by Nancy Warren
He looked over at Aunt Lydia, then at Olive and Betsy. “No. I’ll have it here.”
Well, she thought, as she poured him a cup in the best bone china with the pink roses, at least he’d forgotten about the unfortunate incident with Mae West.
“Joe Montcrief,” she said, belatedly remembering her manners, “I’d like you to meet Lydia Smoltz and Olive Bennet, who live here, and Betsy Carmichael who’s come for tea.” And please let them behave.
But Lydia, sadly, wasn’t nearly finished. “Well, young man,” she said, sitting straighter and giving him a glimpse of what a fine pair of legs a woman could still reveal at seventy-five years old, “You were wise to come to us. Did the doctor send you?”
“Doctor?” He held the delicate cup with no awkwardness, and still managed to look manly. Emily had a firm rule about getting involved with guests, but she could look, couldn’t she?
“It’s all right. We’ve helped many men like yourself over the years. An older woman can offer so much more than a clueless young woman. In our day, men didn’t need any of those newfangled drugs. They had us, right Olive?”
“That’s right. We worked our magic the old fashioned way. Too bad they couldn’t bottle us back then.”
“Sandwich, Aunt Lydia?” Emily asked desperately.
But her aunt waved her away. “What is your sexual problem? I’d be happy to help.”
In her day, Lydia, along with Olive and Emily’s grandmother, Patrice, had been what Dr. Emmet Beaver termed Intimate Healers. Lydia, however, hadn’t grasped the concept of retirement.
“Sexual problem?” Joe echoed, looking dumbfounded, while three older women who all ought to know better stared at his crotch.
Helpless to think what else she could do, Emily placed a proprietary hand on his shoulder. In a case of desperate times and desperate measures, she said, “Sorry, Aunt Lydia. Joe is my client.”
As her supposed client looked up and caught her gaze, the trickle of awareness she’d felt built up to a waterfall.
Those silver, gray, blue eyes were shot through with devilry. “Thank you Emily,” he said. “I think I’m going to need a lot of one on one work.”
Oh, oh. She had a feeling there was trouble ahead.
CHAPTER TWO
Joe was rarely surprised. A great deal of his success depended on knowing what he was getting into long before he got there. So he’d forgotten one simple fact about himself.
He loved surprises.
He didn’t have the faintest clue what was going on in this faded, overstuffed, over-decorated room with its three old ladies and one very sexy young one, but he was going to sit back and enjoy himself until he found out.
Emily gave his shoulder a little squeeze, which he figured was a thanks for not laughing in that sweet old gal’s face –- as if he would. He got offered sex all the time, so he rarely thought about it, but he’d never been offered sexual healing by someone old enough to be his grandmother.
The only sex problem he had was slipping out of bed with women as easily as he slipped in. From trial and error he’d discovered two fair playing fields. He dated women who were under thirty, before the biological clock hit the alarm button, or over forty, when they’d either already had their kids or decided they didn’t want any. That way he could keep the relationships about sex rather than lifetime mating. It wasn’t that he minded kids, hell he’d probably have them someday, but he didn’t like feeling as though he were trying out for the role of forever mate and daddy when all he wanted was some female companionship, a hot, willing body, and some laughs.
“Well,” the same old gal said to Emily, “I don’t see why you should get all the nice young men. I’ve had a lot more experience.” She turned to him and asked, “So what is your problem, dear? Premature ejaculation? A reluctant member?” She glanced significantly at his lap. “Certain needs that aren’t being fulfilled? Or—”
“Aunt Lydia! I should explain. You see…”
But he didn’t want to hear some boring explanation.
“I’ll bet you’ve helped a lot of men,” he said to the woman Emily called Aunt Lydia.
“Oh, yes indeed. Dr. Emmet used to say I had a real feel for my work.” She giggled and he had the strong feeling it was an old joke being trotted out for his benefit.
Half the fun was watching out of his peripheral vision the way Emily was frantically signaling the other two old gals, and the facial twisting and hand gesturing she was getting in reply. They wanted to shut Aunt Lydia up, but he wanted to hear what she had to say.
