Page 16 of Easton Island

“That was fast.”

“I had to stop by the office so I was close to the door.”

“Why did you stop by the office?”

“Ms. Blanchard asked me to deliver a folder to the secretary.”

“Oh boy. Teacher’s pet,” Morgan teased.

“She picks a different student each time. It was my turn.” Her nephew buckled up. “Tomorrow is Science Day. I need to bring my volcano to school.”

“Saturday Science Day,” she quipped.

“I can show it to you when we get to the house.”

Despite Morgan’s busy schedule and plans to drop him off and scoot back to the B&B, she could hear the excitement in his voice. “I would love to.”

During the ride, Tristan chattered about school and his friends, along with the volcano project.

Arriving at Easton Estate, he flew out of the SUV and ran into the house. Chester and Morgan followed at a slower pace, crossing the driveway and making their way into the kitchen.

Mrs. Arnsby stood at the counter, an array of mixing bowls in front of her. Curious to find out what was making a frying sound, Morgan crept closer. “What are you making?”

“Comfort food.”

“What kind of comfort food?”

“Poutine.”

“Yum, yum.” Morgan licked her lips. “Using homemade french fries, I see.”

“Priscilla is getting settled in. That poor woman is out of sorts. I figured home-cooked Canadian comfort food would lift her spirits.”

“You’re so sweet.” Morgan hugged her. “Always thinking of others.”

“I saw the whirlwind Tristan fly by. How was school?”

“Good, at least he seemed happy on the way home.”

“Have you seen his science project in action?”

“Not yet, but I’m about to.” Morgan eyed the deep fryer. “Do you need help?”

“If you don’t mind removing the basket from the fryer. I’m almost done mixing the gravy.”

Morgan promptly plucked the fries from the oil and set the basket handle in the holder. “Do you want me to turn the burner off?”

“Could you?” Picking up a mixing bowl, the cook continued whisking as she carried it to the other side of the kitchen. “I figured a sample batch might be in order before I serve them for dinner.”

Light steps echoed. A breathless Tristan appeared. “Did you still want to see the volcano?”

“I do. I was helping Mrs. Arnsby with her batch of poutine.”

“Pootie?”

“Poutine,” the woman corrected. “It’s a Canadian dish, for our new resident, Mrs. Finkpin.”

“Who is that?” Tristan climbed onto a bar stool, spinning it from side to side.