“You did it,” Brogan said, hearing the awe in her own voice.
“I did.” Emma grinned.
“You didn’t panic.”
“No.”
“You didn’t get overwhelmed when you stopped.”
“Neither did you.”
“I didn’t even have to tell you how,” Brogan said. “That one was all you.”
“You kept me calm,” Emma said, eyes still pinned to the road.
“But you did the work.”
Emma’s grin grew, and Brogan’s heart swelled at the return of the expression she’d longed to see.
“Where to next?” Emma asked, hope balancing out some of the fear in her voice.
“Take your next right.”
“But stay left,” Emma warned herself. And she did, followed by another left, and then a bigger hill that required her to downshift.
Brogan encouraged her with a few reminders of “more revs,” but little else. Soon they were practically zipping through the countryside, from one farm road to another, and as Emma soared over each new hill, Brogan’s heart soared along with her. She felt an inordinate amount of pride, but not in her own teaching, or even in Emma’s driving. She’d meant what she’d said. She’d never doubted Emma’s practical capabilities, but she had had more than a solid dose of fear about her emotional fortitude. She shouldn’t have. Emma faced her fears, and with very little encouragement she’d conquered them. Now that she knew she could do it in this area, what other doors would she see as open for herself?
Chapter Eight
“We’re coming up on a town,” Emma said as she saw the sign for some place called Warkworth.
“We are. It’s a small one.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready for a town of any size.” She’d done better than she’d expected, infinitely so, but her shoulders were getting sore from the tension of keeping a death grip on the steering wheel and the mental fatigue from concentrating harder than she had in months. Driving for fifteen minutes on country lanes might not have been much to most people, but it had taken a lot out of her and given her a lot to process in return. Still, she worried for a second Brogan might protest or think less of her for not charging into the nearest village.
Instead she said, “No need to go into Warkworth in a car. I always park on a side street before we get to the bridge into town.”
“Why?” Emma asked.
“It’s a nice walk across the river and through the gates of the old town wall.”
She shook her head, trying not to get distracted by such a pretty image or the foreign concepts of town walls and gates. “I mean, why are we getting out in Warkworth?”
“It’s tea time, plus you’ve earned a treat,” Brogan said casually. “And I know the perfect place.”
“We have a car full of groceries.”
“I didn’t exactly plan the outing. We’re being spontaneous, but you sprang for the good cooler bags, so I can’t imagine anything will spoil in an hour. Unless you don’t want to try the best scones in all of the English borders.”
Emma’s stomach growled its response, and she smiled weakly. She hadn’t planned on a dinner out. She still had bits of dirt on the knees of her jeans, and her coat was covering a baggy, long-sleeved T-shirt, but Brogan had been so nice to her, and she did feel a little bit like celebrating her accomplishment. Plus, scones. So, feeling a little bit like a puppy whose handler had said “treat,” she eased the car to the side of the road where Brogan indicated, and let the engine clatter from second gear to dead. “Oops.”
“No ‘oops,’” Brogan said cheerfully. “You’re done, and you did brilliant.”
She smiled as she exited the car in spite of her suspicion Brogan was overstating her enthusiasm, but before she could get too down on herself, they walked around a bank of trees and found themselves standing at a river’s edge. Across the water, a stone wall encircled thickly packed houses and shops huddled close in the shadow of an ancient castle. “Wow.”
“See,” Brogan said, as she started across the bridge, “not a bad stroll.”
Emma was too busy taking in the sights to comment again on Brogan’s gift for understatement. They crossed a stone bridge and entered the town through an archway in the outer wall. She glanced up, half expecting to see archers standing guard overhead, or at least the spikes of an iron gate that could slam down at any moment. She found neither, but she didn’t mind, as her imagination had already painted a vivid picture of what the entrance would’ve looked like a thousand years earlier. She could hear the mewls of animals on their way to market, and the crunch of wooden wheels against dirty cobblestones. She felt the press of bodies, the brush of skirts, the jostle of carts squeezing through narrow streets with two-story stone houses lining every side.
