Free A Single Thread (Cobbled Court) by Marie Bostwick

salmon for you, Mrs. Wynne. Sorry for the delay.” The poor boy looked frazzled.
    “That’s fine, Jason. We weren’t waiting long.” I smiled conspiratorially and rested my hand on his arm for a moment. “I saw Charlie charge back to the kitchen looking ready to explode. Let me guess—Maurice didn’t want to burn my salmon?”
    Jason smiled but didn’t say anything. I laughed.
    “A very diplomatic response. Well, you tell Maurice that I said my fish was delicious, absolute perfection, that I think he’s a genius and I’m going to tell all my friends to order it just this way. That should really irritate him, don’t you think?”
    Again, the young server declined comment, but he sounded sincere when he said he hoped we enjoyed our meal before walking toward the kitchen.
    “See, Abigail? That’s what I’m talking about,” Franklin said as he took up his fork and began carefully picking scallions out of his salad. I’ve never understood why he just doesn’t order the salad without the scallions, but that’s Franklin. He never wants to be a bother to anyone; and besides, he says that picking out the onions makes him eat more slowly.
    “You have such a way with people, even young people like our waiter. He came to the table, completely petrified that we were going to be angry after waiting so long, yet with a few kind words you put him completely at ease. When you want to, you can win anyone over. Now, why can’t you do the same thing with Liza?”
    “There is a big difference between being pleasant to a waiter, or a bank teller, or even a tennis partner—someone you have to see only occasionally—and dealing with an uninvited guest, or rather a criminal, who is serving out their sentence in your guest room.” I picked up my knife and sliced into the crisp, black skin of the salmon. It broke under the blade with a satisfying crunch.
    “Abigail, be fair. Liza isn’t exactly a criminal.” Franklin raised his hand to interrupt a forthcoming protest on my part. “I know. I know. She took a sweater without paying for it, but it isn’t like you’re harboring a hardened felon under your roof—just a sad, lonely, confused girl who is crying out for help.”
    I rolled my eyes. “Franklin, please. Don’t give me any of that psychological mumbo jumbo. She’s a grown woman. She’s nineteen years old, not some pitiable, misunderstood child, and she should be responsible for her own actions.” He started to say something, but this time it was my turn to cut him off.
    “You’re too softhearted, Franklin. You see her as this vulnerable little orphan, but you’re wrong. I’m telling you, the girl is anything but vulnerable. Pigheaded, that’s what she is!”
    “Oh, come on, Abigail. She can’t be all that bad.”
    “No? She’s impossible, Franklin. Impossible! She’s gloomy, rude, and self-centered. She doesn’t get up until noon, doesn’t go to bed until three, and hides out in her room all day either listening to that cacophony of tin cans and catgut she calls music or working on her so-called ‘art.’ From what I can see, her three semesters at art school were a complete waste of time and money. All her canvasses are covered with globs of paint, bits of twine, or wire, and who knows what else. ‘Found objects’ she calls them, which is apparently the art world’s new word for trash. Ridiculous! I’m a well-known patron of the arts! True, I’ve never been enthused about modern art, but I can appreciate it. No one can say I don’t. How much did I give to her Geltzmer Museum last year? Ten thousand?”
    “Fifteen,” Franklin answered without looking up from his plate. The offending onions now pushed to one side, he was concentrated on finishing his salad. I, on the other hand, hadn’t eaten more than two or three bites of my salmon. Franklin was right; he did eat too fast.
    “There, you see? That’s my point exactly. I appreciate modern art more than most people, but this! Do you know,