A Bodkin for the Bride

by Patrice Greenwood

  “Yes, we do,” I said, giving in. “Figure out what we can afford and give her a budget. Send her the details about the Halloween spirit tour and tea combos, too. Did I forward that to you?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll do it now.”

  “What about December? Are we going to have a holiday special?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll think about it. We can start with something generic, like ‘Celebrate the holidays,’ blah, blah, blah.”

  “OK.”

  “And Kris—”

  She paused in the doorway, stunning, as always. Her eyes looked almost violet. A trick of her clothing.

  “Thank you.”

  A corner of her mouth curved upward. “I know you don’t like dealing with ads.”

  “That, my dear, is an understatement.”

  She grinned and retreated to her office. I hunted through my correspondence with Willow and collected the details for the tea tour combo—there had to be a more graceful name—and emailed it all to Kris. That done, I looked through my email and messages and dealt with a couple of other tasks. Nothing from Tony.

  Looking back at the candle flame, I finished the last of my tea, then got up. I made certain the candle was away from anything flammable, left my teacup on the credenza, and went back downstairs.

  Rosa and Dee were putting the finishing touches on the alcoves. China and silver gleamed on the low tables, and white linens blossomed at each place setting. Rosa had found a book about folding napkins a couple of weeks before, and the servers had been playing with different styles from it. Today the napkins were rosettes, nestled in the teacups.

  I poked my head into the kitchen. Not a petit four in sight. Ramon had moved on to making cucumber sandwiches, and Julio was putting trays of scones into the oven. I glanced at the clock: almost ten. We’d be open in half an hour.

  Nat had arrived, wearing a blue and green flowered dress. She looked up from helping Dee tidy the displays in the gift shop, and greeted me with a smile. “You look lovely, dear! When is your party?”

  “It’s Tony’s party, not mine. Two o’clock.”

  “It’ll be splendid.”

  “I hope so.”

  I had seated us in the Jonquil alcove, thinking Tony would prefer to have a view of the street. There was a party booked there for 11:30, which should leave plenty of time to reset the alcove for the Aragóns.

  The thought came to me that I didn’t know whether Tony’s grandmother was an Aragón or a maternal grandmother. The fact that she was coming with Tony’s mother implied the latter. Mrs. Aragón was a hairdresser, I knew. Tony had never mentioned his father. That was the sum total of what I knew about his parentage, other than the fact that his grandparents (maternal? I wasn’t sure) had lost their ancestral home because of their inability to pay Santa Fe’s steep property taxes.

  Anxiety threatened; I fought it by distracting myself, making another round of the parlors and visiting the kitchen once more. Julio handed me a small plate bearing six perfect fresh raspberries.

  “Go have a cup of tea,” he said. “Everything’s fine. Looks like the meringues are going to work.”

  “Oh, good. Thank you. Hic.”

  He nodded, then tilted his head. “You gonna see a doctor about that, boss?”

  “I have an appointment next week.”

  I got out of his way, snagged a cup of tea from the servers’ pot because the tea upstairs would be cold, and went up to my office to give the raspberries due attention. They were my favorite fruit, and I ate them one at a time, savoring their sweetness and the sensual texture of the seeds.

  When they were gone, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I was not much given to prayer, but I made a silent wish that all would go well with Tony’s family. I sat still, with the ghost of raspberries on my tongue, picturing a happy meeting, until I hiccuped.

  Opening my eyes, I reached for my cell phone. No answer from Tony. The time showed 10:35. We were open.

  I went back downstairs and made an effort to keep myself busy. There was plenty to do: helping out in the gift shop and the butler’s pantry, supporting the servers, greeting guests. At 1:45 I darted up to my suite to touch up my hair and makeup. As I was coming down the stairs, I met the Bird Woman.

  She was headed for the dining parlor, burdened with her gigantic purse and a large orange-and-pink gift bag, leading a handful of her friends. It was not a Red Hat day; instead perched atop her head was a confection of white gauze, silver ribbon, and pale yellow feathers that was rather too ethereal for her yellow-and-white polka dot dress. A feathery shawl draped over her elbows, and her hands were encased in crocheted gloves. Combined with her bright, bird-like eyes, the ensemble reminded me forcibly of a cockatiel.

