"Letters"

by Acey

Edited and revised as of October 22, 2005. Thank you all for your patience. I will finish this fic.

The woman turned off the engine of her aircar, let herself out, and promptly recapsulized it. Rushing to the front porch, she noticed that the total effect of the house was not as she had left it. The flowers that had practically covered the lawn were almost gone, choked by weeds. The paint was peeling from the shutters. My, my, she thought wryly, the maids seem to have shirked their work. Ah, well, can't expect too much nowadays. No one treats the field with much respect anymore.

She sifted through a coatpocket and produced the housekey, muttering to herself as she unlocked the door and let herself in. 'Well, at least they didn't change the lock and use my house for partying.'

"Miss?"

The mistress had always insisted on the old-fashioned standard of address between servant and whatever the politically correct term was now for the one higher above that. But she paid them well, no doubt about that, "much better than most old gals," as the head cook would put it. Much better.

"Yes, Cook, I'm back. Did you miss me?"

"Yes, Miss. I'm probably the only one. When you didn't come back after your month of leave was over, the--"

"I quite understand. My trip--took longer than it should have. Have you been keeping the house, Cook?"

"Yes, Miss. Wasn't able to do much else, I'm afraid. I can't tell the flowers from the weeds, so I didn't do anything with your garden. And the shutters--"

"It's fine. I'll pay you double for staying on." The mistress of the house sat down, playing with a string of faded pink hair. She was nearly seventy and was finally starting to show her age. Years in the field of science had worn her down, drained her slowly but surely. The energetic young woman that had majored in four areas at once in college was gone.

Struck by a new thought, she stopped twisting the strand and spoke.

"Any mail, Cook?"

The cook bobbed her head up and down.

"Lots, Miss."

"I'd like to see it."

"I stacked it all upstairs in your room, if you don't mind, Miss."

"What makes you think I'd mind? Now, all I want are the letters. Not the bills (you forwarded all the bills to me, I know), not the magazines ("Science Weeky" has gotten a bit old, even for my tastes), not the junk. Just the letters. Will you get them for me?"

"Which ones, Miss?"

"The ones addressed to me, obviously."

Rolling her eyes, the cook trudged upstairs and after a moment's search in her employer's boudoir, produced the letters.

"Thank you. Now--"

The woman examined the pile of sealed envelopes and sorted them into stacks.

"Stupid Doctor Tanner-- he must've sent a letter every week on how my theories are all wrong-- augh, Tanner again-- doesn't that silly man have anything better to do than to disprove all scientific theories from Archimedes downward? Taylor-- the fool thinks I can place his daughter in Harvard. I wouldn't do that even if I could, you can bet your last zene..."

She paused at an enveloped overlooked.

"Gero? Gero! My old college friend down at Western Capital College! He still remembers me! Oh, bless the man... Be a dear and get a letter opener, would you? Thanks..."

The shift in mood was evident even to the none-too-observant cook. The mistresses' shrewd green eyes were sparkling to the point that they looked like they belonged on the face of a sixteen-year-old enjoying her first reciporated crush than to an elderly, brilliant winner of the Nobel Prize in both physics and chemistry twice who had never so much as had a boyfriend to speak of, even in her prime, not that she wasn't sought after then.

"Good of Gero to write me a letter-- get me a paper and pen, Cook, please..."

Next thing you know, the old bat'll want me to sign a contract for slavery, the cook thought bitterly. Well, at least now she's smiling. The gal hasn't smiled in the whole time I've worked in this place...