Full English

by Rachel Spangler

  “But?”

  “You really don’t have to do that.”

  “Actually, I sort of do. My family is having a reception for local artists, and it will be terribly boring and frumpy, and I’ll have such a hard time staying awake unless someone interesting comes along to keep me entertained.”

  “Then I know you have the wrong number,” Emma said, not sure she liked the sound of a formal invitation to a group event any more than she liked the idea of a private tour. “I’m always the least interesting person at any given event. I’d probably find the quietest corner and stare at pictures or books on the shelves until I could sneak out.”

  “But you wouldn’t here,” Victoria said confidently, “because after I made my obligatory opening speech and a quick walk around the other guests, I’d whisk you away on a tour of the castle, and I’d take you to see our extensive library.”

  “What makes you think a library is enough to make an avowed introvert willingly attend a reception full of strangers?”

  “I’ve seen Beauty and the Beast.”

  Emma’s resolve started to waver. Victoria was funny, and not at all as stuffy as she might expect from someone of her title. Still . . . strangers, and small talk, and finding a dress to wear, because surely women wore dresses to these things, didn’t they? She had no idea, which was another strong vote for declining.

  “It’s a big library.” Victoria pushed.

  “I use a lot of ebooks these days.”

  “Do your ebooks have those rolling ladders up the shelves?”

  “I have always wanted to use one of those,” Emma admitted.

  “Come on over then, a week from Friday. There’ll also be an open bar, for the sole purpose of getting people sloshed so they’ll open their pocketbooks and give generously to local arts initiatives.”

  “There’s the rub. I’m actually quite familiar with that genre of party.”

  “I bet you are,” Victoria said, a little cheekily.

  “You should’ve led with that, and I would’ve offered to send a check without your having to get me drunk.”

  “That’s all the work and none of the fun.”

  Emma grimaced as the sentiment sparked memories of Amalie, holding court in a New York gallery with a cosmo in one hand and the other on the waist of one of her workshop protégés. “Actually, being able to write checks to charities is the only enjoyable part for me. I don’t find the drinking or the socializing fun.”

  “I wasn’t implying those were the fun parts for you,” Victoria said smoothly. “I was referring to fun for me, in getting to hang out with you again, and I don’t get that if you mail in your donation.”

  Emma’s face flushed slightly at the flattery, and the war within her started again. “I don’t know.”

  “Listen,” Victoria said, “I’m an accomplished negotiator. I do this sort of thing a lot, and I usually do it pretty well, so I know you’re at least curious about the castle and the library.”

  “True.”

  “And you’ve already offered to make a donation, so it’s not the money holding you back.”

  “Right.”

  “And for my own pride, I’m going to assume your hesitation isn’t because you’ve developed some aversion to me personally.”

  “Not at all,” Emma said quickly. “I really am just firmly entrenched in my introversion.”

  “So, you don’t want to make small talk with people you don’t know, even for the half hour it takes for me to make my rounds,” Victoria concluded.

  “Exactly.”

  “Then you’ll bring a friend. I’ll make sure there’s a plus one on your invitation. You won’t have to even make eye contact with anyone you don’t know.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but before she could formulate the response, she remembered Brogan, her soft smile, the sea reflecting in her eyes, her hair stirring slightly on the breeze off the water. She glanced over at the small package of cookies on the table and thought about how much more substantial the gift would seem if it came with an invitation to a castle. They could make an evening of it.

  “Ms. Volant?” Victoria asked, “is this the sound of your resistance crumbling?”

  Emma smiled. The woman really was disarming. And she’d worked a lot harder than most would deem reasonable to get her to accept an already impressive invitation.

  “Shall I take that as a resignation and have our invitation, plus one, sent by Royal Mail? Mind you, Royal Mail isn’t a thing that’s open just to lords and ladies here. It’s what we call the regular post, open to even you commoners. No need to be impressed.”

  “All right, all right,” Emma relented. “Please send your gracious offer by totally normal Royal Mail.”

