Tea & Treachery. Vicki Delany
do after my grandmother says what’s on her mind. Not more than ten minutes ago, I’d been thinking Bernie was making a big mistake, quitting her job as a forensic accountant at a big Manhattan corporate law firm, cashing in her savings, and coming to the Outer Cape to work on her book. Now, in the face of Rose’s opposition, I was firmly on Bernie’s side.
What’s the point of having dreams if you can’t strive for them? I glanced around the tearoom. My tearoom. Owning my own place had always been my dream. That the dream came with a well-meaning, loving, caring but opinionated and always interfering grandmother might not have been part of the plan. But sometimes we have to settle for what we can get.
Rose finished her tea and reached for her cane. She wobbled slightly as she got to her feet. Bernie leapt to assist her. “So nice to see you, love,” Rose said. “Never mind what I said earlier. I’m delighted you’re here, and I hope to see you regularly over the summer.”
“You will,” Bernie said.
“Come for dinner one night soon. Tomorrow would be good. Nothing fancy. Lily, you’ll come also. Seven o’clock. A bottle of that nice New Zealand sauvignon blanc you brought last time would be lovely. Oh, that nasty man was back just now, with his binoculars and his clipboard. He waved at me as I walked over here. I did not return his wave. I’m not happy at him poking around. See you in the morning, love.” She walked away, her cane tapping at the wooden floor.
Bernie dropped into her chair. “I’d forgotten what a force of nature your grandmother is.”
“I can never forget. No matter how much I might want to.”
Bernie studied the sandwich selection and helped herself to a cucumber one, made in the traditional way, with thin slices of the vegetable served on white bread spread with a layer of cream cheese and cut into fingers. I’d added a sprinkling of curry powder to the cream cheese for a modern touch.
“I don’t like the taste of curry on this,” Bernie said as she chewed. “It’s overpowering.”
“It is not. You’ve let Rose influence your thinking,” said I, who’d only seconds ago changed my mind about Bernie’s venture, not wanting to agree with Rose.
The chimes over the door rang as the last customers, a table of six women, left. Cheryl swooped down on their table with her tray and began clearing it off. I was pleased to see that scarcely a crumb remained.
My other waitress, Cheryl’s daughter Marybeth, came in from the garden, also laden with a tray. She’d earlier taken a double tea stand outside, and only a single tiny strawberry tart was left. I smiled to see it: the guests had been too polite to take the last one.
“That’s the end of them,” Marybeth said. “And I’m beat. It’s been a good day.”
For most of the day, every table in the tearoom as well as those outside in the garden had been full. It was late spring in Cape Cod, the weather was perfect, and the tourists were out in force.
“What did Rose mean, a man with binoculars and a clipboard has been nosing around?” Bernie said. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s none of our business, but I’m afraid Rose is going to make it so. He isn’t interested in our property. The house next door’s for sale. It has been for some time.”
“Have they been having trouble selling? It’s a fabulous location,” Bernie said. “Almost as good as Rose’s house.”
“It’s a marvelous old house, yes, and in a great setting, but it needs an enormous amount of work. Or so I’ve been told. I’ve never been inside. It’s been owned by a wealthy local family for generations. They used to use it as a summer home, but the family lost interest years ago, and it’s been falling slowly into disrepair for decades. They need to bring the price down—a lot—if they’re going to attract a buyer who just wants a nice house to live in. In the meantime . . .”
The chimes over the door tinkled.
“I’m sorry,” Cheryl called, “but we’re about to close.”
“We won’t be long,” a deep voice boomed. “I hope you can rustle up a cup of coffee and a couple cookies for two hardworking men.”
I turned to check out the new arrivals. They were both middle aged, but the similarities ended there. One was tall and round bellied, with chubby cheeks, a nose crisscrossed by a network of red lines, and thin strands of hair stretched into a comb-over. He wore jeans that looked as though they’d been recently ironed, a blue button-down shirt with the top button undone, and steel-toed boots without a trace of dried mud on them. He had binoculars around his neck and an iPad tucked under one arm. This must be the man Rose had seen. She’d mistaken the iPad for a clipboard. The other man was short and thin, with close-cropped hair and black-rimmed eyeglasses. His pants were part of a business suit, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up.
“You’re in luck,” Cheryl said. “I haven’t emptied the coffeepot yet.” Tea by the Sea is strictly a tearoom, but we have to make accommodation for guests who (shudder!) don’t care for tea. “How about two strawberry tarts to go with it? That’s about all we have left.”
“Sounds good,” said the larger man.
“Maybe the house needs—” Bernie started to speak, but I cut her off with a touch to my lips and a shake of my head. She opened her eyes wide but said no more.
“Nice place you got here,” the smaller man said.
“Thank you.” Cheryl poured the coffee into takeaway cups. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Two of each,” the bigger man said.
“Nothing for me, thanks,” the other one said. “You been here long?”
“If you mean me, my entire life,” Cheryl said. “If you mean Tea by the Sea, this is our first summer.”
“I bet the tourist ladies love it.”
“They do.”
Tea by the Sea specializes in traditional afternoon tea. In keeping with the theme of the menu, the restaurant’s decorated as though it were a drawing room in a castle in Scotland or a stately country home in England. Paintings of British pastoral scenes and horses at the hunt are hung on pale peach wallpaper with clusters of pink and green flowers. The wide-planked wooden floors are polished to a high shine; the chairs upholstered in peach and sage green; the tables laid with starched and ironed white cloths and either a single rose in a crystal vase or a lush flower arrangement, depending on what’s currently available in the garden. Several small alcoves, similarly decorated, are tucked into corners, providing space for small parties or intimate gatherings. In the main room, a large antique sideboard, bought at a good price and carefully restored with a lot of elbow grease on my part and advice on Rose’s, exhibits some of the china tea sets we use. The opposite wall has a real fireplace, at this time of year filled with flowers. A small room next to the kitchen displays items for sale—teapots and matching cups and saucers; tea accessories such as infusers and strainers, timers, and tea cozies; several varieties of prettily packaged tea bath salts I make myself from fragrant tea leaves; and locally made jams and preserves. The waitresses wear knee-length black dresses under starched white aprons and small white caps. As I stay strictly in the back, doing the cooking, I usually come to work in jeans and a T-shirt.
“Do you do a good business here?” the larger man asked.
Cheryl threw me a glance. “We do, Mr. Ford.”
His back was to me, so I couldn’t see him smile, but I heard it in his voice. “You know me. Then you know I care about the success of small independent businesses, such as this one.”
I sipped my tea and listened. Bernie filled her plate with more sandwiches and tarts.
“If you’re a local,” he continued, “you must realize this place won’t get a lot of business over the winter.”
“No,” Cheryl admitted.