The chimes over the door tinkled, announcing the arrival of the first customers of the day.
Bernie set to work. Cheryl came into the kitchen to place an order. Cream tea (meaning just tea and scones) for four, with two pots of tea: Creamy Earl Grey and English breakfast. Marybeth began arranging the scones on flower-patterned china plates and preparing the tea. Shortbread in the oven, I started on today’s batch of pistachio macarons. Bernie talked as she worked. Her novel had potential, I thought. It was to be a multigenerational historical saga beginning with a family that set sail from Ireland for New York in the late seventeenth century.
“That sounds good,” Marybeth said. “I’d read that.”
“Thanks.” Bernie worked slowly and methodically. It was taking her forever to assemble the sandwiches, but she was giving me free labor, so I wasn’t going to complain. “I know what I want to happen overall, but I’m stuck on this important scene, and I can’t see a way through it.”
“Stop right there,” I said. “The women are shipwrecked, is that right?”
“Yes. When Esmeralda is fleeing her abusive husband. I’m having trouble generating the feeling of panic.”
“First, drop the name Esmeralda. Second, go for a walk on the beach. Right now. Do you have your phone on you?”
“Of course.”
“Take pictures. It’s a calm day, and the beach is on the bay, not the open ocean, but you can use your imagination. Smell the sea, feel the sand between your toes, watch the waves, observe the birds. Ignore the tourists. Open your mind.”
Bernie threw down her knife and threw up her hands. “You are a marvel, Lily Roberts, a marvel. That’s a fabulous idea.” She pushed the doors open and ran through them. She was back before they stopped swinging. “Where’s the nearest beach?”
“You can get to it from the back of the B & B, the far side of the house from my cottage. It’s a steep drop, so there are stairs leading down. Take care on the steps. They need some maintenance.”
The doors swung again, and she was gone.
They continued swinging, and Cheryl’s head popped into the kitchen. “We’ve got a sudden rush out there. Three tables arrived at the same time. They should be finished when the people with reservations start arriving.”
“Marybeth,” I said, “finish those sandwiches, please.” Bernie had left behind a mound of neatly sliced cucumber.
The bell on the oven beeped, and I checked the shortbread. Absolute golden perfection. I took the sheet out and sprinkled the hot shortbread lightly with sugar to give it a bit of crunch.
“Someone to see you, Lily,” Cheryl said from the doorway. “A man. He says he has a job interview?”
“A job interview? I’m not hiring.”
“That’s good,” Marybeth said, “as I don’t plan on leaving.”
I mentally slapped my forehead. The gardener position. Gerald’s English nephew.
Timing was not good. We had reservations that would give us a full house from one until four, and I still had a great deal of baking to do. Marybeth was a good kitchen assistant, but she was not a pastry chef, and she doubled as a waitress when we were busy.
“I guess I have to see him if he’s come all this way. I’ll try to make it quick. Do we have an empty table?”
“The tables for two in the tearoom are all taken,” Cheryl said, “and you don’t want to use a bigger one, in case we get more drop-in customers. A couple of tables outside are still free.”
“Thanks. I’ll take one of those. I’ll try to be quick. The scones are baked, and most of the pastries are ready, so we should be good for now unless we get some picky eaters. Marybeth, can you slice the shortbread, please? It needs to be done before it cools.” I washed my hands, didn’t bother to take off my apron, and went into the dining room.
Tables of women were sipping tea, nibbling sandwiches and pastries, and laughing. A pink-cheeked baby sat in a high chair, banging his spoon on the tray while his mother tried to ignore him. Looking totally out of place, a young man dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and heavy work boots stood facing the wall, studying a painting of a fox hunt.
“Hi,” I said. “I believe you’re looking for me?”
He turned and held out his right hand. I took it in mine. His greeting was firm, but not aggressive. “I’m Simon McCracken. Here about the gardening position.”
“Lily Roberts. I own this tearoom, and I assist my grandmother, Rose Campbell, with the running of her B & B. Pleased to meet you, Simon. Shall we go outside for a few minutes? Would you like a cup of tea? I can promise you it will be made exactly as you’d get back home.”
He grinned. “I’d love a cuppa. Thank you.”
His accent was fresh from London. Upper middle class, maybe a private school, maybe not. I signaled to Cheryl to bring two teas and led the way outside.
The cottage that’s now the tearoom is built of stone and wood and is about a hundred years older than the house. When we turned it into my restaurant, I planted climbing vines around the base, hung a swinging sign over the door, and laid a flagstone floor in the yard, which was now dotted with tables and chairs, some of them under pink and blue umbrellas. Masses of terra-cotta pots overflowing with red and white geraniums, purple lobelia, white bacopa, and trailing sweet potato vines lined the stone half wall enclosing the patio. On the branches of an old oak in the center of the garden, I’d hung a multitude of cracked and mismatched teacups from brightly colored ribbons, which had already faded in the sun.
Simon and I took a seat in the far corner of the enclosed patio. He smiled at me. He was around my age, early thirties, about six feet tall, lean but well muscled, with sandy hair streaked by the sun, blue eyes, and prominent cheekbones. His face and his arms, thick with muscle, were heavily tanned, as befitted a man who worked outdoors.
“Nice place,” he said. “I had a quick look around when I got here. You’ve done a good job with a harsh environment.”
“We’re proud of it. Tell me what experience you have with ocean-side gardens.”
Fifteen minutes later, I had a gardener. We shook hands on the deal and exchanged contact information. He said he’d start work at six tomorrow morning, and I went back into the tearoom. Before going to the kitchen, I stood in the doorway, watching Simon leave. A motorcycle was parked in the lot, a leather jacket tossed over the seat. He put on the jacket, untied a black helmet and placed it on his head, climbed onto the seat, kicked the engine to life, and roared away. He didn’t look back.
As I turned, I caught sight of a short, chubby figure in a flowing cotton dress walking at a rapid clip through the gardens in the direction of the Goodwill house. She did not stop to admire the flowers. The blue Audi that had been there this morning was now the only car in the Goodwill driveway. I gave the woman no more thought and went back to work.
* * *
We ate dinner at the kitchen table. Bernie arrived bearing a chilled bottle of white wine and a huge grin. She hugged me and then hugged Rose with such enthusiasm, Rose said, “What’s gotten into you?”
“Thanks to Lily, I have had the best idea ever!”
“What’s that?” I asked as I twisted the cap on the wine and poured two glasses.
“I’m abandoning Esmeralda and the saga of the O’Brian and Escalada families and Manhattan itself and starting over. My new book will be set on Cape Cod. Isn’t that absolutely fabulous?”
“What about all the work you’ve done so far?” Rose asked.
Bernie waved her hand in the air, dismissing two years’