They walked to Flora’s Tea Shoppe, which was spelled with two p’s and an e at the end, though a sign in the window assured passersby that they made the best mocha cappuccinos in town, which wasn’t hard to believe since they appeared to be the only coffee/tea shop in town.
Inside Flora’s was everything you’d expect and more. Blue gingham half curtains finished in blue gingham ruffles. Polished wood-planked floors. A glass display case only partially filled with an array of pastries.
Bethanne led her to a table by the window.
“It’s such a luxury to have all this space to ourselves. In season you can’t buy a seat.”
“That’s good,” Abbie said, wondering how any of them could do enough business to stay open; she hadn’t seen a car except for the rusted-out Chevy since she’d come to town. There was no one staying at the inn, and none of the other tables in Flora’s were occupied.
Flora turned out to be a middle-aged woman with springy reddish-blond curls, bright red lipstick, wearing jeans and a Vanderbilt sweatshirt.
“Before you ask,” she said, addressing Abbie, “I’m Penny Farlowe, owner of Flora’s. Flora died twenty-something years ago. I should put up a sign.” Penny looked down at her with eyes a shade of blue green that Abbie had never seen. Contacts?
“This is Abbie Sinclair,” Bethanne volunteered. “She’s staying up at Crispin House.”
“So she is,” Penny said. She seemed to be perpetually bubbly, perhaps cultivated for the ambiance of the tea shop. “This calls for high tea.” She leaned over the table and effervesced. “At least the Point’s version of it.”
“As long as it doesn’t involve pastries with fish heads sticking out of it.” Abbie had eaten a lot of weird things while out on a shoot, but fish heads . . . not so much.
Penny laughed. “I see you’ve heard of the famous Stargazey Pie. We tend not to push that delicacy here too much. We love our fish, especially of the shellfish variety, but summer people can get a bit squeamish.”
Bethanne frowned at them. “What are y’all talking about? Did I miss something?”
“Just a kind of pie they make in Cornwall,” Abbie said. “I only know about it because when I googled Stargazey Point, it was the first thing to come up.”
“Is it something weird, Stargazey Pie?”
“It’s fish pie, with their little heads sticking out of the pastry,” Penny said.
“Ugh.” Bethanne wrinkled her nose. “Sorry, but it sounds disgusting. Do people really eat it?”
“Beats me,” Penny said. “Do you know?”
“I guess they must,” said Abbie.
“I think we’ll just have some of your cucumber and watercress sandwiches and your pimento cheese strips. Does that sound okay, Abbie? And Penny makes a really good pecan torte.”
“I’ll bring you the works. Coffee or tea?”
“Actually, I’d kill”—Abbie’s voice caught on the word—“for a double-shot latte.”
“From your mouth to Penny’s ears. Bethanne? The usual?”
“Constant Comment, please.”
Penny bounced away . . . there was no other way to describe it.
“She’s very . . . upbeat,” Abbie said.
“She’s a good person and a good friend.”
Abbie heard the whoosh of the steamer, and her mouth automatically salivated. That was one of the things she’d missed most when they were out on location. Good specialty coffee. Guess she wouldn’t be missing that anymore.
“Is something wrong?”
“What?” Abbie looked up to see Bethanne frowning at her. “Oh no. Just thinking. It’s nothing.”
Bethanne nodded, and Penny reappeared with a three-tiered plate loaded with enough food for several people.
“So sue me,” she said when she saw Abbie’s look of surprise. “Gotta use these babies up while they’re fresh.”
She was gone and soon back again with a tray of tea and a huge cup of coffee.
“It smells heavenly,” Abbie said.
“That alone will get you the local rate.” She placed the cups and teapot down on the table. “Y’all just yell if you need anything else. I’ll be in back making cheese straws for the Gentry-Palmer wedding reception on Saturday. They want three hundred. Hell, my arm might fall off before then.”
Bethanne sighed. “They wanted to have the reception at the inn, but there just isn’t enough room. At least most of our rooms are let for the weekend.”
The front door opened.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Penny said.
“I smell caramel macchiato,” said the newcomer, a young petite African American woman wearing overalls and a batiked turban.
“Hi, Sarah. Come join us.” Bethanne scooted her chair over to make room. Then she stopped. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Me?” asked Abbie. “The more the merrier.”
Sarah pulled up a chair from another table and sat down. “Okay, I confess. I saw y’all comin’ over and I just wanted to say hello.”
“And find out the scoop on the new girl,” Penny said, placing another cup on the table.
“This is Sarah Davis,” Bethanne said. “She’s home taking care of her great-grandmother and running the after-school program at the community center.”
“Oh, girl, you better not let Ervina hear you say she needs takin’ care of.”
“Ervina?” Abbie said. “I think I met her last night at the Crispins’.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “There was a time that woulda pissed me off plain and simple. But, hell, it’s turned into a kind of bad dinner theater.”
“Playing a role?” Abbie asked and took a sip of coffee and sighed.
“Oh yeah.”
“I thought maybe they were playing a joke of some kind. They seemed more like old friends.”
