by Fiona Grace
She’d just gotten into the flow of valuing and cataloguing the items when she was interrupted by the shrill sound of her cell phone. A little frustrated to be disturbed by what was undoubtedly her melodramatic younger sister, Naomi, with a single-parent-related crisis, Lacey glanced over at the cell where it lay face up on the counter. To her surprise, the ID flashing up at her was David, her recently ex-husband.
Lacey stared at the flashing screen for a moment, stunned into inaction. A tsunami of different emotions rushed through her. She and David had exchanged precisely zero words with one another since the divorce—although he seemed to still be on speaking terms with Lacey’s mother of all people—and had dealt with everything through their solicitors. But for him to be calling her directly? Lacey didn’t even know where to begin theorizing why he’d be doing such a thing.
Against her better judgment, Lacey answered the call.
“David? Is everything okay?”
“No, it’s not,” came his sharp-sounding voice, bringing forth about a million latent memories that had been lying dormant in Lacey’s mind, like dust stirred.
She tensed, preparing for some terrible bombshell. “What is it? What happened?”
“Your alimony didn’t come through.”
Lacey rolled her eyes so hard they hurt. Money. Of course. There was nothing that mattered more to David than money. One of the most ludicrous aspects of her divorce from David was the fact that she had to pay him spousal support because she’d been the higher earner of the pair. It figured that the only thing to compel him to make actual contact with her would be that.
“But I set the payment up through the bank,” Lacey told him. “It should be automatic.”
“Well, evidently the Brits have a different interpretation of the word automatic,” he said haughtily. “Because no money has been deposited in my bank account, and if you weren’t aware, the deadline is today! So I suggest you get on the phone to your bank immediately and resolve the situation.”
He sounded just like a headmaster. Lacey half-expected him to finish his monologue with the phrase, “you silly little girl.”
She squeezed the cell phone, tightly, trying her hardest not to let David get to her, not today, the day before her auction that she was so looking forward to!
“What a clever suggestion, David,” she replied, wedging the phone between her ear and shoulder so she could free her hands and use them to log onto her online bank account. “I’d never have thought to do that myself.”
Her words were met by silence. David had probably never heard her use sarcasm before, and it had thrown him. She blamed Tom for that. Her new beau’s English sense of humor was rubbing off on her very quickly.
“You’re not taking this very seriously,” David replied, once he’d finally caught up.
“Should I be?” Lacey replied. “It’s just a mix-up at the bank. I can probably get it taken care of by the end of the day. In fact, yes, there’s a notice here on my account.” She clicked on the little red icon and an information box popped up. She read it aloud. “‘Due to the bank holiday, any scheduled payment dates that fall on either Sunday or Monday will reach accounts on Tuesday.’ Aha. There you go. I knew it would be something simple. A bank holiday.” She paused and looked out the window at the throng of passing people. “I did think the streets looked extra busy today.”
She could practically hear David grinding his teeth through the speaker.
“It’s actually extremely inconvenient,” he snapped. “I do have bills to pay, you know.”
Lacey looked over at Chester, as if in need of a comrade in this particularly frustrating conversation. He raised his head off his paws and quirked up an eyebrow.
“Can’t Frida lend you a couple million bucks if you’re short?”
“Eda,” David corrected.
Lacey knew full well the name of David’s new fiancée. But she and Naomi had taken to calling her Fortnight Frida, in reference to the speed with which the two had gotten engaged and now she couldn’t think of her as anything else.
“And no,” he continued. “She shouldn’t have to. Who even told you about Eda?”
“My mother might have let it slip on one or two dozen occasions. What are you doing talking to my mom anyway?”
“She’d been a part of my family for fourteen years. I didn’t divorce her.”
Lacey sighed. “No. I guess not. So what’s the plan? The three of you go and bond over a mani-pedi?”
Now she was trying to wind him up, and she couldn’t help herself. It was quite fun.
“You’re being ridiculous,” David said.
“Isn’t she the heiress to a false nail emporium?” she said with feigned innocence.
