Free Ammie, Come Home by Barbara Michaels

seen all day,” Ruth exclaimed, as her niece, seeing her enter, switched off the vacuum. “My dear girl, how nice of you!”
    â€œYou didn’t think I was going to let you do all this by yourself, did you? I don’t have any Friday afternoon classes.”
    â€œBut it’s finished; I couldn’t have done better myself. All we need now are the flowers. I brought some home with me, they’re in the hall.”
    â€œWhat kind?”
    â€œSome carnations and the inevitable chrysanthemums, I’m afraid, but I found some beauties. That lovely bronze. This is a hybrid, with gold and copper streaks.”
    â€œI like mums.” Sara wound the cord around the cleaner and shoved it towards the door. “What shall I put them in, the blue Delft pots?”
    â€œThat would be good. The white ones can go in the copper vases, and the carnations in the silver. There ought to be a few roses left; I’d planned those for the dining room.”
    â€œThey’ve been gotten. Take a look.”
    Ruth pushed open the sliding doors across the hall from the drawing room, and exclaimed with pleasure. The dining room was a dark room, abutting on the neighboring house so closely that that side had been left without windows. Instead of running the full length of the house like the drawing room, it was backed by a high old-fashioned butler’s pantry and the kitchen; hence its only outside light came from the street windows, which were kept curtained because they were so close to the sidewalk. The wall sconces and the chandelier had been electrified, and they gave a warm, rich light. The furniture was heavy and dark. Sara had polished it till it reflected objects, and Ruth had mended the worn spots in the exquisite petit point covering the chairs. The table was already set, with Ruth’s best damask and silver and crystal; the beautiful old Delft in the corner cupboard, with its scalloped border, had been washed, and the tall silver candlesticks held bayberry candles whose faded green matched the muted shade of the walls.
    â€œEverything is perfect,” Ruth said gratefully. “There’s nothing for me to do.”
    â€œExcept the cooking!”
    â€œYes, I’d better start the rolls. They’ll have to rise twice.”
    â€œIt’s such a job. Why didn’t you get frozen rolls?”
    â€œThe secret of good cooking,” Ruth said didactically, “is to stick to what you can do well, but use no substitutes. I can’t handle elaborate meals; they require too many hands at the last minute, and I really don’t enjoy cooking all that much anyhow. A roast is easy to prepare, but this one I’ve got is a roast of roasts; I bullied it out of that French butcher on Wisconsin, and paid a week’s grocery money for it. The salad is my own invention, but it’s very simple—every fresh vegetable I can find goes into it, plus eggs. You’d be surprised how impressive it looks. So the rolls have to be handmade, those frozen ones taste like cardboard and would spoil the total effect.”
    â€œI see your point. You know what I’d cook, don’t you?”
    â€œSpaghetti,” Ruth said.
    â€œHow did you ever guess?”
    â€œWell, I used to serve it myself when I started housekeeping. It has the advantage of being honestly peasanty, but I can’t serve Mrs. Jackson Mac-Dougal spaghetti. Not that she wouldn’t eat it with perfect aplomb.”
    â€œWhat’s she like?”
    â€œShe’s a darling. You’ll like her.”
    They stood for a moment in silence, their arms lightly touching as they surveyed the room to make sure no touch had been omitted. It was a good moment. Ruth was to remember it later, with a sharp pang of loss.
    Â 
    III
    The guests were due at seven thirty. At six Ruth went downstairs to do the last-minute kitchen work which could not be put off any later if she wanted time to dress. The hors