“We’re members, Hollis and I,” Gretchen said, straightening her back and standing, one toe pointed, the other foot behind it, like a model. “It’ll be fine.”
Laverne hovered in the background, not adding anything, but her eyebrows raised and shaking her head.
Sophie thought for a moment, observing the other woman. “My understanding was that Cissy specifically said she wanted her shower to be here, at Auntie Rose’s Victorian Tea House,” she said. “Has she changed her mind, or are you doing this on your own?”
Gretchen licked her lips and adjusted her expensive watch on her slim wrist. “I’m just . . . it’s . . . to be honest, it’s her future mother-in-law’s idea, and frankly, I agree. Tearooms are so yesterday.”
Whenever anyone said, to be honest or frankly, Sophie suspected them of lying. A spark lit in her belly. So yesterday? “I’ll have you know a New York Times financial reporter wrote an article last month about a study that said that tearooms are the up-and-coming type of eating establishment, and the only one that was truly recessionproof.”
“Really?”
“Yes. The study was done by a doctoral student at Harvard Business School; she said in her thesis that because of the aging demographics in the USA and an increase in disposable income in women age fifty-four to seventy-five, tearooms are not going away. There is a new tearoom opened every thirty-three-point-five hours in the United States. That stat is from Wharton.” Sophie nodded, sharply. She moved forward a step, invading the other woman’s space. “And younger markets are increasingly interested; the trend toward elaborate birthday parties for young children, destination bridal showers and Sweet Sixteen Parties has caused a surge in tearoom bookings. I’ve done a lot of research on the subject.”
Gretchen Harcourt nervously pleated the short skirt of her dress, stepped back and babbled, “All right, then, we’ll reconsider.”
“You do that. You reconsider. Tell Mrs. Whittaker everything I said.”
The young woman hustled out the front door just as Rose came out of the kitchen with a tray of warm scones. “Who was that, dear? I thought I heard voices in here.”
Laverne, still staring at Sophie, said, “It was that Gretchen girl, Rose, and she was going to cancel Cissy Peterson’s shower here, but missy pulled out a bunch of statistics—just rhymed them right off—and told her some percentage of people are going to tearooms, and some ages . . . I don’t know what all she said.”
“So did she cancel or not?” Rose asked, setting the scones down on the servery and approaching the two.
“She did not!” Laverne said. “Little Miss Business Woman, here, talked her out of it.”
“Where did you get all those statistics, Sophie?” Rose asked, a frown wrinkling her forehead.
“I made them up.”
“All of them?” Laverne asked.
“Every last one of them, right down to the New York Times article.”
• • •
The afternoon was busy, with a gaggle of drop-in visitors touring the Finger Lakes as well as a second unexpected bus tour. One of the tourists decided on the spot to book a Red Hat Society event and another a tea party for her granddaughter’s Sweet Sixteen. Sophie manned The Tea Nook for a while; she sold a pretty chintz child’s tea set, several boxes of specialty teas and answered questions about holding a tea party for a group of six-year-olds. Midafternoon Sophie had to hustle back into the kitchen and quickly whip up a batch of butterscotch scones to satisfy raging sweet tooths.
As she brought it out, she was struck by a secretive-looking tête-à-tête that was taking place in one of the more protected tables near the front window. A distinguished-looking woman had her head bent toward a well-dressed older fellow, and they were heatedly discussing something. Curious, Sophie moved nearby and caught only a few words before the woman gave her a cross look. All she overheard was the ferocious comment that her son was the most important thing in the whole mess.
Sophie retrieved a bus tray from the servery at the back of the tearoom and cleared the dirty tables. All the vintage china would have to be washed by hand, but the cutlery and some of the serving pieces could be done in the dishwasher. Someone had left a nice tip; cool! It would go in the tip jar and Nana would see that Laverne got it, and Laverne would hand it directly over to her church, where it would go to dental work or glasses for needy seniors, or schools in Africa, or something else that needed doing in the world. Such was the Auntie Rose way; Laverne often paraphrased from Luke: From those to whom much is given, much is expected.
