by Vicki Delany
“Don’t do anything rash,” I said to my grandmother.
Once again, I might have saved my breath.
* * *
It was almost eleven: opening time. Cheryl was in the tearoom’s enclosed patio, putting the finishing touches on the tables, Marybeth was starting on the sandwiches, and I was up to my elbows in shortbread dough when the swinging half doors opened and Bernie’s tousled red curls popped in. “Knock, knock,” she said. “Can I come in? Cheryl told me you were here.”
“Sure. I’d tell you to take a seat, but we don’t have one.” The kitchen was barely big enough for me and one helper as it was.
Bernie leaned against the counter next to the sink and studied my domain. “So this is where it all happens, is it? It’s . . . uh . . .”
“Small?” I said.
“Small.”
“I prefer to say compact. I know where everything is, and I can put my hand on anything I need in a moment.”
Bernie sucked in her stomach and moved aside to let Marybeth get to the fridge. “I suppose there’s that. What smells so nice?”
“Miniature cinnamon buns for the children’s tea.” I slipped my oven mitts on and lifted the baking sheets out of the oven. A wave of warm sugar and spicy cinnamon goodness washed over me, and I almost groaned in pleasure. No matter how many pastries I’ve made over my lifetime, I never get tired of these scents. Or of the pleasure in producing beautiful food and having it enjoyed.
I put the little buns on cooling racks as I said, “How are you today?”
“Terrible,” Bernie said.
Once I had the shortbread dough rolled out to a suitable size and thickness, I patted it into the baking sheet ready to be popped into the waiting oven. I was working at the square butcher’s block in the center of the room, the top of which was devoted exclusively to rolling pastry and dough. Today we’d be serving traditional English shortbread, made from a recipe that supposedly came from the kitchens of Buckingham Palace itself. Shortbread is normally a Christmas treat, but my customers love it no matter the time of year. It’s the perfect accompaniment to a cup of fragrant tea and the centerpiece of our featured light tea offering for those with smaller appetites.
“Are you sick?” I glanced up from the dough and studied my friend’s face. She looked okay. “If you’re coming down with something, I’ll have to ask you to leave the kitchen.”
“Not sick, no.” She threw up her hands and moaned in despair. “My life is a disaster! Everything I touch leads to failure!”
I left the dough—it wouldn’t hurt it to sit a few minutes—and hurried to wash my hands. I dried them on my apron and then gathered my best friend into my arms as she started to cry. “What’s happened? Is it your mom? You said she wasn’t doing too well.”
Bernie sobbed into my chest. “Mom’s fine. It’s . . . it’s my book. I’m stuck!”
I released Bernie and turned my attention back to the shortbread.
“You don’t understand,” Bernie cried. “I have a terrible case of writer’s block. I can’t come up with a single decent idea. My characters are boring. I keep peeking over my shoulder, expecting to see them standing there, accusing me, blaming me for their dull lives.”
“What happened since yesterday?” I finished patting the dough into place in the baking sheet. “I thought the change of environment was unleashing your pent-up energies and freeing your imagination.”
“It didn’t,” she moaned. “I sat at my desk at seven this morning, excited and ready to start work.” She pulled a tattered tissue out of the pocket of her shorts and wiped at her eyes.
“And . . . ?”
“And nothing. Nothing came to me. Not one single word.” She blew her nose. “I might as well go back to New York. Not that I have a job or apartment to go back to, and I’ve paid two months’ rent on the place here in advance.”
I refrained from saying, “I told you so.” But I thought it. “Maybe you need to give it time.”
I’d read the short stories Bernie had had published over the past few years. They were good—more than good. She had genuine talent; her writing worked on the reader’s emotions in a way I’d rarely come across. But three short stories in five years do not a writing career make. She’d been writing a novel for more than two years now, and I no longer asked how it was going. Not since the first time I’d done so and then spent the next hour trying to comfort her. Whenever she had talked about it, she’d said it was taking so long because her mind was always too occupied with her accounting job and she couldn’t focus properly. I’d been hoping the move to the Cape would give her the time and the headspace she needed. Apparently not.
