by Jenn Sable
“I'm surprised you don't already know. Maxwell’s very interested in spending a little bit of time with you. He must want to sew some wild oats before he settles down with marriage material. Not that I'm saying you are not marriage material, but oh, you know what I mean.”
I controlled the scowl that was desperate to form on my features. “I actually have no idea what you mean.” My resolve to be nice was slipping through my fingers.
“Oh come on, I was just teasing. There's no reason to get your panties in a bunch,” she leaned forward with mischief sparkling in her eyes. “You do wear panties, right?”
I wanted to drop kick this woman back to whatever pit she had crawled out of, but before I could respond to her rude remark, Ms. Biddle, the local piano teacher, walked over with a confident stride of a linebacker and squeezed into the space between April and me. I stood and blinked, dumbfounded. Ms. Biddle was synonymous with manners and decorum, and right now, I was witnessing her at her absolute pinnacle of rudeness. I’d never been so proud of Ms. Biddle in all my life.
“Pardon me, April,” said Ms. Biddle in a clipped tone as she took both of my hands into hers. “Eloise! It’s so good to see you! Welcome home, dear. My Local Ladies of Frost Forest Club, LLFF for short, was just at Brocker Lodge for lunch with your sister, Samantha you know, the one that's married to Owen Brocker.”
I smiled and held back a little bubble of laughter. “Oh, believe me, Ms. Biddle, I know her,” I said, but got the distinct feeling that Ms. Biddle said that for April's ears, not mine.
Ms. Biddle winked and leaned forward and lowered her voice. April craned her neck in a blatant attempt to eavesdrop on our conversation. I stifled a laugh at Ms. Biddle’s brief, but deadly side-eye to April. Whatever had transpired between those two women in the past was a mystery to me, but they did not appear to be fond of one another and failed miserably at pretending otherwise.
Thank God I don't bother with over the top etiquette. I would be exhausted.
Ms. Biddle turned her attention back to me. “Samantha approached me this morning at the lodge and informed me that your teahouse is now open to taking reservations from local clubs. Is that correct?”
Ms. Biddle’s brows raised so high with hope that her well-plucked wings nearly reached the top of her forehead. Her eyes were wide with excitement and filled with so much hope, that I almost forgot the fact that I was going to throttle Samantha from making such an aggressive statement about the availability of my teahouse without my knowledge.
It's just like Sam to put out the news about the teahouse before I even had a chance to talk to Chloe about our revamped marketing strategy. I guess good word of mouth by the LLFF wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
I felt myself nodding and smiling. “Yes. Yes, that is true. Very true, now. We are still working out the details, and I need to talk to Chloe Rosen about how to structure the schedule and how best to reach out to local groups.”
Ms. Biddle looked taken aback. “How best to reach out to the local groups?” She laughed and patted me on the arm. “Darling, your sister already did that for you.”
Now I was taken aback. “What? What do you mean?” I stammered.
April looked from me to Ms. Biddle and back as though she were watching some kind of unfolding drama. All she needed was a bag of popcorn and a large Cherry Coke.
Ms. Biddle patted me on the arm again and then reached up to finger one of the large pearls on her necklace, which was perilously close to becoming a choker string of pearls. She saw me eyeing her necklace. “The woes of a wide neck. Be thankful you have a long, slender one,” she said, and April started laughing.
Ms. Biddle angrily pulled at the corners of her blouse, straightening any wrinkles and continued as if she couldn’t hear April rudely snickering. “Well, anyway, now that I know you're opening a teahouse focused on the locals, I’ll be your biggest fan. I am the most local, local! I know just about everybody in Frost Forest and Bloombury and even some of our Clear Creek friends from over there.” She gave her hand a little wave in the general direction of Clear Creek.
