Tea & Treachery. Vicki Delany
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“Quite. It was difficult to hear him over the roar of the wind as he sped out of town in his new girlfriend’s convertible, but I think that’s what he said.”
“When does this nephew arrive?”
“This afternoon. He’s driving in from Boston. You can interview him in the tearoom.”
“Me?”
“You manage the staff, love.”
“Since when?”
“Since now. I’m promoting you.”
“With commensurate pay, I hope,” I said, knowing I was wasting my breath.
A tap on the kitchen door and Edna came in, giving us a cheerful “good morning,” as she wrapped the strings of her apron around her waist. At least I didn’t have to wait tables as well as do all the cooking. Edna was one of my grandmother’s bridge partners, and not much younger than her. She’d been complaining at bridge one day in the spring of being bored since her daughter and the grandchildren moved away, and before she knew what was happening, she’d been hired. She also makes many of the delicious jams and other preserves I use and sell in the tearoom.
“I see you’ve laid out bananas. Shall I start on the fruit?” she asked.
“Seeing as how no one else is slicing them, yes, please.” I checked the clock. Six thirty. We start service at seven. “Do you know anyone who’s looking for a landscaping job?”
“No,” she said, “but I know plenty of people looking for landscapers. Why?”
While Rose filled Edna in on Gerald’s romantic entanglements, I poured myself a second cup of coffee. Sausages sizzled on the stove, and the room was full of the aroma of brewing coffee, spitting fat, and warm baking.
“Heads-up,” Edna said. “Frank told me the proposal to rezone the property next door is going to a vote the week after next.”
Judging by the look on her face, if my grandmother didn’t consider herself to be a lady, she’d have spat on the floor.
“Already?” I said. “That was quick. A developer was poking around yesterday.”
“Was it Jack Ford by any chance?”
I nodded. “He was with some guy named Gleeson.”
“Roy Gleeson’s the councillor sponsoring the motion. Jack knows there’s opposition, and he hopes to push it through while everyone’s busy with their summer businesses.”
“Jack Ford can—” my grandmother began.
“Careful, Rose,” I said. “My delicate ears.”
She poured the last of her tea into the saucer and placed it on the table. Robert the Bruce leapt off her lap, landed lightly on the table, and began to drink. He loved his tea, Robbie did.
“Bad enough feeding the cat at the table,” I grumbled. “Never mind on the table.”
“You better hope the health inspectors never pop in unannounced,” Edna said.
“You do get the most ridiculous ideas.” Rose pushed herself to her feet. “I didn’t pour my husband’s and my life savings into this place, work my fingers to the bone . . .”
I took the hot muffins out of the oven while checking the condition of the sausages and trying to decide if I had enough tomatoes and mushrooms, calculating if I needed to run to the grocery store before opening the tearoom at eleven or if I had enough flour to last until tomorrow, and instructing Edna to add oranges to the fruit bowl this morning.
“To see some upstart property developer ruin everything,” Rose finished.
“Don’t do anything rash,” I said.
“Really, love. When have you ever known me to be rash?”
I was tossing sausages with my back to my grandmother. “Every single time,” I said under my breath.
Edna laughed.
“If you enjoy working here, Lily, best not to make fun of your employer.” Rose tapped herself out of the kitchen. Robbie leapt nimbly from the table to the counter next to the stove and eyed the sausages.
Chapter 3
Breakfast finishes at nine. The last guests came down at quarter to; I plated the final two meals, and Edna carried them into the dining room.
Rose had prepared a proper English breakfast—called the full English—for my late grandfather every Saturday, Sunday, and holiday of their married life. A traditional full English has everything except the baked beans fried in a couple of inches of bacon fat: eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes, mushrooms, even the bread.
With a nod to modern ideas of healthy eating, I prepared each guest their choice of eggs, fried the sausages and lightly sautéed the tomatoes and mushrooms in olive oil, and toasted the bread in the toaster. No one ever complained they wanted more fat.
Except for Rose.
But Rose never eats breakfast, anyway, so I ignore her. She pretends not to notice.
I checked the clock on the wall and was pleased to see that breakfast had ended early enough to allow me time for a short break before I had to walk up the driveway to the tearoom.
I have the world’s best commute. I live in a cottage on the grounds of the B & B, close to the bluffs overlooking Cape Cod Bay, between Rose’s house and our nearest neighbor, the property to the south, the one I’d been telling Bernie about yesterday. My cottage would have been a guesthouse or perhaps a residence for the family of a senior member of staff back in the day. It’s tiny—one bedroom and a small living room—but I’ve lived in apartments in Manhattan, and I can handle tiny. The kitchen isn’t much more than a sink, a microwave, and a two-burner hot plate, but as I make my living cooking for other people seven days a week, I don’t cook much for myself.
The cottage’s best feature is the wide porch that runs across the front of the building, overlooking the bluffs and the waters of the bay crashing onto the rocks below. I hadn’t brought much with me from New York, and once I arrived, I’d bought the best outdoor furniture I could afford. White wicker chairs, all-weather blue-and-white-striped cushions, a small iron bistro table painted turquoise with two matching chairs. I got several large terra-cotta pots and filled them with an abundance of colorful annuals and tall grasses. A small enclosed yard is off the side door, where Éclair can be let out without needing supervision. She was well trained and generally good around the guests, but I didn’t let her run free on the property without me.
I poured myself one more cup of coffee, grabbed a muffin, hung my apron on the hook by the door, and shouted good-bye to Edna. I slipped out the kitchen door of the main house and climbed the three steps up to the ground level. It was a day full of promise: the sun was a huge yellow circle in a pale blue sky, and the lightest breath of wind carried the scent of salt off the ocean.
I planned to go home and finish my coffee and eat my muffin on the porch while watching the activity on the bay. The tearoom opens at eleven, and if I get enough prep done the night before, I look forward to a precious half hour of peace and quiet before leaping back into the fray of a busy kitchen: rolling dough, stirring batter, slicing fruit, icing cakes, making sandwiches. As I got closer to home, I heard shouting. Rose’s tiny figure stood at the edge of her property, not far from the bluffs, her long multicolored skirt blowing in the wind as she waved her cane in the faces of the three men facing her.
Oh dear.
Instead of going inside, I broke into a run and headed for the neighboring property. Happy for the exercise, Éclair ran on ahead. Two of the men arguing with Rose were the ones who’d come into the tearoom yesterday, but I didn’t recognize the third. He was older than them, well dressed in the Tommy Bahama–type clothes wealthy New Englanders wore on vacation. He had a deep tan, his thick gray hair was expensively