Free Enchanted August by Brenda Bowen Page A

response—not to the question, but to her. All the men wilted when they encountered her, especially when she blessed them with a smile. And he didn’t seem gay.
    She corrected her syntax. “Would you be kind enough to stop that hammering?”
    â€œI’ll stop it as soon as I’m through,” said the boy. “Mr. SanSouci asked me to fix up this railing before you got here, but with you coming a day early I couldn’t get to it till now.”
    Was this a criticism? And why wouldn’t he do what she wanted him to do? Everyone did what she wanted.
    Bang-a bang.
    â€œIt’s done now.” He put the hammer into his toolbox, shut it, and turned. “You’re Ms. Dester?”
    Here it comes, she thought. The autograph, the selfie together. The joke about the Oscars. You may have fixed our banister but you’re not getting a shot of me in a bikini.
    â€œI am, yes,” said Caroline.
    â€œMax,” he said, introducing himself. He didn’t look her in the eye. “Mr. SanSouci asked me to help you all with whatever you need. Number’s tacked up over the range.” And he turned and left.
    She lay down on the chaise again but found no peace. The hammering had stopped, which was of course what she’d wanted, but in her head was a hammering of a different sort. Didn’t he recognize her? And even if he were so far removed from
People
magazine and
EW
, wasn’t she gorgeous enough to stop him in his tracks? It had never failed her before, ever. Could it be that he actually did not know who she was, or want to know, or care?
    She got up and wrapped a little towel around her waist. Down in the kitchen, she found Max’s name on the wall over the old electric range. The house phone only made local calls; that much she knew from Lottie’s loud and unsuccessful attempt to phone her dreary family this morning. She dialed Max’s number.
    â€œYep,” he said when he picked up.
    â€œIt’s Caroline Dester.” She said it in the way she did for radio interviews, even as she thought, I’m being a fool.
    Max said nothing.
    She didn’t actually know why she’d called. She looked around the kitchen. There was milk and juice in the fridge, and the few delicacies Beverly had brought, but nothing in the open cupboards, beyond some store-brand spaghetti and hot chocolate mix and popping corn.
    â€œWe’d like you to set up someone to bring us meals every day. Healthy and fresh. Could you possibly do that for us, Max?” How could he resist? “We’ll pay whatever it costs.”
    â€œI can do it. Lobster all right for tonight? And corn?” It sounded like
kahn
. “I got six in the pot down here.”
    Caroline never ate corn and she wasn’t sure whether Max had six ears or six lobsters in a pot.
    â€œMr. SanSouci left you some potatoes, I’m pretty sure,” he continued. “Look in the larder.”
Lah-dah.
“There’s chard at the farmers market. Beets, too, I expect, this time of year. I’ll pick some up if that’s what you’re askin’.”
    She was impressed at the breadth of his knowledge. “That’s what I’m asking.”
    â€œWe’ll settle up when you leave,” he said. “Anything else?”
    â€œNothing else.” She paused to let him ask if she was
that
Caroline Dester. He said nothing. “Thanks.” She put down the phone and remembered what her jaded old Fox publicist had said on the last press tour:
    What’s worse than having two hundred people yelling for your autograph?
    Not
having two hundred people yelling for your autograph.
    Maybe she did need to get some work done after all.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    L ottie had walked for nearly an hour, marveling at cottage after cottage. Hopewell was not even the grandest! Some of the places must have had twelve bedrooms, or twenty. There were wraparound porches, lovingly tended gardens,