by Vicki Delany
“Are you going to abandon the gardens, then?” I asked. “I know they’re an incredible amount of work, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. Some garden clubs stay here just to spend time in them.”
“Gerald has a nephew, newly arrived from England, prepared to take on the job.”
“Does this English nephew know one end of a rake from the other?”
“He is, according to Gerald, a professional horticulturalist.”
“I wouldn’t read too much into that,” I said. “Gerald has been known to embellish the truth on occasion.”
“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–t
ype clothes wealthy New Englanders wore on vacation. He had a deep tan, his thick gray hair was expensively cut, and his nails manicured.
“Please calm down, madam,” he was saying as I ran up.
I could have told him that was a mistake.
“Calm down!” Rose waved her cane with renewed vigor. “Don’t you give me that cheek, you patronizing little twit. I’ll calm down when you’ve taken your ridiculous plan and driven away.”
Éclair sniffed at the men’s pant legs. They ignored her.
Three vehicles were parked in the weed-choked driveway at the side of the neighbor’s house: a gleaming blue Audi, a sleek Lexus SUV, and a black Toyota Camry. The house itself could be used for a Halloween display. The windows were covered in plywood; the Victorian gingerbread trim ripped and sagging, the paint coming off in strips; some of the gutters threatened to crash to the ground; and weeds invaded the cracks in the porch and foundations of the house. A privet hedge lined most of the property line, keeping the house out of view of many of the rooms in Victoria-on-Sea. The hedge was neat and trimmed on one side, a ragged mess on the other.
The hedge ended close to where the land dropped to the beach as well as at the point farther toward the road where the two driveways almost touched. Grass as lush and well cut as could be seen on a golf course was on our side; the weeds and beach grasses on the other were as high as the men’s knees.
The weeds reached my grandmother’s thighs. Meaning she was on their property.
“What seems to be the problem here?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light and friendly.
“Allow me to handle this, Lily,” my grandmother said.
One of the men held his hand out to me. “You were in the tearoom yesterday. Sorry we didn’t get a chance to chat. I’m Jack Ford.”
I took his hand in mine. His grip was strong, too strong, as though he was engaged in some sort of dominance display. He held my hand a fraction of a second too long as he stared into my face in a way that made me feel uncomfortable. I pulled my hand free. “Lily Roberts. This lady is my grandmother. What’s going on here?”
“You need to take your grandmother home,” the third man said.
Rose drew herself up to her full five feet, two inches. “I am not a dog nor a small child, to be taken home so the adults can talk in peace.”
“Peace,” the third man said, “would be nice.”
Bored with the lack of attention she was getting, Éclair wandered off to sniff at her surroundings.
“The issue of this property’ll be coming to council shortly,” Jack said. “I wanted to have another look at it. I haven’t come to any final decisions regarding putting an offer in on it yet.”
Rose harrumphed. She pointed a finger at Roy Gleeson. “Paid you off, has he?”
Roy stiffened. “That’s an insulting accusation. I’m acting strictly in the best interests of the people of North Augusta. It is not in anyone’s interest if this property continues to remain an eyesore. Not to mention dangerous.”
I couldn’t help but glance at one of the gutters, swinging cheerfully in the breeze. “It doesn’t have to be rezoned to be sold. Perhaps someone would like to buy it as it is. They could fix it up to be a nice house again.”
“Are you interested in purchasing it, miss?” the third man asked.
“Me? No. I don’t want anything that big, and I couldn’t afford it even if I did.”
“Which is exactly my problem,” he said. “No one wants a house that big, certainly not one that needs work before it can be inhabitable. I’m Lincoln Goodwill. This is my property. Your grandmother is trespassing, and I have asked her to leave.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Rose said. “Selling off your family’s land to a common hotel chain. What would your ancestors have to say about that?”
Lincoln turned around. He studied the house, slowly crumbling into the sandy soil, the gardens, nothing but tough weeds, wild beach grasses, and stunted bushes. “I doubt my ancestors would like to see it drop off the cliff.”
“If the property’s developed to its full potential,” Jack Ford said, “the benefits to the entire community will be enormous. That includes your B & B and charming little teahouse.”
Patronizing twit, indeed.
“This is a delicate stretch of oceanfront environment,” Rose said. “The cliffs are fragile. Birds nest there and in the trees surrounding.”
“The town will take all of that into consideration when . . . I mean if . . . we decide to rezone,” Roy said.
“You’ve obviously already made up your mind,” Rose said.