  Victoria sighed as if she’d been holding her breath, or at least a bit of tension at her suspense. “Well done, us. I promise you won’t regret it.”

  Emma couldn’t quite bring herself to the same certainty yet, but as she thanked her politely and ended the call, she managed to feel at least hopeful about an outing for the first time in ages.

  £ £ £

  Brogan was locking the door at the post office when she turned to see Emma strolling up the pavement from her cottage. She raised her hand in greeting and was rewarded by one of those smiles she wished she could spark more often.

  “Did you need something from the store?” Brogan called, as Emma got close enough to hear her.

  “No. Actually, I was trying to catch you between your many jobs.”

  The answer made her heart tap an irregular rhythm, and her brain had to remind it there were a million logical and platonic explanations for why Emma would want to talk to her.

  Emma held out a package of her favorite biscuits and said, “I got these for you. I know it’s not much. And you work in the store where I bought them, so you can probably make way better things at home, but it’s the only thing I could think of to buy for you to say thank you. I mean, I know it’s not enough for everything, the garden and sailing and driving and tea and cakes, and”— she sighed— “listening.”

  “It’s more than enough,” Brogan said quickly, touched by the gesture and the fact that Emma had cared enough to remember her favorite snack.

  “I would’ve made you dinner, but I value your life, so I set out with the intention of offering to buy you dinner, but I remembered you already work at the best restaurant in town. And you’re probably headed there now. I won’t keep you, but I—”

  “I’m not.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not going to the pub tonight,” Brogan said. “It’s Monday. We don’t serve food on Mondays until summer holidays.”

  “Oh.” Emma frowned. “I would offer to buy you dinner then, but I’m told the pub is closed tonight.”

  Brogan laughed at the completely endearing response. Her brain tried to remind her that thinking of Emma as endearing wasn’t much better than thinking of her as attractive, though she was certainly that, too, with her fair hair pulled back loosely at the base of her graceful neck.

  Brogan shook her head, refocusing on what Emma had actually said, and an idea occurred to her heart, then sprang from her mouth before her brain could comment. “I actually know a great place serving a very British special tonight, if you don’t mind trying something a little smaller in scale.”

  Emma’s blue eyes widened with interest. “Absolutely.”

  “I’m headed there now if you want to join me.”

  “I’m not dressed for anything formal.” Emma indicated her jeans and cozy Aran sweater.

  “It’s a very casual place.”

  Emma looked over her shoulder as if expecting some objection to arise from behind, but she smiled as she shrugged. “Do you have a thing for spontaneous outings?”

  Brogan grinned. “That depends. Do you have a problem with them?”

  “To be honest,” Emma said sheepishly, “I usually do, but you haven’t steered me wrong yet.”

  Brogan tucked the complime
nt away happily as she led them across the street and under an archway cut into the row houses.

  “I haven’t been this way yet,” Emma said, as she headed down a crooked alleyway.

  “Not much need to,” Brogan admitted, “unless you live down here or need an only slightly shorter path to the estuary.”

  “Not a prominent place for a restaurant,” Emma mused, as they neared the end of the path and slowed outside a blue door in another bank of connected houses.

  “No,” Brogan admitted, “it doesn’t do nearly enough paying business to make any money, but it’s got its charms.”

  She pushed open the door, revealing a small living room with a pair of overstuffed chairs and a threadbare love seat.

  “Brogan?” Emma asked from behind her. “I think you’ve stumbled into someone’s home.”

  “I have,” she said with a smile. “Thankfully, it’s my own.”

  “What? Why? I mean it’s lovely, but I thought—”

  “That you were going to get the best Monday night meal in the village?”

  Emma opened her mouth, then closed it so tightly her lips formed a thin line.