  “What a magnificent hat,” was all I could think to say.

  She beamed. “I just got it. I found this great website, Victorian Fantasies. You should check it out.”

  “I will.” I stepped toward the dining parlor, encouraging her to follow so that her party wouldn’t block the hallway. “Are you ladies celebrating something special today?”

  “It’s Sally’s birthday,” said the Bird Woman, turning to grin at one of her friends, a shy-looking woman wearing a lime-green cloche hat over her short gray curls.

  I smiled. “Happy Birthday, then, and many happy returns.”

  “See? I told you she’s got a fancy way with words,” said the Bird Woman. She turned to me. “Hey, you find any more deaders?”

  "No,” I said firmly, then hiccuped.

  We were at the door to the parlor. I invited them to go in with a gesture, then escaped through the pantry to the kitchen, biting back my annoyance. I counted to ten before speaking.

  “Julio? The party in the dining parlor is celebrating a birthday.”

  “Yeah, they ordered a cake. It’s ready.”

  “Send them something special, if there’s anything they ha—hic—haven’t ordered.”

  “Will do.”

  “Thank you.”

  I blinked, trying to recover my composure. The Bird Woman had an uncanny ability to rattle me, and not just by mentioning corpses.

  I looked at the kitchen clock. Ten minutes to two. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, I headed back out to the hallway. Dee was just leaving the pantry carrying a tray of teapots; she glanced at me as she crossed to the dining parlor. I gave her a nod, then continued toward the front of the tearoom, reminding myself to smile.

  Iz was leading a nicely-dressed blonde couple into the parlor as I headed for the gift shop. The gentleman, dapper in a linen suit, paused.

  “Ellen?”

  I turned and found myself face to face with Loren Jackson. I’d never seen him dressed up. His well-tailored suit showed off trim shoulders I’d only partly been aware of, and his soft green necktie was perfectly knotted. A familiar, woodsy fragrance teased the edge of my awareness. A smile lit his face, and my stomach surprised me by tightening.

  “M-may I introduce my sister?” he asked. “Shelly, this is the owner of the tearoom, Ellen Rosings.”

  I turned to her with an automatic smile. She was as fair as her brother, pale blond hair clustering around her face in soft curls. Her periwinkle dress made her blue eyes seem unusually large.

  “How do you do?” I said, offering to shake hands. “Welcome to the Wisteria Tearoom.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled, a little shyly. “When I heard Loren had been here I made him bring me. I’ve been curious.”

  “And I wanted to come as a patron,” Loren added, a bit hastily. “I’ve admired the building since I first saw it, and I—I wanted to spend some time here.”

  Shelly turned an inquiring look on him. “I thought she was a friend of yours.”

  “Actually, she’s a client,” he said.

  “Well, you certainly chose a beautiful day to vi—hic—visit.” I glanced at Iz with a slight nod. “I hope you have a lovely tea.”

  Iz stepped into the main parlor, guiding
them toward the Rose alcove. Loren paused, gazing at me with an expression of concern.

  Yes, I still have the hiccups.

  I managed a smile, then turned to the gift shop, suppressing dismay. Why had Loren chosen to bring his sister here today, of all days? They’d be within earshot of me and the Aragóns.

  Not that I thought they would eavesdrop. What did it matter?

  I needed to sort my thoughts. Hyacinth was unoccupied; I slipped into the alcove and sat in a plush chair, trying to understand my reaction to the Jacksons. I hadn’t expected to see Loren, but surprise alone couldn’t account for the way their appearance had thrown me off balance.

  Was it concern that Loren would speak of things I’d told him in confidence? No. I trusted him.

  I thought of the Aragóns, and the reason clicked into focus. I was worried that Tony would be jealous.

  Absurd. I had seen Loren only on a professional basis. I’d gone to him for counseling. There was no reason at all for Tony to be jealous.

  Except, perhaps, the warmth in Loren’s eyes.