Sarah barked out a laugh. “They weren’t friends unless it was on the sly. They grew up in the same town, around the same time. Ervina is a bit older, we think. She claims she doesn’t remember how old she is.
“But they didn’t grow up ‘together.’ Ervina lived over the way with, let’s just say, folks of her kind. It was a long time ago, remember. Her mother worked for the Crispin family and then Ervina after her.”
“A long history.”
“Yeah, for all the good it’s doing me.”
Bethanne leaned forward. “Sarah’s having the kids put together an oral history of their families.”
“Was. The whole project was a bust,” Sarah said, and slumped against the chair back.
“What happened?”
“I thought I could accomplish two things at once. Preserve a culture while keeping the kids engaged. But none of the parents cooperated. The kids got bored. The equipment is ancient. I guess we’ll just have to limp along until I can come up with something else to keep them out of trouble all summer long.”
“How old are the kids?” Abbie asked.
“Five to fourteen, mostly. A few older.”
“Wow. Maybe a more focused project?”
Sarah dipped her chin and looked up at Abbie. “You got any suggestions?”
Abbie nearly bolted out of her seat. “Me? No. Why would I?”
Sarah shrugged. “Don’t know. Just asking.”
Abbie peered at her, trying to read her expression and wondering how much she knew. Jeez, she was getting paranoid. Sarah had more to worry about than googling some tourist. She let out the breath that had stuck in her lungs.
“Heard you also met Cabot, the third, last night.”
Abbie grinned. “Millie introduced him as the third. Do people really go by that here?”
“No,” said Bethanne, swatting Sarah with her napkin. “Well, maybe Miss Millie when she’s having one of her spells, but just Sarah when she wants to annoy him.”
“Why? Because he acts like he owns the place?”
“Was he doin’ that?” asked Sarah in round-eyed mock surprise.
“A bit. I got the feeling he didn’t like me being there.”
“That’s Cab all right, like a mangy dog with a bone.”
Bethanne giggled. “Sarah. You’re awful.”
“Well, he is sometimes.”
“Does the Reynolds family own property around here? I’m guessing he isn’t a plumber though he said he was helping you with your new hot water heater.”
Sarah threw back her head and laughed. “He’s no plumber.”
“No, he’s—” Bethanne began.
“He owns horses,” Sarah said, interrupting.
Bethanne smiled. Abbie noticed that one cheek had a dimple.
“Oh. I didn’t see any horse farms on my way in. Of course, I wasn’t looking. Racing stock?”
“Something of the sort.”
Bethanne reached for a sandwich, which conveniently kept her from having to look at either Sarah or Abbie. What weren’t they telling her?
“He doesn’t play polo, does he?”
Sarah snorted and pressed a napkin to her mouth. “Lord, polo. I can just see ole Cab in one of those funny helmets.”
“Okay, not polo,” Abbie said. “Breeding stock?” Not that she really cared what he did.
Sarah shook her head. “Somewhere in between. You get him to tell you on your date tomorrow.”
Coffee sloshed out of her cup, and she quickly set it down on the table. “It’s not a date.” To Abbie’s horror her eyes filled up. She blinked rapidly, cursing herself for letting herself be caught off guard. “Millie coerced him into offering to show me the sights. That’s all it is.”
“The sights? Honey, if you walked into town, you’ve seen ’em.”
“It is pretty small,” Abbie said. “Maybe I should let him off—”
“A date.” A sob broke from Bethanne. Abbie looked up to see tears spilling over her cheeks. “Bethanne?”
“Excuse me, I have to talk to Penny about something.” She pushed her chair back and ran toward the kitchen.
“Oh, my God. Is it something I said?” Abbie asked. “Are she and Cab . . . ?”
Sarah leaned on her elbows across the table. “It wasn’t you. And she and Cab aren’t.”
“Then what?”
“She and her husband, Jim, moved into town a few years back, fixed up the old hotel, and made it into a real showplace. They were pretty successful, too, considering . . . Well, you’ve seen the town. Tourism is off, which is tying a ribbon around it.
“Then one day Jim comes down with a virus; it turned to pneumonia, and before they got him to the hospital, he was dead. Just about killed her, too. Did kill the baby. Bethanne miscarried the next week.” Sarah shook her head. “Now you know her business.”
“That’s awful.” Abbie’s head began to pound. She ripped out the elastic that held her ponytail and rubbed her scalp.
Sarah narrowed her eyes at Abbie. “But it seems to me, Bethanne wasn’t the only one tearing up at this table. You got any business, Abbie Sinclair?”
No way was she going to talk about her personal life to Sarah, not to anyone.
“Actually I do, and I’d better get going or I’ll be late,” Abbie said, purposely misunderstanding Sarah’s question. She stood up, shoved her hand into her jeans pocket, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and placed it on the table. “Nice to have met you. Thank Bethanne for me.”
She grabbed her gift shop bag and went out the door without looking back. Once out on the sidewalk, she hesitated. A braver woman would go back, thank Bethanne for the tea, maybe even tell her they had something in common.