“I’m kinda busy,” I said to her now. “We have reservations for a full house this afternoon. Let’s do an exchange. You tell me about the book—talking about it might open your imagination—while you take over from Marybeth and finish that lot of sandwiches.”
“I suppose I can do that.” Bernie gave her eyes a final wipe and stuffed the tissue into her pocket.
“What do you want me to do instead?” Marybeth asked.
“Ice the cinnamon buns, please. They should be cool enough by now.”
“I don’t know what you want me to make,” Bernie said.
“First, wash your hands. Second, assembly and arrangement instructions are in that folder on the top shelf. It looks as though Marybeth has started the curried cucumber. You can finish them. Next, we need egg and roast beef.”
“Egg and roast beef? That doesn’t sound very good.”
“Egg sandwiches and roast beef sandwiches, Bernie. The egg salad mixture is prepared and in the fridge. The roast beef will be open-faced, with spicy mustard underneath the meat and arugula on top.”
The chimes over the door tinkled, announcing the arrival of the first customers of the day.
Bernie set to work. Cheryl came into the kitchen to place an order. Cream tea (meaning just tea and scones) for four, with two pots of tea: Creamy Earl Grey and English breakfast. Marybeth began arranging the scones on flower-patterned china plates and preparing the tea. Shortbread in the oven, I started on today’s batch of pistachio macarons. Bernie talked as she worked. Her novel had potential, I thought. It was to be a multigenerational historical saga beginning with a family that set sail from Ireland for New York in the late seventeenth century.
“That sounds good,” Marybeth said. “I’d read that.”
“Thanks.” Bernie worked slowly and methodically. It was taking her forever to assemble the sandwiches, but she was giving me free labor, so I wasn’t going to complain. “I know what I want to happen overall, but I’m stuck on this important scene, and I can’t see a way through it.”
“Stop right there,” I said. “The women are shipwrecked, is that right?”
“Yes. When Esmeralda is fleeing her abusive husband. I’m having trouble generating the feeling of panic.”
“First, drop the name Esmeralda. Second, go for a walk on the beach. Right now. Do you have your phone on you?”
“Of course.”
“Take pictures. It’s a calm day, and the beach is on the bay, not the open ocean, but you can use your imagination. Smell the sea, feel the sand between your toes, watch the waves, observe the birds. Ignore the tourists. Open your mind.”
Bernie threw down her knife and threw up her hands. “You are a marvel, Lily Roberts, a marvel. That’s a fabulous idea.” She pushed the doors open and ran through them. She was back before they stopped swinging. “Where’s the nearest beach?”
“You can get to it from the back of the B & B, the far side of the house from my cottage. It’s a steep drop, so there are stairs leading down. Take care on the steps. They need some maintenance.”
The doors swung again, and she was gone.
They continued swinging, and Cheryl’s head popped into the kitchen. “We’ve got a sudden rush out there. Three tables arrived at the same time. They should be finished when the people with reservations start arriving.”
“Marybeth,” I said, “finish those sandwiches, please.” Bernie had left behind a mound of neatly sliced cucumber.
The bell on the oven beeped, and I checked the shortbread. Absolute golden perfection. I took the sheet out and sprinkled the hot shortbread lightly with sugar to give it a bit of crunch.
“Someone to see you, Lily,” Cheryl said from the doorway. “A man. He says he has a job interview?”
“A job interview? I’m not hiring.”
“That’s good,” Marybeth said, “as I don’t plan on leaving.”
I mentally slapped my forehead. The gardener position. Gerald’s English nephew.
Timing was not good. We had reservations that would give us a full house from one until four, and I still had a great deal of baking to do. Marybeth was a good kitchen assistant, but she was not a pastry chef, and she doubled as a waitress when we were busy.
“I guess I have to see him if he’s come all this way. I’ll try to make it quick. Do we have an empty table?”
“The tables for two in the tearoom are all taken,” Cheryl said, “and you don’t want to use a bigger one, in case we get more drop-in customers. A couple of tables outside are still free.”