  Oh, I needed to figure that out...and figure out how I felt about it...and I didn’t have time.

  I checked my watch. Almost two.

  Later. I’d deal with it later. Loren and his sister would be settled by now. I’d just focus all my attention on Tony and his elders, and all would be well.

  I rose, smoothed my dress, and stepped out into the gift shop just as the bells on the front door tinkled. A pretty Hispanic woman stepped into the hallway and held the door open for two more ladies, both older than she. One was middle-aged, her glossy hair looking fresh from the beautician’s hands. She assisted the third, whose equally-styled silver hair set off a pair of deep-set, rather fierce eyes. This lady leaned on an aluminum walker and took tiny shuffling steps, pausing to lift her feet over the threshold with great care. They all wore nice dresses and modest jewelry.

  Nat was helping a customer, and the servers were all elsewhere. I stepped forward.

  “Good afternoon,” I said, smiling. “How may I help you?”

  The youngest woman looked at me, hesitating briefly before speaking. “We have a reservation. Aragón.”

  “Oh!” I looked from her to the other two ladies. “We weren’t expecting three. That is—hic—”

  “My brother was supposed to be here, but he had to work.”

  Disappointment and realization washed through me together. At least Tony had made arrangements for his family to keep their reservation.

  “Oh, I see. I’m Ellen Rosings,” I explained, offering a hand.

  The youngest woman shook it in a feather-light grasp. She was a few years younger than I, and seemed a bit tense. “I’m Angela, Tony’s sister.”

  “I’m delighted to meet you.” I smiled, turning to the others. “And you must be Tony’s mother and grandmother.”

  Angela hastened to introduce me to her mother, Dolores, and her grandmother, Theresa. A faint aura of cigarette smoke clung to them; I remembered that Tony had said his grandmother smoked. I welcomed them and led them to the Jonquil alcove. As Dolores was settling her mother in an emerald green wing chair, I spoke softly to Angela.

  “I was going to join you, but—”

  “Oh, please don’t go away. Tony said he wanted you to get acquainted with them.” She gestured to her family with a worried glance.

  “All right.”

  I stepped to the window to adjust the lace sheers. The sun wasn’t coming in at the moment, but it might before we finished our tea.

  Angela and her mother had seated themselves on the settee, leaving me the other chair. Angela’s pink sun-dress and ivory wrap looked spring-like against the settee’s pale yellow velvet. Dolores’s dress was a sober navy that I could easily picture her wearing to church. Theresa’s was a muted print of red and orange flowers, less flamboyant than the Bird Woman’s usual attire, but perhaps a more subtle expression of the same devil-may-care attitude. She fixed me with a stony gaze.

  “So you are the girl Antonio has been seeing.”

  Angela made a small, dismayed sound. Dolores leaned forward.

  “Mama,” she said, and added a string of Spanish too rapid for me to follow.

  Iz came into the alcove with a teapot on a tray. “Good afternoon,” she said softly. “Welcome to the Wisteria Tearoom.”

  We were silent as Iz poured the tea. I noticed that Angela sat stiffly erect, perched on the edge of her seat. Poised to flee, perhaps?

  Iz put the teapot on its tray, covered it with a cozy printed with yellow and white jonquils, and murmured a promise that she’d be back soon with our food. As she left, I selected a lump of sugar from the bowl and slipped it into my cup.

  “I’m so sorry Detective Aragón couldn’t join us,” I said, stirring my tea. “I suppose he couldn’t get away—hic—from work?”

  “Yes,” Angela said hastily, watching her mother hold the sugar bowl for her grandmother, who gripped the tongs with wiry fingers and dropped three lumps of sugar into her cup. “He said to apologize.”

  “No need. I understand perfectly.”

  “It was very nice of you to invite us,” Dolores said, returning the sugar bowl to the table.

  “Well, I owed your son a thank-you,” I said. “He’s helped me a great deal.”

  “You took him to the Opera,” said Theresa, in a tone that bordered on accusatory.

  I turned to her with what I hoped was a calm smile. “Yes, he was kind enough to escort me to a friend’s party. I’m afraid he—hic—ended up working that night, too.”

