Tea & Treachery. Vicki Delany
service at seven.”
“That’s early. I hope . . . Oh, you mean you want me to help?”
“That’s right.”
“I wish I could, but I can’t. Morning’s my best working time. That’s why I moved here, right? To get an early start. Sorry.”
I took the pie out of the oven. It looked highly unappetizing. “You’re doing a historical novel, right?”
“Yes. Parts of it, anyway. I’m thinking of weaving the present and the past together. It might have a supernatural aspect, as one woman tries to—”
“Hold on a sec.” I tore open the bag of premixed salad ingredients and dumped the contents into a bowl. Equally unappetizing. “For a historical novel to have an authentic feel and atmosphere, you need insight into the lives of the common worker of the times. Your characters can’t all be from the upper classes. You need to bring maids, servants, kitchen workers to life. As they would have lived their working lives in a grand old house. Say, one built on Cape Cod Bay in the eighteen sixties. Be here at six thirty on the dot.”
“I get the point,” Bernie said.
“Excellent,” Rose said. “I told you not to worry, Lily. As Mrs. Harrison always said at Thornecroft, these things have a way of working themselves out.”
* * *
Despite the bad start—and the poor food—dinner was a pleasant affair. Rose chatted gaily about news of family members (every one of whom had told me I was crazy to even consider going into business with her) and told us she was considering taking a cruise over the winter.
I told them I’d hired a gardener and he’d be starting tomorrow.
“On a Saturday?” Bernie said.
“One day blends into another around here. The only difference on the weekends is we’re busier in both the tearoom and the B & B. If he wants to work weekends, that’s fine with me.”
“I hope you didn’t offer to pay too high a wage, Lily,” Rose said.
“He’s getting the same as Gerry.”
“That’s ridiculous. Gerald had been in the employ of this house for many years. Long before I bought it.”
“Yes, and he treated it like his own private garden, so he didn’t mind that you paid what he probably made back in nineteen seventy-eight, when he started.”
“He worked here that long?” Bernie said.
“I’m guessing,” I said. “If we want a young, qualified gardener with seaside experience, at the height of the season, we have to pay accordingly.”
“What’s for dessert?” Rose asked.
“You invited us for dinner,” I said. “What did you make?”
She pushed her nearly empty plate to the side of the table. Robert the Bruce made a flying leap across the room and landed nimbly next to it. He bent his head, and his little pink tongue flicked across the plate, scooping up the last of the beef and gravy.
“You shouldn’t feed the cat on the table,” Bernie said. “The health inspectors won’t like it.”
“Do I see any so-called health inspectors in my kitchen? I do not. I shall therefore continue to do what I want in my own house.”
Robbie lifted his head and threw Bernie a self-satisfied smirk.
The phone on the wall rang. It was an old-fashioned thing, bright pink with big square buttons and a receiver you shouted into at one end and listened from at the other. As Rose made no move to get up and answer, I did so.
“Victoria-on-Sea Bed-and-Breakfast. Good evening.”
“Oh, hi, Lily. It’s Cheryl here. I was calling Rose.”
“I’ll get her.”
“Hold on. It might be a better idea to run this past you first.”
“Who is it?” Rose asked.
I gave her a wave. “What’s up?”
“My sister’s daughter Andrea works at the courthouse. She isn’t really suitable for that job, being somewhat of a gossip, but tomorrow it’ll be common news, anyway.”
“What will be common news tomorrow?”
“Who is it?” Rose shook her hand at me. “Give me that.”
“Andrea knows I work at the tearoom,” Cheryl said, “and everyone knows you’re Rose’s granddaughter, and . . .”
“And . . . ?”
“Jack Ford has filed papers suing your grandmother for slander. ”
Chapter 5
Because I didn’t trust Bernie to remember she was supposed to be working at the B & B this morning or to not make an excuse if she did remember, I sent her a text as soon as I woke up.
When I came out of the shower, towel-drying my hair and mentally inventorying the contents of the tearoom freezer, she’d replied: I’m up. Now. You owe me. Big-time.
At five to six, Éclair and I made our daily commute across the yard toward the house. The property is perched on the west side of the long curving peninsula that makes up the Outer Cape section of Cape Cod, overlooking Cape Cod Bay toward the mainland. The sun doesn’t rise over the water, but the morning view is still spectacular when the long rays of light creep slowly across the bay. There was no wind this morning, and the surface of the water was as smooth and shiny as the surface of the glass tray we served breakfast muffins on. By Cape Cod standards, we’re pretty high here, about a hundred and twenty-five feet above sea level, giving me a nice view of the morning’s activity on the bay. Working fishing boats, charters, and sailboats dotted the calm blue water. In a few hours the whale-watching boats would pass by, heading for the top of the Cape and the open ocean and the animals’ feeding grounds. I stood at the edge of the bluffs, and leaned on the fence protecting walkers from the sharp drop-off. I breathed the sea air and felt the soft, salty wind caress my face, while Éclair ran in circles, sniffing at the ground. I could think of no better place to start the day. Whenever I began to regret leaving Manhattan, I came here, stood still, and simply breathed.
“Good morning. Hope I’m not disturbing you.” I turned to see Simon McCracken coming toward me, dressed in brown overalls, a white T-shirt, and high-laced brown boots. The wind ruffled his hair, a pale lock fell over his forehead, and he was smiling broadly. “Beautiful day.”
“You’re not disturbing me,” I said. “When I can, I like to take a moment on my way to work to admire my surroundings. I’m happy to share the view with anyone who appreciates it.”
“This high up, it must be one of the best views along the coast.”
“It is.”
Éclair sniffed at his boots, and he bent over to give her a hearty pat. “Nice dog. My parents are looking after my two chocolate Labs while I’m away. I miss them a lot. What’s this lady’s name?”
“Éclair.”
He laughed as he straightened up. “I should have guessed. She looks like one with that coloring.”
I didn’t tell him I hadn’t named her. I inherited the dog from a roommate, also a pastry chef. My roommate went to Los Angeles on vacation, got a job, fell in love, and never came back to Manhattan. She asked me to pack up her clothes and mail them to her. I considered sticking a stamp on the dog’s nose and sending her by the US Postal Service, but that didn’t seem terribly practical. Rather than search for another roommate, I decided to rent a smaller place, and I intended to find another home for the dog. But somehow, slowly, she worked her wiles on me and wormed her way into my affections, and we’d been together ever since. My mother told me I was