“Nothing to decide,” he said. “The rezoning is in everyone’s interest. Almost everyone.”
“If you’ll excuse us. I’m a busy man.” Jack turned to the others. “Let’s have a closer look at these cliffs. We’ll need to take their fragility into account.”
“I’m thinking the clubhouse could go there,” Lincoln said. “Nice view out to sea.”
“Clubhouse!” Rose yelled.
Jack lost his patience, and the fake neighborly smile was instantly replaced by something very nasty indeed. “Mrs. Campbell, your opposition to this project is indefensible. You can’t expect to live in solitary splendor the remainder of your days.”
“I see no reason why not,” Rose replied.
“Your neighboring landowner disagrees.”
Rose waved her cane in the developer’s face. “This project will go ahead over my dead body.”
“Don’t tempt us,” Lincoln muttered. Jack laughed.
“Watch it,” I said.
Startled by my tone, Éclair lifted her head and barked. Lincoln had the grace to flush and duck his head.
“Come on, gentlemen,” Roy said. “We can’t stand around chatting all day. We’ve all got work to get back to.”
“I suggest you don’t make idle threats, Mrs. Campbell,” Jack said. “That cane can be turned into a weapon.”
“I assure you,” Rose replied, “I never make idle threats. If not my dead body, perhaps someone else’s.”
I touched her arm. “This has gone far enough, Rose. Let’s go back to the house.”
“I’m not moving.” She planted her cane and her feet firmly among the long grasses and the weeds.
“You’re trespassing,” Jack said. “If you don’t leave, Mr. Goodwill is within his rights to call the police and have you removed.”
“I don’t want any trouble,” Lincoln Goodwill mumbled.
“Whether you want trouble or not, you’ve got it,” Rose said. “Trouble and more, if you go ahead with this project.”
“The project isn’t up to me,” he said. “I don’t care what anyone does with the property once they own it. All I want is to sell this eyesore my father saddled me with. No one in our family has come here for years, but my father had sentimental reasons for keeping it. And so he kept paying the property taxes on it. I don’t want it, and I can’t afford to repair it. Mr. Ford here”—he nodded toward the big man—“is considering buying it as it is. A win-win. The entire community will benefit—”
“It is not a win-win for me,” Rose said. “I will not benefit.”
“Please, Rose. This isn’t doing anyone any good.” I took her free arm and tucked it into mine. “Let’s go home. Maybe you can start making some phone calls. Ask the neighbors for their support at town council.”
“Neighbors. That’s the entire point. I don’t have any neighbors. And I don’t want any. Much less a golf course! If I find one golf ball on my property, or a single spare nail, I’m calling the police.”
She wrenched her arm out of mine, spun on her heel, and marched away, shouting over her shoulder, “Mark my words! You haven’t heard the last of this! I will stop this project. One way or another.”
I called to Éclair and started after Rose.
“I don’t want any trouble,” Lincoln repeated to his companions.
“Don’t worry about that one,” Jack said. “She’s nuttier tha
n an English fruitcake. And she’ll crumble like one.”
I decided it would be best not to mention that English fruitcake does not traditionally contain nuts. Or that my grandmother never crumbled in the face of opposition.
Chapter 4
I made the mistake of trying to argue with Rose. “The property is a shambles. The house looks like the set of Night of the Living Dead. Is a conference hotel and golf course really going to be so bad?”
She glared at me. “I came to Cape Cod in search of peace and quiet for my declining years. I am not going to have dump trucks and jackhammers breaking the silence at all hours of the day and night, and then corrupt politicians and crooked businessmen in ghastly pastel trousers and checked shirts yelling, ‘Fore,’ and knocking my planters over with their golf balls. I will stop this development, Lily.”
“Plenty of nice people golf, you know.”
“I am making a point, Lily.”
“So am I. If you want peace and quiet in your declining years, as you call them, going up against town hall isn’t a good way to go about it. I doubt you’ll get much support, if any, when the vote comes up to change the zoning. The project will bring jobs to the area, and it won’t ruin the view of anyone except you—us. You might even benefit from overflow business from the hotel. The tearoom will.”
“Whose side are you on, Lily?”
“I’m on your side, Rose. In everything. And because I’m on your side, I’m asking you to face facts.”
She harrumphed. No one but my grandmother could put so much disapproval into a single sound.
We turned at the beep of a horn. A dusty red car was turning off the main road. Cheryl tooted again and waved.
“Time to go to work.” I was still holding my coffee mug and uneaten muffin. So much for a relaxing break before plunging into a day in the kitchen.