“Thanks. I’ll take one of those. I’ll try to be quick. The scones are baked, and most of the pastries are ready, so we should be good for now unless we get some picky eaters. Marybeth, can you slice the shortbread, please? It needs to be done before it cools.” I washed my hands, didn’t bother to take off my apron, and went into the dining room.
Tables of women were sipping tea, nibbling sandwiches and pastries, and laughing. A pink-cheeked baby sat in a high chair, banging his spoon on the tray while his mother tried to ignore him. Looking totally out of place, a young man dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and heavy work boots stood facing the wall, studying a painting of a fox hunt.
“Hi,” I said. “I believe you’re looking for me?”
He turned and held out his right hand. I took it in mine. His greeting was firm, but not aggressive. “I’m Simon McCracken. Here about the gardening position.”
“Lily Roberts. I own this tearoom, and I assist my grandmother, Rose Campbell, with the running of her B & B. Pleased to meet you, Simon. Shall we go outside for a few minutes? Would you like a cup of tea? I can promise you it will be made exactly as you’d get back home.”
He grinned. “I’d love a cuppa. Thank you.”
His accent was fresh from London. Upper middle class, maybe a private school, maybe not. I signaled to Cheryl to bring two teas and led the way outside.
The cottage that’s now the tearoom is built of stone and wood and is about a hundred years older than the house. When we turned it into my restaurant, I planted climbing vines around the base, hung a swinging sign over the door, and laid a flagstone floor in the yard, which was now dotted with tables and chairs, some of them under pink and blue umbrellas. Masses of terra-cotta pots overflowing with red and white geraniums, purple lobelia, white bacopa, and trailing sweet potato vines lined the stone half wall enclosing the patio. On the branches of an old oak in the center of the garden, I’d hung a multitude of cracked and mismatched teacups from brightly colored ribbons, which had already faded in the sun.
Simon and I took a seat in the far corner of the enclosed patio. He smiled at me. He was around my age, early thirties, about six feet tall, lean but well muscled, with sandy hair streaked by the sun, blue eyes, and prominent cheekbones. His face and his arms, thick with muscle, were heavily tanned, as befitted a man who worked outdoors.
“Nice place,” he said. “I had a quick look around when I got here. You’ve done a good job with a harsh environment.”
“We’re proud of it. Tell me what experience you have with ocean-side gardens.”
Fifteen minutes later, I had a gardener. We shook hands on the deal and exchanged contact information. He said he’d start work at six tomorrow morning, and I went back into the tearoom. Before going to the kitchen, I stood in the doorway, watching Simon leave. A motorcycle was parked in the lot, a leather jacket tossed over the seat. He put on the jacket, untied a black helmet and placed it on his head, climbed onto the seat, kicked the engine to life, and roared away. He didn’t look back.
As I turned, I caught sight of a short, chubby figure in a flowing cotton dress walking at a rapid clip through the gardens in the direction of the Goodwill house. She did not stop to admire the flowers. The blue Audi that had been there this morning was now the only car in the Goodwill driveway. I gave the woman no more thought and went back to work.
* * *
We ate dinner at the kitchen table. Bernie arrived bearing a chilled bottle of white wine and a huge grin. She hugged me and then hugged Rose with such enthusiasm, Rose said, “What’s gotten into you?”
“Thanks to Lily, I have had the best idea ever!”
“What’s that?” I asked as I twisted the cap on the wine and poured two glasses.
“I’m abandoning Esmeralda and the saga of the O’Brian and Escalada families and Manhattan itself and starting over. My new book will be set on Cape Cod. Isn’t that absolutely fabulous?”
“What about all the work you’ve done so far?” Rose asked.
Bernie waved her hand in the air, dismissing two years’ worth of effort and an ocean’s worth of tears. “It wasn’t coming along very well. I’m going to start researching the settlers on the Cape. Their stories must be absolutely fascinating. The ocean—and this was Lily’s idea—will play a huge part. My novel will be about the relationship of the people to the sea. I started it this afternoon, as soon as I got home from a walk on the beach. All these ideas kept flooding into my head, and I wrote up an absolute storm. That’s a pun. Do you get it?”
