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She moved to the mantel and reached out to touch it, then hesitated and looked back at him. “May I?” He motioned for her to go ahead, and she ran her fingertips over the intricate carving of a flowering vine.
“The owner who built the house kept a detailed diary of its construction,” he explained. “A slave carved that mantelpiece as well as the balustrade of the staircase. His name was Phineas.”
“It’s lovely. I’m sure it will be even lovelier when you’re finished.”
“Parker’s expecting it to be. He’s a perfectionist.”
“Parker?”
“The owner.”
She dropped her hand and turned back to him. “Oh. I assumed you owned the house.”
He shook his head in amusement. “I only work here.”
“That’s awfully generous of him.”
“Generous of who?”
“Of Mr. Parker. That he opens his home to you and lets you write here.”
He stared at her with perplexity for a moment, then began to laugh. “Mrs. Matherly-Reed, I’m afra
id that you’re operating under a misconception here, and it’s entirely my fault. Obviously you’ve mistaken me for Parker, the man you’ve come to see. Parker Evans.”
It took a second for her to process, then she smiled with chagrin. “Parker Evans. Middle initial M.”
“You didn’t know his name?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“You’ve never heard his name before?”
“Not that I recall. Should I have?”
He studied her for a long moment, then smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Mike Strother. Forgive me for not making that clear to you when you arrived. I thought you would know immediately that I wasn’t Parker.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Strother.”
“Mike.”
She smiled at him, liking the older gentleman and wondering how she could have mistaken him for the abrasive individual she had spoken to on the telephone. His eyes were kind, although she sensed that he was still taking her measure, sizing her up, appraising her. His wariness of her had diminished somewhat, but it was still there. Of course, there was no telling what his boss had said about her. It couldn’t have been flattering.
“Are you the contractor in charge of the house’s restoration?”
“Lord, no. I’m just trying my hand at this refinishing. I’ve worked for Parker since long before he bought this place.”
“In what capacity?”
“I do a little bit of everything,” he explained. “I’m the chief cook and bottle washer, housekeeper, gardener, valet.”
“Is he a demanding taskmaster?”
He chuckled. “You have no idea.”
Apparently she didn’t. Her preconceptions of Parker M. Evans were being dispelled one by one. He certainly hadn’t sounded like a man who would have a manservant at his beck and call. “I’m looking very forward to meeting him.”
Mike’s eyes shifted away to avoid looking directly at her. “He’s not here.”