And then he intended to get back to the part where Emily had announced she’d taken him on as a client. She wasn’t his usual type. Her address was Rosehip Lane, not Wall Street. She was a country girl, fresh and wholesome. She wore a starched apron for God’s sake. But under the apron she wore a hip-looking skirt that fit in all the right places. She smelled of cinnamon and ginger, but there was something far more intoxicating in her eyes.
She also looked to be well under thirty. Mid-twenties at a guess. Definitely not ready to obsess about motherhood. Yep. He could be interested in some sexual healing.
“We worked for the noted psychologist and philanthropist, Dr. Emmet Beaver,” Lydia said.
“Dr. Beaver?” Was she putting him on?
“I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
“No.”
“I suppose you’re too young. His techniques were advanced. He had his own foundation here in town, you see. People came from all over with their problems.”
“Sexual problems?”
“Not only those. Various maladies—”
“Nut cases. Lots of nut cases,” Olive interrupted.
“And he treated them all. We were chosen as Intimate Healers, so we worked mainly with the sexual difficulties. We helped many a man, and many a marriage.”
“Is that what you’d call a sex surrogate today?” he wondered aloud, intrigued.
“I prefer our term,” she replied a mite huffily.
He bit back a smile. He supposed there was snobbishness in every profession.
“Dr. Beaver was such a fine physician, he cured everyone, you know.”
An unladylike snort emerged from the saintly-looking woman with spun sugar hair. “Don’t be a fool, Lydia.” She turned to Joe and explained. “The foundation ran out of money so they told all the patients they were cured. They opened the doors of the sanitarium, released the patients and then closed the place permanently.”
Now he was interested. He suspected that long-empty sanitarium, and the acres of land it sat on, was the reason he was here.
“What happened to the--” he caught himself before he said ‘inmates’ and substituted “former patients.”
“Most of them still live around here,” the spun sugar haired woman said. “They’re all crazy as loons.”
“They were all cured by the good doctor,” the woman called Lydia insisted.
Olive sent him a sly smile. “She’s as crazy as the rest of them. Hell, we all are, except for Emily, and if you ask me, she’d have more fun if she was a bit more crazy.”
Oh, this was turning into a very interesting afternoon. Since the wiring was so old he couldn’t plug in his laptop upstairs, he’d anticipated being bored witless, but that big old cat had done him a favor.
“Cucumber sandwich?” Emily asked him. She didn’t look embarrassed, simply resigned. It must be hell living with a bunch of retired sex healers.
There were places in Manhattan where you lined up for afternoon tea to get surly waiters and be jammed together so tight you knew what brand of deodorant the person next to you used. Or didn’t.
This was much better. Not that he was a tea drinker, and it would take about a hundred and twenty of those doll-sized sandwiches to fill a man, but part of his object in coming to Beaverton was to gather information on the potential workforce for the new factory. It was obvious these women had lived here a long time and knew their town, so he could pump them for information w
hile sipping tea out of a cup that was a direct threat to his masculinity.
He was about to ask more about the esteemed Dr. Eager Beaver when a new distraction occurred. Two more old gals walked in. The first wore an ancient pink Chanel suit and a string of fat pearls he’d bet were real. Her purse and shoes matched. “I hope we’re not too late for tea,” she said in a cultured tone that sounded like Boston Brahmin. “Madame Dior and I suddenly decided we wanted one of your divine cakes, my dear.” She walked to Emily and they air kissed.
Madame Dior paused until the Chanel woman was well into the room before making her own entrance. And make an entrance she did. She swept in like a thirties actress onto the stage. Her short black hair bobbed as she walked, and she looked around with large, black-rimmed eyes. Her skin was white and her lipstick dark red. She wore black slacks and a silk blouse with abstract designs on it, and held a cigarette holder with a blue cocktail cigarette – unlit. The kind of cigarette holder that he’d only ever seen in old movies or at costume parties.
