“I’m gonna need some help with the peelin’, Ms. Celia. Hope y’don’t mind starchy hands.”
“With your conversation, not a bit.”

The pile of skins grew quite rapidly between the two, chatting about this & that. Celia loved Molly’s conversation; not only did she always have a thing or two to say about a thing or two, her voice was wonderful to hear. Her mother, head of the kitchen before her, was born & raised in Ireland, while her father, a businessman, was a Bostonian through & through. The mix of Molly’s accent was an unusual one, a Boston accent with an Irish brogue, but thoroughly entertaining.
“Molly,” Celia asked as they finished, “have you seen Max lately? Since this afternoon?”
“Master Maxwell?” She thought about it for a moment. “Nope, can’t say I have. Last I heard he headed into town. Guess he got a ‘new shipment’ or something.” Molly shrugged. “He’s a strange creature, Master Maxwell is. Sometimes I think Master Stevens wishes he didn’t have to leave the estate to him when he finally hops the twig.”