“Yes, but you don’t have to say it like that,” David said, in a voice that catapulted the image of his pout-face right into Lacey’s mind’s eye.
“I was just speculating on how the three of you will likely spend your time together.”
“With a tone of criticism.”
“Mom tells me she’s young,” Lacey said, changing course. “Twenty. I mean, I think twenty might be a little too young for a man your age, but at least she’s got a full nineteen years to work out whether she wants children or not. Thirty-nine is the cut-off point for you, after all.”
No sooner had she said it than she realized just how much like Taryn she sounded. She shuddered. While she had no qualms over Tom’s mannerisms rubbing off on her, she most certainly drew the line at Taryn’s!
“Sorry,” she mumbled, back-tracking. “That was uncalled for.”
David let a beat pass. “Just get me my money, Lace.”
The call went dead.
Lacey sighed and put the phone down. As infuriating as the conversation had been, she was absolutely determined not to let it bring her down. David was in her past now. She’d built a whole new life for herself here in Wilfordshire. And anyway, David moving on with Eda was a blessing in disguise. She wouldn’t have to pay him alimony anymore once they married, and the problem would be solved! But knowing the way things usually went for her, she had the feeling it would be a very long engagement.
CHAPTER TWO
Lacey was in the middle of her valuing work when, out the window, Taryn finally moved her huge van, and the view to Tom’s store across the cobblestone streets opened up. The gingham Easter-themed bunting had been replaced with summer-themed bunting, and Tom had upgraded his macaron display so that it now depicted a tropical island scene. Lemon macarons made up the sand, surrounded by a sea of different blues—turquoise (cotton candy flavor), baby blue (bubblegum flavor), dark blue (blueberry flavor) and navy blue (blue raspberry flavor). Tall stacks of chocolate macarons, coffee macarons, and peanut macarons formed the bark of palm trees, and the leaves had been constructed out of marzipan; another food-based material Tom was proficient at working with. The window display was awe-inspiring, not to mention mouth-watering, and it always drew a huge crowd of excited tourist spectators.
Looking through the window to the counter, Lacey could see Tom behind it, busy delighting his customers with his theatrical displays.
She sank her chin onto her fist and let out a dreamy sigh. So far, things with Tom had been going wonderfully. They were officially “dating,” which was Tom’s choice of word, not hers. During their “defining the relationship” discussion, Lacey had put forth the argument that it was an inadequate and childish term for two full-grown adults embarking on a romantic journey together, but Tom pointed out that since she wasn’t employed by Merriam-Webster, the terminology wasn’t really hers to decide. She’d conceded on that particular point, but drew the line at the terms ‘girlfriend’ and ‘boyfriend’. They were yet to decide on the appropriate terms to refer to one another and usually defaulted to ‘dear’.
Suddenly, Tom was looking at her and waving. Lacey jerked up, her cheeks warming at the realization he’d just caught her gazing at him like a schoolgirl with a crush.
Tom’s waving gesture t
urned into a beckoning, and Lacey suddenly realized what the time was. Ten past eleven. Tea time! And she was ten minutes late for their daily Elevenses!
“Come on, Chester,” she said quickly, as excitement leapt into her breast. “It’s time to visit Tom.”
She practically ran out of the store, only just remembering to flip her ‘Open’ sign over so it read ‘back in 10 minutes’ and lock the door. Then she hop-skipped across the cobblestone street toward the patisserie, her heart beat thump-thump-thumping in time with her bouncy steps, as her excitement at seeing Tom ratcheted up.
Just as Lacey reached the door of the patisserie, the group of Chinese vacationers Tom had been entertaining moments earlier came streaming out. Each was clutching an extremely large brown paper bag stuffed full of delicious-smelling goodies, chattering and giggling to each other. Lacey held the door patiently, waiting for them to file past, and they politely bowed their heads in thanks.
Once the path was finally clear, Lacey went inside.
“Hello, my dear,” Tom said, a large grin lighting up his handsome, golden-hued face, making laugh lines appear beside his twinkling green eyes.