  Brogan felt a flash of guilt, followed quickly by a bout of insecurity. Why would someone like Emma want to eat a home-cooked meal in her tiny kitchen when she was probably used to Michelin-starred restaurants? Sure, she’d eaten nothing but tinned soups and scones since she’d arrived in England, but if she was getting her appetite back, that was a sign she was coming back into her old self, a self that would probably want much more than Brogan could offer in the way of accommodations or company. “I guess I should’ve mentioned that the place serving a great, authentic, British meal was my place.”

  “Yeah, you sort of left that out when I said I wanted to buy you dinner.”

  “I’d already planned the meal when Charlie called and said he wouldn’t be home until late, so I thought you might like his share, but I guess offering you my little brother’s castoff home cooking might not have actually been up to your usual standards, because why would it be?”

  “No,” Emma said quickly, “I just worry I inadvertently invited myself to dinner . . . again.”

  “Not at all. I’ve wanted to try this meal for a while but had no desire to eat alone.”

  Brogan proceeded into the house with a little more confidence now she was sure Emma’s hesitation stemmed from worries about being an imposition. She flipped on the oven and then turned to motion for Emma to join her in the kitchen. “Come on in. I’ve already prepped everything. I can throw everything together in no time.”

  She set to work quickly, both to prove her point and to give herself something to do that didn’t involve watching Emma inspect her home.

  She’d already cut the beef into single-serve portions and seared them before leaving for work so they’d be cool enough not to overcook in the oven. As Emma wandered around, taking in family photos and picking up books from end tables, Brogan began to sauté her pre-chopped mushrooms and garlic.

  “That smells amazing,” Emma said, peeking over her shoulder as soon as she dropped the mixture into a skillet on her gas hob.

  “Can’t go wrong with garlic,” Brogan said, pulling a tray of mixed vegetables from the fridge and drizzling them with olive oil before popping them into the oven.

  “Your place is cute.”

  “Thanks,” Brogan said, aware of how small it was compared to what Emma was used to.

  “It reminds me of my grandma’s.”

  She gave the mushrooms a good stir before taking a sheet of puff pastry and a few thin slices of Parma ham from the refrigerator. “Um, thanks again?”

  Emma laughed. “I didn’t mean it was old-ladyish. I meant lived-in, comfortable, cozy.”

  “Okay, in that case I suppose it is pretty homely.”

  Emma froze and quirked an eyebrow. “Does homely mean something different over here?”

  “I don’t know. What does it mean in America?”

  “Unattractive.”

  “Then yes,” Brogan said. “Here it means what you described: cozy, lived-in.”

  “Whew, okay. Americans would call that homey, but homely means ugly. Good to know for future conversations. If anyone ever calls my place homely, I shouldn’t get my feelings hurt.”

  “Not at all.” She rolled out the puff pastry thinly on her cutting board.

  “Not that anyone would call my place homely. I still have nothing but bare white walls and the same furniture the holiday renters used.”

  “You’ve got time,” Brogan said, even as she pushed back a worry that Emma wasn’t actually putting down roots as much as living a sort of extended holiday of her own.

  “This looks involved,” Emma said nervously, peeking over her shoulder once more. She was so close Brogan felt the heat from her body and caught the subtle scent of cocoa butter. Lotion? Shampoo? She closed her eyes, trying to isolate the smell over the aroma of the simmering food.

  “You’ve gone above four ingredients.” Emma’s voice near her ear brought her back into the moment.

  Brogan laughed nervously. “Is four the limit for casual food?”

  “Two is usually my limit. The only time I approach four is when I make a grilled cheese to go with my canned soup.”

  “Butter, cheese, bread, and soup,” Brogan counted, as she cut the puff pastry into eight equal rectangles and laid slices of the Parma ham on each one. “Yep, that’s four. Do you at least use some posh cheese?”

  “Never,” Emma proclaimed. “I told you, I’m an American suburbanite at heart. I may love a fancy Brie or chévre with my wine, but I take a gooey American on a grilled cheese.”

  Brogan scrunched up her nose. “Isn’t that stuff part plastic?”

  “Indeed,” Emma said, without a hint of defensiveness. “That’s what makes it melt evenly.”