“Once you see Chloe on Monday, tell her that I already intend to host weekly LLFF meetings in the teahouse on Monday afternoons. We appreciate snacksーput fruit in them so that they look healthy, but make sure they are delicious. Oh, and I spoke with Ralph Sutter outside just a minute ago. He thinks it would be a great place to gather for his monthly bricklayers union meetings, as long as you offer meaty snacks and other beverages beyond tea, you know, of the stronger variety,” She scrunched up her face and silently laughed then mouthed the word, “boys,” and rolled her eyes.
Oh dear, Lord. What is happening?
“And best of all,” Ms. Biddle looked around, beaming and, aggressively cleared her throat and said a little louder than absolutely necessary. “I plan to host my monthly piano concerts at your teahouse! El’s teahouse off Preacher Road!”
“Oh my,” I say, feeling a little lightheaded.
“What is the formal name of your teahouse?”
I swallowed. It was a surreal moment. Once I said it, then it made the business real. “Lamplight Teahouse. Thank you for your patronage, Ms. Biddle.”
Ms. Biddle enveloped me inside her meaty arms, and she squeezed me against her soft cheek. “I love it! And you are so welcome, Eloise. We’re proud of you. Leave it up to the locals, and we will keep the Lamplight on and in business. Oh, which reminds me, I sit on the board of the Annual Small Business Ball hosted at the old governor's mansion. Consider this your invitation.”
Before I was able to say anything, Chuck handed Ms. Biddle her call-in order of a dozen fresh donuts. She nodded her thanks, smiled at me, ignored April and threw a “tata” over her shoulder as she sashayed out the door in her wide, two-inch heels.
“I like a woman like that. She’s got meat on her bones and knows what she wants,” said Chuck and called the next pickup order.
April looked at me in shock.
“I don't know if she can just issue invitations like that,” said April indignantly. “My Uncle Mitchell is the President of Bloombury College,”
“I know who your uncle is,” I said, smiling.
Ms. Biddle had just rode in like a badass and singlehandedly pushed the Lamplight Teahouse into existence. I couldn’t have been more grateful or inspired.
“Uncle Mitchell is the one who needs to officially approve all small businesses attending the ball just so you know,” huffed April, crossing her arms tightly under her push up bra, causing her breasts to rise to alarming new heights.
I shrugged. “Well, just so you know, that was the second invitation I’ve had issued to attend the Small Business Ball.”
April snapped her head in my direction. “Who else could’ve possibly invited you?”
“Maxwell Palmer, Bloombury College President, Mitchell Palmer’s son, you know, the one who wants to sew wild oats with me.”
Chapter 10 - Troy
I almost tripped and fell in front of the old Cherokee Jeep once I saw that El was behind the wheel. I knew she was back in Frost Forest. Hell, I knew more about her situation than her family or even she did, and yet, I was bowled over when I saw her. The air rushed from my lungs, and I had to fight the physical need to pull her into my arms, even after she almost flattened me with a fire-red,1992, four-wheel drive.
It must be love.
Wait. What? No, it’s not love. I don’t “love El.” It’s not like when a man loves a woman.
Fuck.
Maybe it is, and maybe I do.
I pulled out my phone and tried texting El for the twentieth time since she’d blocked me since leaving for Paris.
Me: El, it was great seeing you today.
Message not sent. Recipient not available.
Fuck.
“Officer Witmer?” asked a tall woman with even features, thick, colorful rimmed glasses, and who wore her hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. Her clothing was nondescript, black blouse and black dress pants w
ith black-and-white shoes. The only colorful thing she wore was her funky glasses. She carried a leather-bound folder and a pen.
I stood up from the lounge chair in the Brocker Lodge’s spacious lobby that overlooked Frost Forest and shook the woman’s hand. “Yes, hello. You must be Dr. Corl.”
She smiled and inclined her head. She parted her black hair exactly down the middle. Not one hair was out of place. I took a breath. This was the doctor that the state police headquarters contacted in order to run an evaluation. April Kline had placed a complaint and then the complaint was reinforced by two more by Maxwell and Mitchell Palmer, no doubt to get back at me for Max’s DUI.
“It’s nice to meet you, Officer Witmer,” said Dr. Corl.