“I see your groupies just left,” Lacey joked, coming toward the counter. “And they bought a ton of merchandise.”
“You know me,” Tom replied, with an eyebrow wiggle. “I’m the world’s first pastry chef with a fan club.”
He seemed to be in a particularly jovial mood today, Lacey thought, not that he ever seemed anything but sunny. Tom was one of those people who seemed to breeze through life unperturbed by the usual stresses that got the best of us down. It was one of the things Lacey adored about him. He was so different from David, who would get stressed by the smallest of irritants.
She reached the counter and Tom stretched up on his arms to kiss her over it. Lacey let herself get lost in the moment, only breaking apart when Chester began to whine his displeasure at being ignored.
“Sorry, buddy,” Tom said. He came out from behind the counter and offered Chester a chocolate-free carob treat. “There you go. Your favorite.”
Chester licked the treats right out of Tom’s hand, then let out a long sigh of satisfaction and sank down to the floor for a snooze.
“So, what tea is on the menu today?” Lacey asked, taking her usual stool at the counter.
“Chicory,” Tom said.
He headed into the kitchen at the back.
“I haven’t had that before,” Lacey called out.
“It’s caffeine free,” Tom called back, over the whoosh of a faucet and the banging of cupboard doors. “And has a slight laxative effect if you drink too much.”
Lacey laughed. “Thanks for the heads-up,” she called.
Her words were met by the clink and clatter of chinaware, and the bubble of the kettle boiling.
Then Tom reappeared holding a tea tray. Plates, cups, saucers, a sugar bowl, and a china teapot were on it.
He placed the tray down between them. Like all of Tom’s crockery, the items were completely mismatched, their only linking theme being Britain, as if he’d sourced each one from a different patriotic old lady’s yard sale. Lacey’s cup had a photograph of the late Princess Diana on it. Her plate had a passage from Beatrix Potter written in delicate cursive beside a watercolor image of the iconic Aylesbury duck, Jemima Puddleduck, in her bonnet and shawl. The teapot was in the shape of a gaudily decorated Indian elephant, with the words Piccadilly Circus printed on its bright red and gold saddle. Its trunk, naturally, made the spout.
As the tea brewed in the pot, Tom used silver tongs to select some croissants from the counter display, which he placed on pretty floral plates. He slid Lacey’s toward her, followed by a pot of her favorite apricot jam. Then he poured them both a mug of the now brewed tea, sat in his stool, held up the mug, and said, “Cheers.”
With a smile, Lacey clinked hers against his. “Cheers.”
As they sipped in unison, Lacey had a sudden flash of déjà vu. Not a real one, like when you’re certain you’ve lived this exact moment before, but the déjà vu that comes from repetition, from routine, from doing the same thing day in day out. It felt like they had done this before, because they had; yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. As busy shop owners, Lacey and Tom often put in overtime and worked seven-day weeks. It had come so naturally, the routine, the rhythm. But it was more than that. Tom had automatically given her her favorite toasted almond croissant with apricot jam. He didn’t even need to ask what she wanted.
It should have pleased Lacey, but instead, it perturbed her. Because that’s exactly how things had been with David to begin with. Learning each other’s orders. Doing little favors for one another. Small moments of routine and rhythm that made her feel like they were puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together. She’d been young and foolish and had made the mistake of thinking it would always feel that way. But it had just been the honeymoon period. It wore off a year or two down the line, and by that point, she was already stuck in marriage.
Was that all this relationship was with Tom? A honeymoon period that would eventually wear off?
“What are you thinking?” Tom asked, his voice intruding on her anxious rumination.
Lacey almost spat out her tea. “Nothing.”
Tom raised a single eyebrow. “Nothing? The chicory has had such little impact on you all thoughts have vacated your mind?”
“Oh, about the chicory!” she exclaimed, blushing.
Tom looked even more amused. “Yes. What else would I be asking?”