“I get it.” Rose sipped her gin and tonic. She enjoyed one G&T every evening, the habit of a lifetime. Robert the Bruce watched the activity from the comfort of her lap, and Éclair snoozed in front of the stove. “You have one flighty idea after another. If you want to have a book published, Bernadette, you need to finish it. Not start another.”
“But this one’s sure to be a huge success.” Bernie beamed. “People are really interested in the history of Cape Cod.”
“And that is why—”
“I’m pleased for you,” I said quickly. I lifted my glass. “Cheers.” Bernie and I clinked glasses. “Whenever you feel writer’s block coming on, you can step out the door and drink in the atmosphere.”
“Exactly!”
“Stuff and nonsense,” Rose said.
I glared at my grandmother. She gave me a sweet smile in return.
“You’ll be proud of me, Rose,” Bernie said, “when I hit the New York Times bestseller list.”
“Which won’t happen if the book is never finished.”
Bernie grinned at her. She never took offense when Rose was being forthright. Rose and Bernie had been close since we were seven years old and my grandparents had visited Manhattan. It rained on and off the day we went on an excursion to Central Park, a cold, dark rain warning of winter soon to come. My mother and I cowered in the shelter of the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, while Bernie and Rose cavorted in the rain, loving every drop and splashing through every puddle.
I might look like Rose, but when it came to personality, anyone might have thought Bernie was her granddaughter, not me.
“Maybe you should check the pie, Rose,” I said. The grocery-store box the meat pie had come in was sticking out of the trash can.
She didn’t move. “It’s fine. You can start the salad, love. Ingredients are in the fridge.”
I checked the pie, noticed the crust was blackening around the edges, and turned the oven off. I then opened the small fridge, the one used for Rose herself, not B & B cooking. It contained nothing but a loaf of bread, a stick of butter, a container of milk, a handful of condiments, and a package of presliced salad ingredients, complete with dressing.
“It’s June in New England. You should be buying fresh ingredients fro
m the farm markets. Better for you, far better tasting, and you’ll be supporting your neighbors at the same time.”
“Why should I support my neighbors?” she said. “They’re not supporting me.”
“Supporting you in what?” Bernie asked.
“Don’t ask,” I said. But I was too late.
“I submitted an article to the local newspaper this afternoon,” Rose said. “It was returned to me as unacceptable. Imagine the cheek!”
I groaned. I had no doubt what this “article” was about.
“What do you mean, they returned it to you?” Bernie asked. “If they didn’t want it, they wouldn’t publish it, not get into a discussion.”
“They said it was libelous. Stuff and nonsense. Email makes things happen too fast. In my day, it would take a day for the letter to get to its destination, the recipient would take time to consider it and to write a polite and appropriate response, and then a day for the return letter to arrive in the post.”
“Whereupon you’d have waited three days, rather than ten minutes, to be rejected,” Bernie pointed out.
Éclair jumped to her feet and let out a soft bark. Moments later, a light tap sounded on the door, and Edna peered into the room.
“Sorry to bother you. May I come in? I don’t want to interrupt your dinner, but . . .”
“Of course,” I said. “Is everything okay?”
Edna glanced at Rose, calming, sitting at the table, stroking Robbie with one hand and sipping her G&T with the other. “It depends on what you mean by okay. As long as I was coming, I brought you some jam.” She put a bag on the counter. From inside came the sound of glass jars bumping together.
“I’m running low on your tomato salsa,” I said. “The guests love it.”
“Nothing I can do about that until tomato season.”
“Fair enough. Can’t rush a tomato. Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Thanks, but no. I won’t stay long. Frank suggested I drop by and have a word, Rose.”
“I’m sure he did,” Rose replied.
“A word about what?” Bernie asked.
I had a bad feeling about this. Edna’s husband, Frank, was the editor in chief of the North Augusta Times. “You’re here about a letter Rose wrote to the paper?”