“Likewise, feel free to call me, Troy,” I said.
“Okay, Troy. I was informed that a small event room was reserved for us. Are you ready to head back and get started?” asked Dr. Corl, gesturing to the wide hallway that stretched off to the side of the lobby.
“Absolutely, l’m ready.”
Dr. Corl led the way to the room that made to hold about thirty to forty people for small, private parties. Close to the door, a table had stood, and a tray with a pitcher of water and two glasses sat in the middle of the table. Two chairs sat at the table.
“What, no couch? Does this even count as a therapy session?” I asked, joking.
Dr. Corl gave me a penetrating look and then opened her leather-bound folder and wrote something down.
Fuck. No more jokes.
An hour and a half into the session with Dr. Corl, things had lightened up considerably, and I was finally able to breathe without worrying that she was going to record something about my breathing style in her folder packed with notes.
“Troy, I think we’re just about done here, but first let me run back over a few details in order to make sure that I recorded what you said correctly.”
“Okay,” I said and smiled. I wasn’t against therapy. In fact, I thought it did a lot of people a lot of good. However, this session felt like I was walking a mental tightrope. I was relieved that it was quickly approaching its conclusion.
“Your father was a state police officer who was struck and killed by a car while on duty when you were seventeen years old,” said Dr. Corl, as she scanned her notes.
“Yes, that’s correct,” I said. It felt odd to talk about my dad in such a clinical way.
“Your mother took you and your sister for family grief counseling three times.”
I nodded. “Yes, that is correct.”
“You informed the counselor and your mother that you no longer wanted to attend the grief sessions after the third session.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you remember why you wanted to stop the sessions?” asked Dr. Corl, pen hovering over paper.
“I... didn’t find them helpful.”
Dr. Corl raised an eyebrow. “Can you explain or add some details to that?”
I shrugged. “I remember the counselor being young. He was trying his best to help, but I remember him being very tied to an eight-step process to identify and cope with how we were feeling. I can remember feeling as though I didn’t quite mesh the standard eight steps.”
Dr. Corl nodded. “How so?”
I sighed. “I just wanted to move on. I was sad, yes, heartbroken, of course, but it made me feel worse, rehashing my dad’s death repeatedly. As a seventeen-year-old kid, I wanted to remember my dad as the strongest man in the world, someone who I’d work to become like and make proud. That became my focus. I wanted to make my father proud.”
“Okay, Troy. Thank you. One last thing.”
“Yes?”
“Why do you think three complaints were filed against you, questioning your forthrightness on your state police academy application?”
I shook my head. “I’d like to think that it was some misinformed community members who remembered something about my father passing away and possibly coupled that with the fact that I attended three family grief sessions with my sister. Maybe the community members worried that I had been diagnosed with a mental illness, but I never was.”
Dr. Corl sat back and closed her leather-bound folder of notes. “Why didn’t you disclose the grief sessions on your state police academy application?”
I shrugged. “I’d attended two years of community college by the time I signed up for the state police academy. I honestly didn’t even remember the grief sessions. I disclosed to anyone who would listen that I was motivated to help protect my community members and that I wanted to make my dad proud.”
Dr. Corl nodded and extended her hand to me one more time. “Officer Witmer, thank you for your time. I see no instances of you knowingly falsifying your application under the given circumstances. I’ll contact Captain Kelleher right away. Thank you for helping to keep your community safe.” She stood, smiled, and left.
I exhaled and collapsed against the backrest of my chair. Thank Christ, because there was no damn way that I was going to sit on the sidelines while El’s life could possibly be in danger.
I hated the notion that some freak might be out there, trying to hurt my girl just because she’d been included in Winifred Langley’s will. According to Tula Cooper Parks, she wasn’t even sure if Winnie had told El that she was now the heiress of a hefty chunk of Winnie’s tea empire and wouldn’t have a want in the world for as long as she lived, as long as she did, in fact, live. Hearing that made my blood boil and the protector in me rise up like a cobra, ready to strike anyone who tried to hurt Eloise.