  Iz returned with a three-tiered tea tray, which she set in the center of the table. Theresa’s eyes lit with interest at the sight of the food, making me glad that I had ordered a full afternoon tea service for the party. I watched her and the others covertly as Iz briefly explained the menu. When she departed, the Aagóns sat frozen, staring at the tea tray as if unsure what to do with it.

  I took out the plate of savories and offered it to Theresa. She helped herself to one of each item, placing them on her plate with fingers that wavered only slightly.

  Moving the savories to within Dolores’s reach, I looked at Angela. “Are you the sister who’s in college?”

  “Yes. I’m studying to be a nurse.”

  “I admire you. That’s hard work.”

  She nodded seriously. “There’s a nursing shortage, so I should be able to get a job.”

  Something in her tone made me think that getting a good job was a matter of urgency for her. I was suddenly conscious of the opulence of our surroundings. The furnishings and draperies, the fine china, the tearoom itself—all were expensive. I was still paying off the cost of equipping the tearoom, and of course the mortgage would go on for decades. Sitting with the Aragóns, I was reminded of how fortunate I was to be able to carry the debt.

  Tony had sneered, when we first met. Not because I was Anglo—well, maybe partly because of that—but mostly because I owned this house. Because I had money.

  I’d never thought of myself as rich. The advantages I’d had growing up—music lessons, travel, then college—were all things I had taken for granted. Until I’d met Tony.

  As I held the plate of savories for Angela to help herself, I glanced at her grandmother and saw the same defiant pride in her face that I had first seen in Tony’s. She might not have as much cash, but she considered herself as good as me or better. And she didn’t think I was good enough for her grandson, I suspected.

  The remaining savories were mine. I put them on my plate, returned the empty serving plate to the tea tray, and took a bite of my cucumber sandwich, wondering how I would get through the next hour.

  Loren Jackson’s laughter carried to me from the Rose alcove. He and his sister must be sharing some joke. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about an encounter between him and Tony.

  “Where are you studying?” I asked Angela, for lack of a better conversational gambit.

  I listened to her talk about her classes, my
thoughts partly on Tony. Maybe he’d had a breakthrough in his case. I hoped so.

  I became aware that Dolores was addressing me, just in time to register that she was asking me where I’d gone to school. She smiled politely; she was trying to help me.

  “UNM,” I said. “I considered some other schools, but decided I di—hic—didn’t want to go far from home.”

  “And you have a degree?”

  “I have a bachelor’s in music and a master’s in literature. Not very practical, I’m afraid.”

  Dolores seemed to have nothing to say to that. She sipped her tea.

  Reminded of my duties as hostess, I lifted the tea cozy from the pot and made sure everyone’s cup was full. Theresa gave me a regal nod of acknowledgment as I poured for her. She was making inroads on her savories.

  Surely she could not be going hungry at home; they weren’t that poor. More likely, she hadn’t encountered some of these foods before, and had a healthy appetite for variety.

  “The empanadas are very good,” she said, brandishing half a Cornish pasty.

  I didn’t correct her; the difference was unimportant. Far more important was her enjoyment of the meal.

  “Thank you. I’m glad you like it. Would you like a scone? These are British style, not as heavy as American.”

  As I offered her the breads plate, I gave myself a mental swat. She might never have had any scones, British or American. Tony hadn’t been familiar with them before I served them to him. I took a scone myself and tore it open, spreading lemon curd and clotted cream on each half. Dolores and Angela watched, then helped themselves.

  “You must like the English very much,” Dolores said, and gestured to our surroundings. “To do all this.”

  “Yes, I’ve always been an Anglophile. My mother was, too, and I grew up watching all the BBC shows on Channel Five.”

  “And that’s what made you want to have a tea room?” Angela asked.

  “Well, partly. I’ve always loved tea.” I decided not to mention my trip to England with my parents. “It was my aunt who suggested that I open a tearoom. I was very depressed after my father died, and she knew that having something to work toward would help me sna—hic—snap out of it. I do apologize...these stupid hiccups...” I rubbed my forehead, suddenly weary.