Zara, he noticed, was watching him closely. Was he going to be her mother’s white knight, riding to the rescue, slaying dragons, producing fifty servings of gumbo, étouffée and jambalaya out of thin air?

“Let me think on it,” he said, mostly because he couldn’t bear to say no. “Maybe I can come up with something.”

“That’s all right,” Loretta said quickly. “It was just a thought. I can’t expect you to impose on your cousin. I’ll get it done somehow, even if I have to pay through the nose. Zara, we better go. We have lots of deliveries to make.” She grabbed her daughter’s hand and swept out of the breakfast room, still talking.

“Thanks for the coffee and juice. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Zara, say goodbye.”

“Goodbye…Mr. Carter,” she said in a solemn voice, and the significance of the formal mode of address wasn’t lost on him. The little minx was giving him the cold shoulder.

Mr. Carter indeed.

He’d show her. As he listened to the Volvo’s chugging fade away down the road, he vowed he would come up with some way to bail Loretta out of her jam.

“Mr. Carter?” It was Mrs. Bird-watcher, poking her head into the kitchen. “We’re ready for breakfast whenever you are.”

“Coming right up.”

He poured coffee and juice, and set out the yogurt and Loretta’s delectable baked goods. Then, with a flourish, he placed the frittata in the center of the table. It was a thing of beauty.

The bird-watchers, both disturbingly birdlike in appearance, stared at the casserole with twin looks of horror.

“Is that…eggs?” Mrs. Bird-watcher asked.

“Yes, ma’am. It’s a frittata.”

She clamped her eyes shut. “Take it away, please.”

“We don’t do eggs,” Mr. Bird-watcher added apologetically. “It would be like eating our little feathered friends, you see. Didn’t we tell you?”

Luc guessed that meant the fried-chicken boxed lunches wouldn’t go over big, either.