Two days ago, while El had been busy traveling home, Winnie’s lawyer, Nigel Phillips, had been found dead in the alleyway outside his Paris law office due to blunt force trauma to the head. The French authorities were working to determine if the murder had any connection to the latest will and testament that Nigel had been working on for Winnie. During the last alteration of Winnie’s will, a car bomb had been planted and detonated in Tula Cooper Parks personal vehicle. The presumed target had been Tula, however, it was her husband, Stephen Parks, who had turned the ignition and was killed.
The top French authorities were investigating Nigel’s murder. Winnie had been whisked into private protective services for her safety and was now protected by armed guards while she rested and recuperated in Tula’s summer house at an undisclosed location in the English countryside.
The only family member informed about El’s situationーfor the time beingーhad been Owen Brocker. He had been very reluctant to scare Eloise or inform any of the other Evans sisters, including his wife. Yet, he insisted that El get round the clock protection. He said he was willing to hire guards if the state would not provide them.
Captain Kelleher assured Owen that El would have a state police officer present round the clock for the time being until we heard the findings from the French authorities regarding the motive behind Nigel Phillips's death. The majority of the round the clock guard got assigned to me, and I was supposed to move into a bedroom at the inn immediately if cleared by the internal investigation. Tula Cooper Parks was assigned the duty of speaking to El about why such actions were necessary at this time.
What a twist in my life. I’d thought I’d be on the Pike Patrol, and here I was working with Captain Kelleher and the French authorities about how best to keep my Eloise safe.
My cell buzzed, and I was surprised to see it was a text message from El.
El: We need to talk right now.
I guess Tula just told her everything.
Me: On my way.
El: Hurry.
Me: I will, El. I’m coming. It’s going to be okay.
My heart started beating faster. The inn was a mile and a half away. It only took me a few minutes to jump into my vehicle and pull up to the inn. I saw El sitting on the front porch, head in her hands, slowly swinging. I took the front porch steps two at a time, my heart beating out of my chest with worry.
“El, come here,” I said and sat beside her on the porch swing and g
athered her into my arms. I pressed my lips against her temple and murmured words of comfort and told her that I would keep her safe no matter what. But it didn’t matter what I said. Silent tears streamed down El’s face.
I felt like a caged lion, powerful, strong, ready to rip someone’s head off in order to keep El safe, and yet I had no idea what to do or say to stop her from crying.
“El,” I whispered desperately.
I kissed the crown of her head and just held her. “I will keep you safe. I will protect you with my life. Do you know that? El, seeing you this way is killing me. I promise you, I will today and every day after, be here for you to protect you. You’re mine, and I protect what’s mine.”
El sniffled and looked up at me, shocked. “Troy! Don’t make me cry harder!” she cried.
Oh boy. “I’m sorry, I kinda suck at comforting crying women, and I really suck when it comes to my loved ones,” I said, honestly.
Her tear-stained cheeks pulled upward in a smile. “Am I one of your loved ones then?” she asked.
I reached over and wiped away her tears with the pads of my thumbs. “Yeah. Yeah, you are one of my loved ones. I promised to protect everyone, so can you imagine how I feel about protecting you? It’s a thousand times more intense.”
She nodded, laughed and hiccupped from crying simultaneously. Adorable. “I know you’ll keep me safe. I’m crying because of Sammie.”
“Huh? Sammie? I don’t understand,” I said.
“When Tula first told me about all of this craziness it made me worried, but I am still sane enough to know that Nigel’s death could be an unrelated event. I just feel horrible for Nigel,” said El, reaching out and placing her hand in mine, and I counted it a small victory.
“Why are you crying then?” I murmured, bringing the back of El’s hand up to brush a soft kiss over her knuckles.
“l texted you and called Owen the second I realized that you both knew why Tula was here and why Winnie sent me that cryptic text. I was furious at first, until... I didn’t realize that Owen didn’t want Sammie to know any of this.” El stopped for a moment and caught her breath.