A Bitter Feast
Page 32
“They’re having a last game,” Doug said as she sat down beside him. “Very non-reg. They got tired of me trying to make them play by the rules.”
“I can’t say I blame them. You can be bloody annoying, Doug Cullen.”
He glanced at her, his mouth turning up in a rueful quirk. “So I’ve heard.”
“And who’d have thought you’d turn out to be the favorite uncle.” She nodded at the kids.
“Maybe it’s my childlike charm.”
“There is that,” she said.
He looked at her again, as if to see if she was being sarcastic, then frowned as he studied her. “Are you all right? You look a bit peaky.”
Melody started to shrug the question off, then realized that if she was going to turn over a new leaf, this was the time to start. “Not really, to be honest. I’ve just had a mum/daughter heart-to-heart. She likes you, you know.”
Doug’s eyebrows shot up above the gold rims of his glasses. “And that’s a bad thing?”
She laughed in spite of herself. “No, of course not. It’s just that—well, anyway, I came to say that I think I owe you an apology.”
He looked even more surprised, but then he fidgeted, brushing at an errant rose petal that had drifted onto his knee. “Yes, but—I probably shouldn’t have told—”
Melody cut him off. “Just don’t go there, okay? It’s done, and probably for the best.”
“Okay.” They sat in silence for a long moment, then Doug said, tentatively, “What are you going to do about Andy? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I don’t know. See if he’ll talk to me, for starters. But—” She hesitated, crushing another rose petal between her fingers, then she swallowed and went on. “But, in the meantime, do you fancy a lift back to London? I could use the company.”
Three weeks to the day after Fergus O’Reilly had cast his long shadow across the courtyard of the Lamb, Viv once again sat on the kitchen steps after early-morning prep. But on this morning it was cold and crisp, and she huddled into a fleece jacket, the stone step chilling her bum through her kitchen trousers. When she blew out a breath, a cloud formed in the air, but she’d needed the break to collect herself for the day.
The crunch of tires on the car park gravel jolted her out of her reverie. It was an hour too early for morning coffee. She stood, ready to send overeager tourists politely on their way, but the man who came through the courtyard arch a moment later looked nothing like a tourist.
His tailored overcoat screamed city, as did the polished sheen on his shoes. The face, however, she recognized instantly, although the dark, waving hair was cut short and shot with gray.
“Colm Finlay. Whatever are you doing here?”
“Hello, Viv. How about a cup of coffee for an old friend?”
“Don’t tell me you were just passing,” she said a few minutes later, when she’d made them both espressos and sat down across from him in the small dining room.
“Never would I try on such a thing with you, Viv,” he said with a twinkle, then sobered. “I came to offer my condolences. I was truly sorry to hear about Fergus.” Before she could answer, he went on. “And I came to make you a proposition.”
“I’m not going to London, Colm. Whatever happens here.” She looked round the pub with the anxiety that dogged her daily these days.
“You’ve got a nice place here, Viv. I was hoping you might cook me lunch, and we could talk business.”
“But—”
“Hear me out before you go running away with your buts. My mate at the Chronicle told me the whole story about what happened, and I’ve done a little investigating on my own. It seems your business partner is going to be in need of some serious cash for solicitors’ fees.”
Ivan Talbot had been down at Beck House the previous week, Viv thought. Did he have a hand in this?
“I had a meeting in Cheltenham this morning with Bea Abbott’s father, who is managing her affairs,” Colm went on. “He would be open to an offer on her share of the Lamb.”
“But I can’t raise— I’ve been to the bank—”
“No. But I can.” Colm’s comfortable face was as serious as she’d ever seen it. “I’d like to come in as your partner in this place, Viv. Expand my horizons outside of London, if you will.”
She stared at him, coffee forgotten. “But you don’t even know what I’m doing—”
“I know you’re a talented cook. I’ve always known that, if you remember.”
She did remember. He’d offered her a job not long after she’d left O’Reilly’s, but she’d known by then that she couldn’t take a full-time chef’s position, not with the baby coming. Frowning at him, she said, “I’m not doing foams or molecular gastronomy. Or Irish food.”
“Heaven forbid I should ask.” The twinkle was back. “But you can do spectacular local food, with your own touch. And I think you could stretch yourself a bit—if you gave yourself permission to remember how much you loved to create cuisine.”
She did remember that, too, those heady early days with Fergus, keeping herself awake nights with the rush of ideas for new recipes to try. She’d felt a bit of that again, with Addie’s luncheon, and it had been glorious.
Colm emptied his cup and set it back in the saucer with a decisive clink. “What do you say, Viv? It would be your show. Will you think about it?”
“I—” She swallowed. “Yes. But—” She thought about Grace, and Mark, and Ibby and Angelica. This was not her decision alone. “There are other people who should have a say as well.”
“Then I think you had better introduce me.”
Acknowledgments
The village of Lower Slaughter in Gloucestershire is very much a real place. The Lamb, however, is entirely a product of my imagination, as are all the characters therein, and those characters’ homes, farms, and cottages.
Many thanks to the staff at The Slaughters Manor House for their kindness and hospitality, and especially to Chef Nic Chappell for fabulous food, advice, and a tour of the manor house kitchen.
Thanks as well to my friend Chef Sean Currid in Phoenix, Arizona, for food advice, kitchen tours, and much of the original inspiration for this book.
To Chef Robert Lyford in McKinney, Texas, I owe the inspiration for Chef Viv Holland’s charity luncheon menu.
I owe a huge debt, as always, to my first line readers, Diane Hale and Gigi Norwood. They correct me, inspire me, and keep me enthusiastic about writing—especially when I’m stuck in the book doldrums.
In the UK, Carol Chase, Steve Ullathorne, Karin Salvalaggio, Kerry Smith, Barb Jungr—you put the fun in book research! Thanks for invaluable hours, advice, and more than a few pub crawls.
My life and my writing are made much richer every day by my fellow Jungle Red Writers: Rhys Bowen, Lucy Burdette, Hallie Ephron, Jenn McKinlay, Hank Phillippi Ryan, and Julia Spencer-Fleming.
My book family at William Morrow is simply the best. Danielle Bartlett, Tavia Kowalchuk, Asanté Simons, Lynn Grady, Liate Stehlik, you totally rock, and huge extra thanks to my incomparable editor, Carrie Feron.
Illustrator Laura Hartman Maestro has once again provided a magical map that brings the story to life, and she is as always a joy to work with.
My agent, Nancy Yost, deserves an array of medals for her patience and encouragement.
And last but not least, Rick, Kayti, Gage, and Wren, you inspire me every day. Love you to the moon and back.
About the Author
DEBORAH CROMBIE is a native Texan who has lived in both England and Scotland. She lives in McKinney, Texas, sharing a house that is more than one hundred years old with her husband, three cats, and two German shepherds.
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Also by Deborah Crombie
Garden of Lamentations
To Dwell in Darkness
The Sound of Broken Glass
No Mark Upon Her
Necessary as Blood
Where Mem
ories Lie
Water Like a Stone
In a Dark House
Now May You Weep
And Justice There Is None
A Finer End
Kissed a Sad Goodbye
Dreaming of the Bones
Mourn Not Your Dead
Leave the Grave Green
All Shall Be Well
A Share in Death
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
a bitter feast. Copyright © 2019 by Deborah Crombie. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
first edition
Title page photograph by Martyhoppe/Shutterstock, Inc.
Cover design by Richard L. Aquan
Cover photograph © Jeff Morgan 14 / Alamy Stock Photo
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Digital Edition OCTOBER 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-227168-6
Version 09112019
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-227166-2
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