“Of course you’re not too late. Come in,” said Emily.
“Miss Trevellen, Madame Dior, I’d like to introduce Joe Montcrief.”
He stood, as he’d been taught to do years ago in prep school when a lady entered the room. It wasn’t the kind of thing you did these days, but with the over-seventy set it was still a popular move.
Miss Trevellen shook his hand and moved to the chair beside an étagère crammed with china and silver doodads that all looked as though they’d be at home in an antique store or museum.
“Wouldn’t you like to sit here, closer to Aunt Olive?” Emily said, offering the older woman a place on the red velvet settee.
“I’m fine here, dear. Thank you.”
“I am zo ‘appee to make your acquaintance,” said the French woman in a smoky voice, choosing the seat nearest his and accepting a teacup from Emily, who was once more in hostess mode.
“My pleasure,” he said. In fact, part of his pleasure was ruined because he doubted there’d be any more talk of intimate healers. However, the more old ladies he could interview, the more information he could gather on this town and its workforce. He was about to ask a leading question, when a slight movement caught his eye and he watched in astonishment as the ladylike Miss Trevellen, wearing pearls that had to be worth ten grand, slipped a little silver dish from the crowd of ornaments beside her and tucked it into her purse.
He glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed, but they were all talking, pouring tea, or choosing sandwiches.
Joe found himself in a dilemma. Did he point out that the old dear had pilfered from her hostess right before his eyes or did he keep his mouth shut?
He decided to keep his mouth shut when he caught sight of Emily, who’d paused in the middle of handing out tiny plates and tinier napkins and was gazing at Miss Trevellen with an expression of fond exasperation. He was fairly certain the old lady’s purse now bulged in a second place and that yet another of the knick-knacks was missing.
His gaze collided with Emily’s for an instant and as clearly as though she’d spoken, he got the message. Keep your mouth shut. He did his best to send back, I read you loud and clear. And his message had an addendum. I want you.
She must have understood the entirety for she nodded imperceptibly, then her chest huffed a little and her blue, blue eyes opened wide. He didn’t get, I want you, back. He read something in her eyes, though. Not indifference – more he had the impression that she was attracted to him and didn’t want to be.
Too bad. Maybe he could help her get over her reluctance. If he could spare the time from work.
Joe forced down three cups of tea as an excuse to stay; he wouldn’t have missed his afternoon for anything. Apart from the sexy Emily he enjoyed the entertaining older women. Emily managed to quell her aunts, to his sorrow, but Mme. Dior sat beside him and told him how he reminded her of a boy she once new in Nice. “Ee ad the same beautiful eyes, and ze body. Ah, you make me feel young again.”
His cell phone rang a couple of times, but he’d put it to vibrate and didn’t feel like plugging in to the real world. He was picking up enough useful information from the tea party that his time was far from wasted.
“Well,” Miss Trevellen said, looking to the French woman in a silent, shall we go? when the front door opened and shut with a bang.
Emily started to rise then sank back down when an angry female voice with a Southern lilt could be heard ranting. “You will not believe what those curs have done this time.” Mongrel curs?
“I told them, ‘This is the Beaverton Little Theatre Company, not Stratford on Avon,’ and those interfering Pyes can take their play and …” By this time the owner of the voice had appeared. She was a faded, skinny woman in a cotton flowered dress that went to the floor. On a hippy chick it would look stylish. The woman saw him and stopped. “Oh,” she said, and tilted her chin down so she could look at him through her eyelashes. Which she then batted. Unfortunately, at him. She fluttered her hand near her face and then giggled. “Well, I do declare, listen to me run on, and in front of company, too.”
Once more he stood, then took the small hand held out to him. “I’m Geraldine,” she said. She gazed expectantly at him as though she expected him to kiss her hand, but he shook it firmly instead. “Joe Montcrief.”
She sat down with a flutter of hands, lashes and flowered dress, taking the tea Emily handed her with a soft thank you.
“Are you a theatrical agent?” the woman asked him.
