Go to the kitchen

The foyer of the Powell house led to several different places. Just past the staircase to the second floor was the entrance to the kitchen. I had spent so much time there in real life enjoying the smells of Mrs. Powell’s cooking and baking, or having Mr. Powell extol the qualities of this or that wine or spirit. It was the kind of place where the act of creating a meal was just as enjoyable as consuming it.

It was no surprise to find Kimberly’s mother Annette there; she always delighted in hosting family and friends. She was bustling back and forth between the stove top and the counter. Several pots were on the boil, a collection of bowls in various sizes held ingredients ready for mixing, and the cutting board had seen a lot of use.

Annette’s slim figure was hidden by a long floral dress and a frilly pink apron. The hem was below her knees and I could see the distinct sheen of her pantyhose stretched over her calves. The floor click clacked with every step of the black leather pumps she wore. The heels were low so she was still a full head shorter than me.

With the small size of her bust and the height of her apron she had no real cleavage to speak of. About the only bare skin you could see below her neck was where her sleeves rolled up past her elbows. Her hair, turning silvery blonde with age, was in a neat bob cut. Her reading glasses perched on her nose as she scoured the pages of a recipe book she had memorized years ago.

Her look screamed “motherhood” in all the best ways.

But was it what I was looking for?