta Colavita left MacKalvey House. Bernard waved as he watched her car pull out of the driveway and disappear down the long road toward town. Days passed.
“I miss Loretta Colavita, sir,” Bernard sighed
“Damn it, Edwards! I know you do. I saw the way you mooned after her. I heard her call you ‘Bernardo’ and ‘sweet man’. I saw her fuss all over you when you caught a cold or complained about a sore throat. I miss her, too,” he sighed, “very much. So let’s not go getting so attached to the next cook, what do you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
The delightful Loretta Colavita was followed by three less than stellar cooks. The red-haired Irish woman told him off, brandishing a kitchen knife at him, and left within the week. Then came the Swedish matron who only made fish, fish for breakfast, fish for lunch, and fish for dinner. She lasted almost three weeks, and only because she understood very little English and had no idea the Master of the House was insulting her and her cooking day in and day out after every meal.
“Bloody hell! I feel like a hapless prisoner of war aboard a Viking warship in the middle of the damn miserable ocean. Fish. Fish. Fish. MacKalvey House positively reeks with the disgusting smell of dead fish. Luckily our nearest neighbor is more than thirty-two kilometers away, or they’d all be complaining about our stench and reporting us to the clean air authorities.”
The Swedish matron was replaced by Greta, a German woman who hardly spoke and made decent, stick-to-your-ribs food three times a day with absolutely no conversation.
“Well, finally, some luck in the kitchen! The Italian, though an outstanding cook and a good woman with a heart of pure gold, was just a tiny bit over-sensitive to criticism. The Irish woman was obviously part of a coven. And the Swede was trying to kill us both with mercury poisoning. But this German woman, the food is decent and she is nice and quiet. She’s okay.”
Greta stayed in her room when she wasn’t cooking. She spoke to no one. She looked hauntingly out the window. One Tuesday evening, after dinner, she shot herself.
“I can hardly believe this bad luck of mine! I cannot seem to find a decent cook without mental problems.” said Mr. MacKalvey after the police and coroner left the next day about noon.
“Loretta Colavita was wonderful, Sir. No mental problems. Excellent mushroom risotto. Exquisite lasagna Florentine. Wonderful woman,” sighed Bernard nostalgically.
“And now that the police and the coroner have finally finished, I have to have that room cleaned and repainted and hardwood floor refinished. Buy a new mattress set and bed linens. A new small carpet. A completely unnecessary expense. AND I need to find another cook! I tell you, Edwards, it’s a bloody nightmare!”
“Yes, sir. A bloody nightmare,” agreed Bernard. It must have been a bloody nightmare for poor Greta also, he thought, with never a kind word or a nod of appreciation in her direction. Never a soul to talk to, no one to care. Maybe if she had someone to talk to, things would have turned out differently for her.
“Sir, did you remember today is Wednesday?”
“Wednesday, yes. What of it?”
“Miss Michelle Rosemont is coming today to photograph the grounds of the estate for the May issue of Historic Hazelton Magazine?”
“Oh, damn the hell, yes, I forgot all about it. Edwards, can you be a dear a handle it for me? I haven’t the stomach for schmoozing with an American photographer today, when I have all this dead Greta mess to deal with. I don’t feel like chatting. And I hate painters in the house. They’re messy and smelly. And noisy. And talk about noisy, hardwood floor refinishers with their power equipment, my head will ache for a week after they are done. Do you think we could find one who doesn’t use power equipment?”
“So, you would like one quiet man, preferably a mute, who uses only sandpaper?”
“Yes, Edwards, that would be lovely! Could you?” Mr. MacKalvey perked up.
“I’ll make some phone calls, sir, and see what I can find to suit you.”
“Thank you, Edwards.”
“Ah, sir? You also invited Miss Rosemont to have lunch with you here at the estate when she was finished. I think you shall have to chat and schmooze, just a little.”
“Lunch? Chat? Schmooze? LUNCH? I did? Yes, I did, I remember now. Oh, no!”
“Yes, sir, that was before Greta so rudely offed herself, without giving any consideration to your ever-expanding social calendar.”
“This is such a major inconvenience! What on earth would possess me to do such a thing?”
“I don’t know, sir. It seemed so very out of character for you at the time, I almost doubted your sanity. It was so… social.”
“What in heaven’s name was I thinking?”
“I have NO idea, sir.”
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