“Here’s the tea house,” Brogan said, and Emma had to blink a few times in order to see her pointing to a doorway in the row house to their right. Brogan eyed her curiously, her expression bemused, as Emma continued the disorienting mental return to their modern reality. “Unless, of course, you’d rather go somewhere else.”
“No.” Emma shook her head, unable to admit she had no interest in another place, so much as another time. Could she explain that without seeming crazy? Plus, Amalie had always gotten so annoyed with her daydreams. She didn’t want to offend Brogan by admitting she’d forgotten she was even there for a moment. “This is fine.”
A hostess met them at the door and took their coats, leaving Emma a little self-conscious about her attire, but as they entered the main dining room, she found it more similar to a large living room than a formal restaurant. Distressed wooden tables were pushed to the sides to make use of long, low benches along the wall. Every seat was stacked high with an array of throw pillows, and a large stone and cast-iron fireplace radiated warmth all the way across the room. “When I said ‘fine,’ I had no idea it was actually perfect.”
Brogan beamed. “I was worried you’d expect a tea room to be more posh.”
“I did,” Emma admitted, “which is why I hesitated. If you’d told me we were going to drink tea in my grandmother’s living room, I would’ve begged you to take me there immediately.”
“Can I bring you some menus?” a waitress asked.
“I want the scones,” Emma blurted, then covered her mouth, causing Brogan to laugh.
“Just scones or a full afternoon tea?” the waitress asked.
“Two afternoon teas.” Brogan took charge. “One fruit scone, one cheese scone.”
“And your sponges?”
“Lemon courgette and a Victoria, please.”
The waitress nodded.
“And can you bring us a mix for the sandwiches?” Brogan asked.
“Of course,” the waitress said with a nod and turned to go.
“That sounds like a lot of food,” Emma whispered.
“It is,” Brogan agreed, taking a chair from a small table and arranging the cushions to her liking.
Emma did the same, ensconcing herself in the corner of a church pew-style bench. Her voice low, she added, “I don’t eat a lot of food.”
“It’s okay. I do.”
Emma smiled, not surprised by the fact or the amiable way Brogan put her at ease.
The tea came in individual pots with plain white cups and saucers, accompanied by tiny pitchers of milk and lidded cups full of sugar cubes. The entire setup reminded her of playing tea as a girl, only this time she didn’t have to wear a dress or a bonnet or sit up straight and cross her legs at the ankles.
“Are you comfortable?” Brogan asked.
“Yes.” The answer was perhaps too simple. What she should’ve said but didn’t, for fear of gushing, was the pillows, the tea, the warmth of the crackling fire, and most of all the company all combined to make her more comfortable than she’d been in ages. “You’ve got a talent for that.”
“What?”
“Making people comfortable.”
Brogan shook her head. “I’m not sure you wou
ld’ve said so half an hour ago when I made you drive the car.”
Emma laughed, really laughed, for at least the second time in as many hours.
“Or when I dragged you out on the boat and made you take the tiller.”
“No,” she admitted. “I felt a certain amount of discomfort with assuming that task.”
“And let’s not forget the night we met and made each other scream like schoolchildren in a haunted house.”
“Well, all right then.” Tears sprang to Emma’s eyes, from laughter now. She’d shed so many of them over the last few months, and yet never for this reason. “You’re right. You make me terribly uncomfortable on a regular basis. I must be a glutton for punishment. Otherwise, I wouldn’t keep coming back for more.”
Brogan smiled and glanced over her shoulder at the waitress approaching with two contraptions Emma couldn’t quite process until they were set on the table in front of her. Each one consisted of a silver frame holding three plates stacked at equal intervals to create a self-supporting tower of food. The lower level held finger sandwiches sliced into strips with the crusts cut off. The middle tier supported a generous slice of sponge cake with a layer of thick red jam and decadent cream icing. On top of the whole thing sat a plate of her beloved scones next to a dish overflowing with clotted cream and an individual jar of jam.
