but... ,” Marybeth said.
“Everyone knows,” Cheryl said.
“Meaning no one knows,” I said. “Not for sure.”
Cheryl shrugged, and the vacuum started with a roar. Marybeth returned to stacking chairs.
“I’ll take that as a subtle hint you’re closing.” Bernie tossed the last bite of her pistachio macaron into her mouth.
“Yup. See you tomorrow night. You know Rose’s dinner invitation is a command appearance, right?”
“I wouldn’t dare miss it.” She got to her feet, and I walked with her to the door. We gave each other enthusiastic hugs.
“I am so glad you’re here,” I said.
“I’m glad I’m here, too.”
Bernie left, and I went into the kitchen. One thing I’ve learned in owning my own restaurant: service might be over for the day, but prep for the next day was always waiting to be done. And those dishes weren’t going to wash themselves.
* * *
I was at work again at six the following morning. My morning job isn’t at Tea by the Sea, but in the kitchen of Rose’s B & B, Victoria-on-Sea.
My labradoodle, Éclair (so named because a streak of cream runs through the curly brown fur on her chest and belly), waited impatiently as I unlocked the back door. To my surprise, Rose was already seated at the cracked and fading Formica table, cradling her first cuppa of the day, with her big black cat, Robert the Bruce, curled up in her lap. Robbie gave me his habitual snarl of welcome.
I like cats just fine, but I don’t believe they belong in kitchens. On that, as on many things, Rose and I disagree. On that, as on many things, she won the argument. Robbie knew I’d confine him to Rose’s suite if I had my way. But I didn’t have my way, and the cat enjoyed the run of the entire house. Guests occasionally complained that he got into their room, and sometimes into their suitcase, but they couldn’t protest too much, as the web site for the B & B plainly said a cat was in residence.
More like boss of the place than in residence.
As usual, Robbie ignored Éclair. I don’t believe dogs belong in kitchens, either, but as long as Rose’s cat was allowed in, so was my dog. So there!
I didn’t, however, ever take her into the tearoom, and letting her have some extra time with me in the morning helped assuage my guilt at leaving her alone for a good part of the day, although I paid the housekeepers a bit extra to take her for a short walk and refresh her water bowl twice a day.
Given that I was American, not English like my grandmother, my first task was always to put the coffeepot on. While I did that, Éclair greeted Rose, and my grandmother patted the dog lightly on the top of her head. Greetings over, Éclair settled herself under the table and watched me with her keen brown eyes. She’d already had her breakfast, and she was never fed in the kitchen, but she never gave up hope.
Rose’s house is one of the gems of this stretch of the coast. A marvelous Victorian mansion—white, and multi-leveled, with a gray roof; numerous turrets and dormer windows, and lavishly adorned with gingerbread trim. A wide verandah running the length of the house; which had been built in 1865 by a wealthy Boston family who wanted privacy and sea views. Except for the bathrooms, every guest room and the public areas were lovingly decorated almost exactly as they would have been when the house was originally built.
Every room, including, unfortunately, this kitchen. At least I didn’t have to cook over an open fire or pump water by hand. Somewhere back in the fifties, the owners had made some improvements. The kitchen was dark and tiny; the appliances old and dated. Back then, the well-being of the kitchen staff wasn’t considered worth putting a window in for, and whoever designed the kitchen clearly never worked in one: the sink was on the far side of the room from the cutlery drawers, and the island so close to the fridge no one could get past when the door was open. But these days, the only meal actually cooked in this kitchen was breakfast. Rose might have invited Bernie and me for dinner this evening, but she didn’t intend to cook. My grandmother didn’t cook—she reheated. The day after my grandfather’s funeral, following a lifetime spent over a stove, Rose hung up her apron forever.
This morning she was dressed in her tattered red-and-purple-checked dressing gown and fluffy woolen slippers. Her thick gray hair stuck up in all directions, and she hadn’t yet put her makeup on.
“You’re up early,” I said. “Problem sleeping?” She didn’t usually come down until eight thirty or nine, when she’d pass through the dining room, graciously greeting her guests. Even then she complained—if only to me—about early mornings.
“I got an unwelcome phone call.” She rubbed the fingers of her right hand together, as she always did under stress.
I hid a grin. My grandmother had smoked a pack a day every day of her life since she was fourteen, until five years ago, when she’d given it up under doctors’ orders after a heart attack scare. It hadn’t been her heart, just indigestion and heartburn, but her doctor had torn a strip off her. My mother said she’d never be able to kick the habit, but Rose had gone about it the way she did everything in life once she’d made up her mind: with determination and a will of iron.
She hadn’t had so much as a puff since, although her hands obviously still ached to feel the thin, firm roll resting between her fingers.
“Bad news?” I asked.
This morning I was making bran muffins to go with the traditional full English breakfast—eggs, sausages, grilled tomatoes, sautéed mushrooms, baked beans, and toast—which was one of the features of the B & B. For those who didn’t want such a substantial start to the day or were watching their weight but still wanted a hot breakfast, I’d make an egg-white omelet. We also served an assortment of cereals and yogurt and a huge bowl of fresh fruit every morning.
Rose didn’t answer my question, so I said, “As long as you’re up, you can start slicing the fruit.” I put a paring knife and a bunch of bananas on the table in front of her.
She gave me a look. The very look that must have intimidated legions of young kitchen maids. “Really, Lily. I don’t employ you so I can work.”
“If by employ,” I said, “you mean pay a living wage, you’re failing on that account.”
“I allowed you to rent that old cottage, didn’t I?” she said, as though she’d done me a big favor by letting me save her from bankruptcy.
“Whatever. What’s the bad news?”
“Gerald has quit.”
“Oh, no. That is bad news. What happened? You didn’t criticize the hostas again, did you? You know how sensitive he is about them.”
“No, I did not criticize the hostas. I learned my lesson the last time. I didn’t say they’re a thoroughly common plant that anyone can have in their garden.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I did think it, though. I considered mentioning that at Thornecroft we had—”
“Yes, yes. I know all about Thornecroft. I also know Gerry refused to even attempt to re-create
