Tea & Treachery. Vicki Delany
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in her knurly hand. Her short gray hair stands up like a halo of spikes around her head, and intelligence and wicked humor shine from the depths of her wide blue eyes. Despite the network of fine lines and deep folds on her face, her porcelain complexion is one women decades younger might envy. This afternoon she wore a long, loose dress in every shade of purple imaginable, with earrings made of purple feathers, and a long double strand of purple beads. Her eyes were outlined by black liner; her mascara thick; and her mouth, a slash of bright red lipstick. My grandmother is a woman who likes color in her life.
“Good afternoon, Rose.” Cheryl put the pot of Darjeeling on the table, along with cups, saucers, matching plates, a milk jug, and a sugar bowl. I’d asked Cheryl to use my personal dishes—the Royal Doulton Winthrop set of white china with a deep red border with delicate gold leaves running through it, and gold trim on the base of the cups and decorating the handles. The china had been given to me by my maternal grandparents, Rose and her husband Eric, on my sixteenth birthday, and it was now kept on a shelf at the back of the kitchen, to be used on very special occasions. Such as welcoming my best friend to Cape Cod.
“Will you be joining us for tea, Rose?” Cheryl asked.
My grandmother took a chair. “I will.” She sniffed the air. “Not Darjeeling, though. I’m in the mood for Lapsang souchong. No food for me, thank you. I had lunch earlier.” Rose had lived in the United States for almost sixty years, but her accent still carried memories of her native Yorkshire.
“Oh!” Bernie said, “I should have had that. Lapsang souchong is an even more exotic name than Darjeeling. What’s the difference?”
“Darjeeling’s from India and Lapsang souchong’s from China, for one thing. Lapsang is smokier and has a slight sweetness, whereas Darjeeling is slightly muscatel, like the wine.” I gestured toward the pot. “Darjeeling first flush was once called the Champagne of teas. Shall I pour?”
“Let me, let me.” Bernie clapped her hands together, and I smiled at the memories of our childhood. “Enthusiastic” could have been Bernadette Murphy’s middle name.
“So,” my grandmother said as Bernie carefully allowed a stream of dark, fragrant liquid to fill my cup. “Tell me what you’re doing here, Bernadette. Lily says you’ve quit your job and have some mad idea of making it as a writer. ”
“I didn’t say it was a mad idea,” I protested.
“You didn’t have to,” Bernie said. “Everyone else does.”
“Including me,” Rose said. “A job’s a valuable thing to have. One doesn’t give up a good job for no reason.”
“I have a reason,” Bernie said. “I’m writing a book, and Cape Cod is the perfect place to do it.”
Rose’s expression indicated exactly what she thought of that. As though her expression wasn’t enough, she added, “Rubbish.”
Bernie threw me a glance. I shrugged. “I’d forgotten,” my friend said, “just how blunt you can be, Rose.”
“Never paid to beat about the bush when I was a girl. My parents were plainspoken, and they taught me to be so, too.”
“I doubt you were plainspoken, as you put it,” Bernie said, “to your employers in that stately home in Yorkshire.”
“I can hold my tongue,” Rose said. “When I need to. Thank you, Cheryl. And you brought my favorite cup, as well.”
Why a souvenir of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer’s wedding was my grandmother’s favorite cup, I never did understand.
Along with the fresh pot of tea, Cheryl placed a three-tiered tray on the table. Freshly made scones on the middle tray, a selection of thin sandwiches on the bottom, and delicate pastries on the top.
“Wow!” Bernie said. “This looks so fabulous. You made all this, Lily?”
“I did, but I have to confess that at this time of day, all you get is leftovers.”
“I’ll eat your leftovers anytime. Everything looks so delicious. Where should I start?” Without waiting for an answer, she selected a plump raisin-dotted scone. She cut it in half, slathered it with butter and strawberry jam, and topped it off with a huge dollop of clotted cream.
I took a salmon sandwich for myself and watched Bernie take the first bite of her scone. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she moaned happily.
Rose caught my eye and gave me a wink. Even after all these years and all the sandwiches and pastries I’ve made, I still get a flush of pride seeing the fruit of my labors so beautifully presented and enjoyed.
It was after four thirty, and Tea by the Sea, my tearoom, would be closing soon. The last few customers of the day were finishing their tea, scraping the bottom of the jam jar, licking clotted cream or sandwich crumbs off their fingers. Most of my work was finished for the day, except for the clearing up, and so I’d invited Bernie to come in for tea. She’d arrived last night from New York City to spend the summer on Cape Cod
“You’re renting the Crawford place, I hear,” Rose said.
“Yup,” Bernie replied. “I was lucky to get it for a reasonable rent.”
“That might be because it’s falling down.” Rose sipped her tea. “Not to mention falling off the cliff. I trust you’re aware they couldn’t get any vacation rentals this year.”
“Uh, yes, they told me that.” I’ve known Bernie since we were in kindergarten. I can always tell when she’s lying: she’d known no such thing. “It’s going to be the perfect place to write. In the big sunroom that looks out over the sea.”
“If you have good binoculars,” Rose said, “you might catch a glimpse of the ocean on an exceptionally clear day.”
“Well, uh, yes, but it’s very quiet.”
“Because no one risks their undercarriage on that laneway,” Rose said.
Bernie threw me a panicked look.
Rose leaned across the table and put her hand on Bernie’s. “Don’t listen to me, love. I know what rents are like on the Cape in season. You were lucky to get any place at all at an affordable rate and wise not to spend all your savings on something nicer than you need. I’m delighted that you found someplace so close to us.” My tea room’s situated on the Outer Cape, the peninsula part of Cape Cod curling north and west. We’re close to the vacation town of North Augusta, south of North Truro, facing west, looking over Cape Cod Bay, rather than the open Atlantic Ocean.
Bernie grinned at her. “Thanks, Rose. You know I value your opinion. That house will be perfect for me. I’m going to be able to get so much work done there.”
“Which you’ll never find a publisher for,” Rose said. “And that’s if you ever finish the thing.”
Bernie’s smile faded, and she blinked.
“That’s rather harsh, isn’t it, Rose?” I said. “Bernie has talent, tons of it. She just needs the time to get her book finished.”
Bernie nodded enthusiastically as she spread a thick layer of jam on the second half of her scone.
“I believe in speaking the truth,” my grandmother said. “At all times. Such as telling you, Lily, that that cucumber sandwich has too much color.”
“I added a touch of curry powder to give it some punch.”
“A cucumber sandwich does not need punch. A properly made and sliced cucumber sandwich speaks of tradition. There’s a chip in Bernie’s cup.”
“There is not.”
“Opposite the handle.”
Bernie held up the offending cup, and we both peered at it.
“So there is,” I said. At eighty-five, my grandmother has better eyesight than I do. “Don’t