There were three tables near the distinguished-looking couple and all needed clearing; Sophie edged toward them, not wanting to interrupt.
The woman stood, shook the wrinkles out of her skirt and said, in a firm tone, “I hope we understand each other?”
“I’ll see what I can do, Viv, but you know it may be too late. Word has already gone out.”
“I don’t believe it’s too late. I know you have the mayor’s ear, Holly—you and your cadre of busy buddies—and you had better bend it but good. Things look shady and it will come back to haunt him if anything goes wrong.” She bent closer and growled, “I will make it my personal quest to make sure that everyone involved will suffer in the public eye if my boy is in any way implicated in monkey business!”
Wow . . . ferocious Mama Bear!
The rest of the afternoon was uneventful but busy. Finally the tearoom closed, the three women tidied up and put dishes in the dishwasher, washing the cups, saucers and plates by hand and stacking them back in the tearoom in the service area. Pearl, as always, watched the action from her perch on a high stool near the counter.
Laverne headed home to take care of her nonagenarian father, Malcolm Hodge, and then would attend an evening prayer meeting. She was the eldest of a large family and had never married, so looking after them all had been her life’s work. She said that now, with just her father to look after, she felt like she was on holiday. Her “vacation” was her church evenings, knitting and crocheting, and the Silver Spouts, Nana’s teapot-collecting society.
Sophie did some prep work in the kitchen, then vacuumed, picking up the random bits of paper and items forgotten or dropped by visitors: a lipstick, a photo, an umbrella hooked on a chair armrest, all of which she deposited in the lost and found. She then wiped down the tables, finally turning out the lights around seven. Nana had already climbed the stairs, followed by Pearl, to soak her feet in Epsom salts, but Sophie was restless. She grabbed a sweater and walked out into the sweet springtime evening air.
She turned right instead of left so she didn’t have to pass Belle Époque, Mrs. Earnshaw’s inn and now tearoom. It was troubling that the old woman was trying to not only compete with Nana, but defeat her. The two had been dueling for decades, right back to the oft-referenced theft of Harold Freemont by pretty, genteel Rose Beaudry, as Nana was then. It seemed silly to Sophie, but it would be wrong to dismiss the other woman’s feelings.
Still . . . a sixty-year grudge?
The spring air enfolded her, the scent of lilacs and freshly turned earth drifting on a light, moist breeze as the sky turned gloomy, the purple dusk signaling rain to come. She had been avoiding this walk, this rediscovery of her old stomping ground, but why? Maybe she loved Gracious Grove too much. She liked the city, too; it was exciting, fun and fast-paced, just like her restaurant, In Fashion. But Gracious Grove was different. While New York was hurry up and hustle, Gracious Grove was slow down, put your feet up, rest awhile. Split down the middle as to which was best for her, she decided that after over ten years of hurry up, both in school and work, and then her restaurant, she’d enjoy the slow down part for a time until she knew what she wanted out of her life.
Gracious Grove was as familiar as a pair of favorite jeans, the kind that slip on and are so comfortable you know you’re going to love them forever. When she described it to city friends, sh
e told them about the Finger Lakes region as a whole, the native lore of the Senecas and Cayugas, and the natural beauty of the area, hilltop vistas and lush green valleys. But that didn’t speak of the sense of home that hit her whenever she arrived at Nana’s.
Staying at Auntie Rose’s was like living in a teapot museum, some thought. Sophie had brought a few girlfriends to Nana’s during school break, and all were awed by the rows and rows of teapots . . . hundreds of them! It was as if time had stopped in Gracious Grove, others said, around the middle of the last century. That wasn’t true and Sophie knew it, because she had listened to Nana’s stories. As much as nostalgia for a simpler time made some long for the “good old days,” Nana was a clear-eyed realist. She told Sophie about the good, the bad and the downright ugly things that happened in the “good old days.”