Emma’s jaw dropped, but her mouth also started to water, and she worried she might actually drool on the table if she didn’t pull herself together immediately, so she said the only words she could manage in the moment. “Thank you.”
Brogan chuckled and shook her head, but Emma reached across the table to squeeze her hand. “I mean it. Thank you for the driving, and the sailing, and shopping, and for this three-story tower of heaven. I don’t think I’ve done anything to deserve any—”
“Hey,” Brogan whispered, her voice a little raspy, “you need to let go of this ‘deserving’ notion.”
She shook her head. “I know. You’re a nice person, but it’s rare for me to meet someone who doesn’t want something from me.”
“Then I’m glad you moved across an ocean to get away from them all.” The bite was back in Brogan’s voice, accompanied by storm clouds in her green eyes. “I know it took a lot of bravery to—”
“It didn’t.”
“What?” Brogan sat back, breaking the connection between them and letting the coldness seep into Emma again.
“I’m not brave.”
“But you—”
Emma held up her hand. “—moved to a place where I didn’t know anyone, yes. People keep pointing that out as some sort of example of my fortitude, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. I didn’t immigrate in search of adventure. I ran away from home because I was scared and lost and ashamed. I crossed an ocean to escape my humiliation and the fear that even after being made a fool of by the person I trusted most, if given the chance, I might fall on my knees and beg her to lie to me a little longer.”
Brogan stared at her, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, probably with embarrassment at the outburst.
“Oh, and I hid.” She didn’t see the point in holding back now. Might as well be out with the whole truth. “I went to a place where I didn’t know a soul because I wanted to hide from human contact and become a hermit, alone with my writing and a set of memories that belonged to someone else in a different time.”
They stared at each other until Emma couldn’t take it anymore, and she turned her attention back to the food, which didn’t quite have the same appeal as before. Still, she didn’t know what else to do, so she snatched a scone from her food tower and took a bite without even adding the cream. It melted in her mouth, warm and soft with a hint of . . . cheddar?
“Is there cheese in this scone?” she asked, her mouth still half full.
Brogan laughed a little harder than the question warranted, or maybe it was the absurd non sequitur, or perhaps her vast relief at being let off the hook from the social awkwardness sparked by Emma’s wildly emotional outburst simply came out in the form of laughter. Either way, they were back on neutral ground, and Emma had found out cheese scones were a thing, so she couldn’t feel any great regret in the moment.
£ £ £
Brogan couldn’t believe they’d rebounded. Fifteen minutes ago, she’d absolutely frozen with the fear that she’d inadvertently driven a knife into Emma’s only partially healed heart. The horror and guilt felt like some sort of stake to her own chest, almost as though she’d committed a conversational murder-suicide. And now, Emma sat across from her, calmly polishing off her second salmon-and-cream-cheese finger sandwich.
Brogan wasn’t sure her ticker could take any more ups and downs of that magnitude. She tried to remind herself this was why she didn’t bring up serious topics with the women she dated. Not that she and Emma were on a date, but apparently similar principles applied. Movies, shopping, the weather, local attractions, careers, or services rendered, either in the personal or business sense, were all safe topics. Families, religion, money, exes, secret heartbreak, hidden fears, and darkest yearnings were on the long list of things she couldn’t handle. And it wasn’t like she didn’t want to. In the moment when Emma’s beautiful face had contorted with pain and her voice had cracked on the word “humiliation,” Brogan would’ve gladly stuck her hand into the nearby fire to make her smile again. She might have sold a kidney to be the one to soothe those insecurities, or committed murder— not the conversational kind, but the actual cold-blooded variety— if she’d been within a continent of the person who’d hurt Emma.
