At that moment, the door of the far side of the kitchen that led off to the rest of the farm house burst open revealing a young girl in jeans and sweater. With her blonde hair so light that it was almost white and wide blue eyes, and delicate face, she looked like a pixie in modern human clothes. She frowned at the adults in the kitchen and pointed a finger at Mel.
“You were taking pictures of our property.”
Paul Grandbury had the audacity to chuckle at the girl’s imperious tone. “Ah, Elsie, these are the journalists from Mad Dog’s magazine. They’re doing a story for Gavot so of course they’re taking pictures.”
The girl was still frowning. “Journalists?”
“Mr. Roubere, Ms. Ang, this is my daughter Elsie. I told you before that she helped my wife with the vegetable and fruit plots. Last year she entered one of the pumpkins she tended to a contest in Callas and won first prize.”
The journalists just nodded as the farmer’s daughter still looked rebellious. “Mad Dog has an unhealthy obsession with his magazine,” she declared. “When he was staying here, that was all he talked about. Besides his boyfriend.”
Mel wondered how she would ask about Mad Dog’s “friend”—it would seem untoward if she pried into the editor’s private life at this juncture even if she needed answers to the person who gave him the horn silver beads. Perhaps if she took the girl aside she might spill something, but from Elsie Granbury’s combative stance and her hard gaze, it would be hard to get anything out of her unless she made the girl trust her.
“Well, are you done working on that thing?” the girl asked her father. “I have to start making dinner and preparing the refreshments for the astronomy club.”
“Sure dear,” the farmer replied obliviously. “You know,” he told the journalists, “My daughter makes the best pot pies.”
The girl’s cheeks pinkened. “Father!”
Paul Grandbury picked up his harness and headed out to the door. “I’ll be out in the barn brushing down the horses then. Feel free to look around and take your fill of pictures.”
Stuart immediately got up from his stool. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see the horses. Being a city dweller, I’ve never had the chance to really visit a farm up close and personal.”
The farmer nodded and as the reporter followed him out of the farm house and the screen door slammed shut behind them, Mel realized that she was finally alone with the girl who was busy rummaging through the refrigerator and pulling ingredients out onto the counter.
“So are you making pot pies for dinner?” Mel asked as Elsie pulled out dough that had been pre-rolled and wrapped in saran wrap.
“Yes,” the girl replied grudgingly. She still eyed the photographer suspiciously. “So you work at Mad Dog’s magazine, Hot Tread?”
“That’s right. But I wouldn’t say that he is obsessed with the magazine. He’s more like incredibly dedicated. But since he’s your relative, I’m sure you know more about him than I do.”
“Funny you should say that because I would say the same thing for you since you work with him. Mad Dog only comes around here occasionally. The last time he was here, well, he wasn’t really here. When he was here, he was talking Dad’s ear off about his magazine.”
“What do you mean? I assume that if he was here, you saw him the whole time.”
“I was at school most of the time or helping Mom with the garden,” she replied as she rolled out the dough. “But even then, he wasn’t here all the time. He was hanging out with the creative types at the community center.”
“Creative types?”
“Mostly this painter guy. I never really caught his name though although I remember his name sounded sort of fancy. He dressed all in black like one of those stereotypical arty types you find in the big city, you know.”
“Hm,” replied Mel.
The girl sighed as she began putting the dough into round tins. “So are you going to stick around and watch me bake?”
“Sure, why not. I’ve never made pot pies before. I’m not a very good cook, actually. Living in a city with many restaurants sort of spoils you, I suppose. The only pot pies I’ve seen before were the frozen kind in the grocery store.”
“Well, watch and learn then, because this will be nothing like the store bought kind. I take it that you will be staying over for the hayride and astronomy club?”
“Yes, that’s what your father invited us for.”
“I suppose if he’s done that, then you’re all right then,” the farmer’s daughter said grudgingly. “So you were taking photographs of the house. Will it be published in Hot Tread?”
“Maybe. I’m taking a lot of photos of Gavot. It will actually be up to Mad Dog and the design editor to actually decide which ones they ultimately want to be featured in the magazine.”
“Huh, well there’s hoping. It’ll be really cool to tell my friends at school that my house is featured in a famous magazine.”
Mel absently nodded. “I’m sure your friends would be impressed.”