Change was necessary and good and inevitable, and had not missed the town except for the liquor ban, which seemed an immutable part of Gracious Grove’s charm. The town endured, and so did Nana’s tearoom and her teapot-collectors society, The Silver Spouts. Nana was not getting any younger, though, as she put it herself. What would happen to the tearoom when she couldn’t look after it anymore?
The breeze stiffened. Sophie folded her arms over her chest, hugging herself as she strolled downhill, passing the gracious homes that lined Seneca. The boulevards were wide, and clapboard houses were set well back from the street. Most had a deep porch with clematis or morning glories winding up a trellis to shade the veranda from the summer sun. But in early May everything was still kind of sparse-looking, beds of tulips and daffodils giving color but everything else green. Many lawns had blooming lilac bushes, and not-yet-blooming rose of Sharon.
Once she got down to the center of town, there were neo-Gothic buildings, red brick, with Roman arched windows and ornate cupolas. Unfortunately a few old buildings had been torn down to make way for uninspired modern utilitarian designs, but fortunately the town had never been prosperous enough to do much damage. Old buildings were repurposed, so a mansion too big for a modern family now held a dental practice, a chiropractor and a doctor’s office. The town hall was still a New York Gothic monstrosity of red brick and limestone, as was the post office.
The center of town had been redone as a pedestrian mall, with red brick walkways lined by coffee shops, a florist, a gift shop, a sandwich place, a patisserie and many more small stores and cafés. Sophie loved the recent change. At the center of the meeting of Seneca Street and State Street was an open area with a large clock and carillon that chimed the hours. There were wrought iron tables and chairs where on warm summer nights folks gathered to enjoy coffee or tea—it was a dry town, after all—and buskers played to happy tourists and locals alike. Life was lived at a civilized pace.
Sophie adored everything that her mother hated about Gracious Grove, and maybe there was a because in there somewhere. Rosalind Taylor enjoyed the hustle and bustle of Miami in winter, spring in New York, London for shopping, summer in the Hamptons, Milan during fashion season and Paris in April. Sophie liked Gracious Grove all year round.
Gracious Grove, despite its name, which made it sound like it was in a green valley, was on a hillside that sloped gently toward Seneca Lake. From the cemetery on the edge of the town proper—set high on the hill to honor the dead, among them the veterans of too many wars—she could see all the way to sparkling Seneca Lake, in the valley. One of Nana’s own sons was in that cemetery, laid to rest among the spreading oak trees and stately cypresses. Sophie had never met him, since he died serving in Vietnam, and her mother rarely talked about the brother she had lost; but as a child Sophie had loved to climb the hill with her Gracious Grove friends and trace the names on the pale marble slabs. They raced among the graves and climbed the ancient ornamental plum that had stood guard for at least a century over the townsfolk who had passed on.
Gracious Grove was home in a way no place else on Earth was for Sophie Rose Freemont Taylor.
A misty rain started, so she turned back before reaching the far edge of downtown, but she still didn’t rush. Robins, grateful for the drizzle and the worms it would bring up from the hard-packed earth, began their throaty warbling love song to rain. At one with the world, Sophie didn’t even mind getting wet. She strolled, passed occasionally by a car swishing along the blacktop.
Someone was walking toward her and she had to stop that jolt of fear she automatically felt, left over from walking home alone from a day at In Fashion on a New York street. She had been threatened once, though she had never been mugged, but it had left her a little skittish. The guy seemed familiar, even from a distance. She peered into the half light of the hour after twilight, frowning through the mist. When they were close, she suddenly said, “Jason . . . Jason Murphy! It is you!”
The man stopped, lifted his black umbrella and squinted through the rain at her. “Sophie? Hey, I’d heard you were back in town. Isn’t this cool?”
Jason Murphy . . . he was a buddy of her older brothers. She’d had a crush on him until he finally noticed her when she was fifteen. The past flooded back to Sophie, the memory of that long hot summer when they finally dated, their hands constantly clasped, days spent on the lake as he piloted his dad’s boat. She recalled a wooden raft moored a hundred yards out and their towels spread on it to dry, evenings on the shore with a fire blazing within a circle of rocks, other kids roasting marshmallows and kissing. They were a gang of friends: Cissy Peterson and her ne’er-do-well brother, Phil; local beauty queen Dana Saunders; Frankie Whittaker; Wally Bowman; Sophie’s brothers Andrew and Samuel; and last but not least, her and Jason Murphy.