“No.”
“Oh. Well, that’s just as well. They won’t let me be Maria in this year’s musical. Terrea Pye got the part, and you know that’s only because she and her husband do everyone’s hair.”
“You would have been a wonderful Maria,” Betsy said. “It wasn’t right.”
“I have to be a sister,” the faded beauty said with a pout. “Can you imagine me? A nun?”
Olive guffawed, and it was an odd sound coming from such a dainty woman. “That’s why I decided to be in this play, too.”
“And me,” Olive said.
“Black is my color,” Madame Dior stated.
Miss Trevellen sighed softly and said she’d always wanted to be a nun. Joe wasn’t an every Sunday Catholic, but he felt that a woman who pilfered the silver during afternoon tea was not cut out to be a nun. Even a pretend one.
“I wouldn’t have even been in this silly play if it weren’t for the fun we girls have rehearsing in the attic. I don’t like practicing along with men.” She turned the word ‘men’ into two soft syllables and shot Joe another coquettish look from under her lashes. “Dr. Beaver always let the women and men practice separately. It’s been just like the old times.”
Ah, Joe thought. So the Beaverton Little Theatre Company was an offshoot of amateur theatricals in the loony bin. He’d have to get season’s tickets.
“In those days, I believe the men and women put on different plays and performed them for each other,” Emily said.
“Doesn’t matter.” Olive stated. “The play will flow seamlessly, you’ll see. You will come, won’t you Joe? It’s Friday night. You can go with Emily. She’s not in it.”
“If I’m still in town then, I’d love to come.” It would be good for him to see the community in action. Not to mention spend some time with his hostess, who must be single if the old gals were fixing her up so blatantly.
“Aunt Olive!” Emily said, clearly mortified to have been set up by the older woman.
“It’s settled then,” Olive said, blithely ignoring Emily. “If you ask me, you could both use some fun.”
Not long after that, the tea ladies took their leave. He felt like the groom in a reception line, as each took his hand and murmured pleasantries.
Betsy Carmichael told him he was a dear, sweet boy. Madame Dior clasped his hand tightly and told him to drop in and see her sometime. Geraldine Mullet kissed his cheek and while her lips were near his ear whispered, “Until Friday, then.�
� Miss Trevellen gave him her smooth, ladylike hand to shake and thanked him for the pleasure of his company at tea. Her face was delicately flushed as though she’d been for a brisk walk. Her bag bulged.
As far as he could tell, no money had changed hands to pay for the afternoon tea. What kind of way was that to run a business? And come to think of it, where were the other guests? The retired Intimate Healers lived here, and he doubted they were paying for room and board.
He had the sudden suspicion he was the only guest, which was tough for Emily and her business, but good news for the company that had sent him here.
When the three others had left, Emily began clearing away the dishes. The aunts made an effort to help, but she motioned them back in their chairs. “Your favorite show will be on soon. Relax.”
“Sixty Minutes?” he guessed.
“The Bachelor.”
So Joe surprised himself by picking up the heavy teapot and stacking a few plates.
“You don’t have to do that,” she protested.
He didn’t think he’d ever helped with dishes in a place where he was a paying guest, but then this wasn’t like anywhere he’d ever stayed. He wanted to spend a little more time in Emily’s company, and besides, he needed to report the theft he’d witnessed.
He followed the enticing sway of her apron and all the delectable parts of her that swayed along with it as she led him to her kitchen.
It was, he realized the minute he stepped through an oak swing door, exactly right for Emily. Old fashioned mixed with modern. The kitchen was huge, with a black and white tiled floor, old oak cabinets with glass fronts, and a bay window with a view of the B&B’s lush garden. In the bay was a round oak table and chairs that had obviously been there for a century. But the counters were granite, and the appliances stainless steel industrial.
“You must love cooking,” he said, looking around him.
“I do,” she said with a smile. “You shouldn’t help me, you’re a guest.”
“Yeah, well. I wanted to talk to you privately.”
She nodded. “About Miss Trevellen?”