And yet, she did nothing. She was not prepared. She was not capable of doing anything but silently gaping at her until Emma soothed herself with a garden-variety cheese scone. If pressed, she’d have to admit the vast swing left her questioning Emma’s emotional stability for a moment, but as the woman across from her regained her composure, Brogan suspected she’d simply learned a great deal of self-control over many months of hiding the extent of her pain from others. If hurt like that simmered constantly beneath the surface, no wonder Emma had lost so much weight. She likely spent a great deal of energy trying to function under the weight of it all.
Brogan didn’t have that kind of strength. Another reason to steer clear of serious relationships. She didn’t share Emma’s grace or poise or fortitude. She was a baby every time she got a cold or missed a meal. How would she be able to stomach complete devastation at the hands of someone she loved?
No, it was much better to stick to scones.
“This cake is amazing,” Emma said, some of the color returning to her cheeks as she took another large bite.
“It’s called a Victoria sponge,” Brogan explained.
“After Queen Victoria?”
“I’m not sure she invented it personally, but yes, probably dates back to her reign, which I like to think of as a mix of subjecting foreign nations to colonial rule and creating new confectionary delights.”
“So, a real mixed bag, then. Probably all comes out in the wash.”
Brogan snorted and watched Emma manage to shove a rather large cut of sponge into her delicate frame. If she continued to add baked goods to the growing repertoire of foods she could stomach, she might not have such a slender frame much longer, though she had a long way to go before she’d get to anything approaching thick. Her jeans still hung a bit too loosely, and hints of collarbones still showed through her long-sleeved T-shirt, but her face wasn’t as wan as it’d been weeks ago. Her eyes, still the palest of blues, weren’t encircled in dark shadows anymore, either, and her high cheekbones were not quite as pronounced.
“I haven’t eaten like this since,” she sighed, “I don’t know when.”
“I can’t say that I eat like this often,” Brogan admitted.
“You mean British folks don’t stuff themselves with cake towers and tea every night?”
“Sadly, no. This is likely more stereotypically British than I’ve been in a year.”
“I’m honored
to share the moment. I’ve mostly been forcing down the occasional bowl of soup from a can.”
Brogan grimaced. “Because you’ve had no appetite, or because Americans really do rely on processed food?”
“Both,” Emma said, without a hint of defensiveness. “I mean, I don’t want to throw all Americans under the bus. There’s been a resurgence of farm-to-table foods, but sadly you have to be able to cook in order to take part, and as a child of the ’80s, I never learned to do much more than microwave or reheat. As an adult, I’ve traveled a lot and eaten out too often to make the effort feel worthwhile.”
“I’d be happy to teach you a few basics, but in the meantime, I work at the pub several nights a week. I can see to it you get a decent meal.”
“Do you cook there?”
“Most nights I’m behind the bar, but if we’re slow or short-staffed, I pop into the kitchen. I can do a steak with roasted potatoes or bangers and mash as well as the next person. They aren’t complicated.”
“That’s a relative assessment. I wouldn’t be likely to undertake either. Where did you learn?”
“My mum,” Brogan said, a hint of pride seeping in. “She can cook anything, and in quantities to feed an army.”
“With eight kids, I suppose she’d have to.”
“Right?” Brogan laughed. “Cooking was likely a skill born out of necessity for her, and I know it was for me. When you’re a middle child with four more that come after, you have to learn to help get the food on the table or learn to wait your turn. I was never much good at patience, so I got put to work earlier than some of the others.”
“What’s the age difference between you all?”
“Siobhán’s the oldest. She’s six years ahead of me and a full sixteen ahead of Charlie, who’s the baby.”
“I don’t think I’ve met either of them.”
“You’ll not likely see Siobhán. She lives outside Belfast, and she’s got two teenage boys with busy lives, but Charlie’s been home from uni for almost two years. He lives with me and doesn’t find much to do during the winters with his fancy degree in recreation sciences or something like that. I’m sure you’ll run into him eventually.”
Full English Page 13