Lacey clumsily placed the Diana cup back on the saucer, making a loud clatter. “It’s nice. Licorice-y. Eight out of ten.”
Tom whistled. “Wow. High praise. But not quite enough to dethrone the Assam.”
“It will take an exceptional tea to dethrone the Assam.”
Her momentary panic that Tom had mind-reading abilities subsided, and Lacey turned her attention to the breakfast, savoring the flavors of homemade apricot jam combined with toasted almonds and yummy buttery pastry. But even the tasty food couldn’t keep her mind from wandering to the conversation with David. It had been the first time she’d heard his voice since he’d stormed out of their old Upper East Side apartment with the parting declaration, “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer!” and something about hearing his voice again reminded her that less than a month ago she’d been a relatively happily married woman, with a stable job and an income and family nearby in the city she’d lived her whole life. Without even knowing she was doing it, she’d blocked out her past life in New York City with a solid wall in her mind. It was a coping strategy she’d developed as a child to cope with the grief of her father’s sudden disappearance. Evidently, hearing David’s voice had shaken the foundations of that wall.
“We should go on a vacation,” Tom suddenly said.
Once again, Lacey almost spit out her food, but Tom couldn’t have noticed, because he kept speaking.
“When I’m back from my focaccia course, we should go on a stay-cation. We’ve both been working so hard, we deserve it. We can go to my hometown in Devon, and I’ll show you all the places I loved as a child.”
Had Tom suggested this yesterday before her call with David, Lacey probably would’ve bitten his hand off at the offer. But suddenly the idea of making long-term plans with her new beau—even if it was only one week in the future—seemed to be jumping the gun. Of course, Tom had no reason not to be confident with his life. But Lacey herself had not been long divorced. She’d entered into his world of relative stability at a point when literally every bit of hers had become unmoored—from her job, to her home, to her country, and even her relationship status! She’d gone from babysitting her nephew, Frankie, while her sister, Naomi, went on yet another disastrous date, to shooing sheep off her front lawn; from being barked at by her boss, Saskia, in a New York City interior design firm, to antique-scouting trips in London’s Mayfair with her peculiar cardigan-clad neighbor and two sheep dogs in tow. It was
a lot of change all in one go, and she wasn’t entirely sure where her head was at.
“I’ll have to see how busy I am with the store,” she replied noncommittally. “The auction is taking more work than I anticipated.”
“Sure,” Tom said, sounding in no way like he’d read between the lines. Picking up on subtleties and subtext was not one of Tom’s fortes, which was another thing she liked about him. He took everything she said on face value. Unlike her mom and sister, who’d needle and prod her and dissect every word she said, there was no guessing or second-guessing with Tom. What you saw was what you got.
Just then, the bell above the patisserie door tinkled, and Tom’s gaze flicked over Lacey’s shoulder. She watched his expression turn to a grimace before he returned his gaze to meet hers again.
“Great,” he muttered under his breath. “I’d been wondering when my turn would come for Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum to pay a visit. You’ll have to excuse me.”
He stood, and went round from the back of the counter.
Curious to see who could elicit such a visceral response from Tom—a man who was notoriously easygoing and personable—Lacey swiveled in her stool.
The customers who’d entered the patisserie were a man and woman, and they looked like they’d just walked off the set of Dallas. The man was in a powder blue suit with a cowboy hat. The woman—much younger, Lacey noted wryly, as seemed to be the preference of most middle-aged men—was in a fuchsia pink two-piece, bright enough to give Lacey a headache, and which clashed terribly with her Dolly Parton yellow hair.
“We’d like to try some samples,” the man barked. He was American, and his abruptness seemed so out of place in Tom’s quaint little patisserie.
Gosh, I hope I don’t sound like that to Tom, Lacey thought a little self-consciously.
“Of course,” Tom replied politely, the Britishness in his own tone seeming to have intensified in response. “What would you like to try? We have pastries and…”
“Ew, Buck, no,” the woman said to her husband, yanking on his arm to which she was clinging. “You know wheat makes me bloat. Ask him for something different.”