“Sophie? Are you okay?”
She blinked once and examined his face in the light of the streetlamp. “Yes, I’m fine. How are you? It’s been ages.”
“You haven’t been back for a few years. I’ve heard all about your doings, of course. Your grandmother makes sure we all do!” He laughed.
He had always been a nice guy and that hadn’t changed, but there was a bit of a bite behind his comments. He’d be . . . what, thirty-one now? He looked good, his dark hair a little long, a hint of scruff along the jawline, tall and still lanky. “It’s been a busy few years, but with my restaurant going under it seemed like a good time to come back to Gracious Grove for a while.” The wound of her failed restaurant was a sore she just couldn’t help picking at. It would never heal that way, she knew, just like long-ago skinned knees hadn’t healed while she picked at the scabs.
“New York’s loss, our gain. So you’re staying for a vacation?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted, shoving her hands in her sweater pockets. “Helping Nana, for sure. I didn’t realize how hard taking care of the tearoom is getting for her with just Laverne to help.”
“It’s tough watching them get older. My grandparents are all gone now. Grandma Murphy just died two months ago.”
“I’m so sorry, Jason,” she said, as she reached out and touched his arm. She felt a flush of heat rush over her, but when she looked up into his eyes there was no matching spark. She backed away. “I think I’d better get back home. It’s starting to rain harder.”
“Let me walk you,” he said. “You can stay under the umbrella that way.”
“I don’t mind getting wet,” she said.
“I insist.”
She laughed, chanted a bit of the old Rihanna song “Umbrella,” and then they headed up the street. “So what do you do now?” she asked.
“I teach English Lit at Cruickshank College,” he said, naming a community college that was set in the pastoral countryside between Gracious Grove and Ithaca. Cornell might be the most famous institution of higher learning in the Finger Lakes region, but there was a rich tradition of post-secondary-school establishments in the area. Cruickshank, which had started out as a religious school, was old and well-respected, with a beautiful campus set in rolling green hills. “I’m t
he junior professor, so I get stuck with all the first-year students, but that’s okay. I love their enthusiasm!”
“Really? That’s great.” She tried to imagine the beau of her youth, who was more interested in girls and cars and fast boats, teaching Shakespeare and Walt Whitman to college kids. “But why English Lit?”
He chuckled, a warm sound that drifted down to her as she felt the heat from his body, so close to hers. He always was good-looking, but now he had the assurance of maturity to make him more attractive. “Why English Lit? This from the girl who used to read Blake to me by moonlight, when all I wanted to do was kiss her?”
“Touché,” she said, smiling up at him. “Do you like it? Teaching, I mean.” Not kissing her! At least it was dark enough now that he wouldn’t see her blush at her own gaffe.
“I do.”
Was he going out with anyone, she wanted to ask, but that was off-limits. She had broken his heart at the end of that long-ago summer, or at least he told her she had. She had broken up with him and gone back to her private school in Connecticut for her final year of high school, while he headed off to backpack around Europe for a year before college.
They were already at the side door of the tearoom, the one that led straight up to her and Nana’s apartments.
“It’s nice that you’re here, Sophie,” he said. He leaned down and pressed a friendly kiss on her damp cheek, then turned and walked away, black umbrella bobbing along jauntily in the light of the streetlamps.
Chapter 3
It was midmorning. Thelma Mae Earnshaw roamed the tearoom she had created in what was once the grand dining room of the family home she had converted into Belle Époque. She moved ponderously, like a steamship, her granddaughter Cissy Peterson said, but since Thelma had broken her hip two years ago that was the best she could do, slow and steady. It was a miracle she could move at all without the aid of a walker, but no one seemed to care that she had constant pain and was much braver about it than anyone noticed.
Tempest in a Teapot (A Teapot Collector Mystery) Page 3