  Brogan shrugged. “To each their own.”

  “Are you sure I can’t help with anything?” Emma asked, watching her top the ham with the individual cuts of beef.

  “I’m about done with this part,” she said, spooning mushrooms atop the meat, and wrapping each ensemble into a neat little parcel. “Actually, I’m quickly approaching the wine-drinking portion of the cooking process. You could choose a bottle from the rack on the back wall.”

  “I have to warn you, I don’t know much about wine,” Emma said as she perused the meager selection.

  “Good, then you won’t notice what shite wine Charlie and I drink. Mostly the five-quid variety from Aldi.”

  “Then we’re well matched.” Emma took a bottle of red off the rack as Brogan finished brushing a bit of melted butter on the pastry packs. “Where’s the bottle opener?”

  “Top drawer next to the sink.”

  Emma grabbed the corkscrew. “I may be without cooking skills, but I at least learned to uncork a merlot in my last relationship.”

  Of course she did. Brogan snorted at the comment. That ex sounded like a real gem. Jealous, bitter, adulterous, and she had Emma pour her drinks for her along the way. Brogan had to force her clenched jaw to relax as she added the main course to the oven along with the roasting vegetables.

  She straightened to see Emma extend a glass of wine in her direction and felt a twinge of guilt for enjoying the image so much. It had been a long time since she’d had a beautiful woman in her kitchen. Not that she wanted to keep her there, much less include her in any domestic labor. Brogan simply relished her company while she did her own cooking.

  Emma poured and raised her own glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers to you,” Brogan said with a little clink and a sip.

  “You did all that in fifteen minutes.” Emma sounded impressed.

  “And now we’ve got fifteen more before we need to do anything else.”

  “Would it be rude to ask for a tour?” Emma asked.

  “Not rude,” Brogan said uneasily, “but I’m afraid there’s not much to see.”

  “Show me anyway?”

  Brogan
nodded. Maybe she’d be better off to let Emma see everything right now. It might help cool some of the warmth spreading at her core.

  “Well, we’re in the kitchen.” Brogan turned back toward the front door. “And you saw the living room when you came in.”

  “Yes, very cozy.”

  “And there’s a laundry behind the stairs, which is nothing special,” she said as she climbed up the stairs with Emma close behind her.

  “Up here, we’ve got a loo.” She pushed open a door when she reached the landing to reveal a small room with a big, clawfoot tub.

  “Lovely,” Emma said, her voice going a little higher. “I’m a sucker for a hot bubble bath.”

  Brogan swallowed and tried not to tuck the information away anywhere she might access it later. “Moving on, there’s Charlie’s room. Probably smells like old socks and stale crisps.”

  Emma laughed. “You make him sound like such a frat boy.”

  “He’s not too bad, but he eats all my food.”

  “If you cook for him like you’re cooking for me, I can’t blame him.”

  “Fair enough.” Brogan pushed open the only other door on this level. “And this one’s mine.”

  “May I?” Emma asked with polite pleasure.

  “Sure, but I didn’t expect company today.” She shifted a little nervously. “I didn’t make the bed.”

  “Good. I would’ve thought less of you if you did,” Emma said, sliding past her into the room. “No one should be perfect all the time.”

  “No worries there,” Brogan mumbled, as she watched Emma turn from the double bed covered with a crumpled quilt her mother had made to a chest of drawers her father had finished, and a bedside table she’d built herself out of driftwood. Nothing was shabby, but neither was it chic, or even matched. Still, Emma smiled.

  “I love all the personal touches. None of this is cookie cutter, and oh . . .” She stopped mid-sentence as her eyes fell on the large dormer window.

  Brogan couldn’t see the view Emma had caught sight of between the steep rise of the walls on either side, but she knew it well enough to be pleased by her reaction. This time of day, the estuary would be cast in the orange glow from the sun sinking low over the hilly rise in the distance. The water of the river would gleam sapphire and silver in the fading light as the grasses along the bank basked in the last warmth of the day.