But Abbie wasn’t brave. If she were, she might have saved something from their last story, even though she couldn’t save Werner. She didn’t think she could be any help to Bethanne, and she knew for certain no one could help her.
Chapter 5
Abbie was nearly to the Crispin driveway when she saw Beau and another man walking down the middle of the street, coming her way. Beau was carrying fishing poles and a thermos. His companion held a large red-and-white cooler in each hand.
Her first inclination was to pretend she hadn’t seen them. She was still a little rattled from the Bethanne breakdown. But they saw her, so she waited at the driveway entrance until they reached her.
“Abbie, my dear. This is Silas Cook. My old friend and fishing buddy.”
“Ma’am.” Silas dipped his chin at her. He was an older African American man, much smaller than Beau, wiry with grizzled white hair and an easy smile.
“Nice to meet you, Silas. Did you guys catch anything today?”
“We might be able to eke a bite or two out of them,” said Beau. “If we’re lucky.”
Great, thought Abbie. Millie was hoping he’d catch enough for dinner. He hadn’t caught enough for the three of them much less an extra mouth to feed. Maybe she should get a room at the inn. They were too polite to say so, but she had to be a strain on the Crispin budget.
“You go on now, Beau,” Silas said. “These here coolers are full up.” He raised the two coolers to demonstrate their weight. He put one of them on the ground at Beau’s feet.
“Just about did catch our limit.” Beau handed the fishing poles off to Silas.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am. See you tomorrah, Beau.” Silas hoisted his fishing gear and cooler and cut across the street to a dirt path that led through the trees.
Beau picked up the cooler Silas had left. “Shall we?”
They walked up the drive, cool and dark beneath the trees. “Did you have a nice time in town?” he asked.
She had except for making Bethanne cry. “I met Bethanne, Penny, and Sarah.”
“Three lovely ladies.”
They lapsed into silence, and Abbie was glad she didn’t have to think of small talk to fill the walk to Crispin House. Being with Beau was soothing. She’d never seen him make an abrupt gesture, hurry with anything. Of course she hadn’t seen much of him. But she had a feeling he was that way all the time. What could make a person so placid? Was he content?
Or was it that he just accepted life for what it was?
They were almost to the house when a creature darted out of the trees. The cat she’d seen the night before. It was huge with short black fur and a white bib. It glided straight to Beau, raising its rusty meow as it ran.
Beau laughed. “Old Moses knows he’s gettin’ a treat tonight.”
“His name is Moses?”
“Yep. Found him in the marsh across the bay yonder. A feral litter, most likely. He was the only one I could find; guess the gators got the rest. Don’t know why they didn’t get him.”
“Gators?”
“Oh, don’t you worry; they’re way on the other side of the bay. Don’t cross salt water if they can help it. And when they do come out, they head for the golf courses.” Beau grinned.
Abbie smiled back.
“Don’t get too many snakes, either. A few garden ones maybe. But you won’t see them much unless you go in the woods. Don’t fret.”
“I won’t,” Abbie said. Amphibians and reptiles she could handle. God knows she’d dealt with their human counterparts often enough.
Moses meowed and raced a few yards ahead before looking back.
Beau shook his head. “Hard to believe he used to be a tiny little thing. That was oh, goin’ on twelve, thirteen years ago. And he hasn’t slowed down one bit. Maybe I shoulda named him Methuselah.”
They went around to the side door, where Beau stopped and pulled out a folded paper from the cooler. He opened it up and put it on the ground. Moses pounced on the fish heads and offal inside.
“Got all the bones out. Millie don’t like to have fish cleaned near her kitchen so Silas and I always
gut them ’fore we come home.”
“Beau Crispin, is that you?” Millie’s voice echoed from the kitchen.
Beau smiled at Abbie.
Millie appeared in the doorway, a white apron over her dress.
“Got us a mess of bream. Marnie has a way with fish,” he told Abbie. He winked at her. “But Millie here makes a doggone good hush puppy.”
“I’ll hush puppy you if you bring any of that fish smell into my kitchen.”
“I’ll just go round back and clean up. Nice walking with you, Abbie.” He deposited the cooler on the steps and picked up the paper that had been picked clean. Moses was nowhere to be seen.
“Did you have a nice time in town?” Millie asked.
“Yes, thanks. I’ll just take my purchases upstairs, then come back and help with dinner.”
“Oh, Lord no. You just go and enjoy yourself.”
Enjoy herself. She was trying. She trudged up the stairs to her bedroom and tossed her gift shop bag and purse on the bed. Then tossed herself after them. Someone had opened the French doors, and a breeze floated in and ruffled the sheer curtains. She would make an entry in her new journal. Maybe describe her trip into town and meeting Bethanne, Penny, and Sarah. Get started on exorcizing her demons.
She dumped the bag onto the bed, chose a pen, and took it and the journal out to the veranda. It was shaded from the afternoon sun, which would be heaven in the summer but made it a little too cool for comfort.
But the beach was still sunny, and if she sat below the dunes, she’d be sheltered from the wind. She went back inside and down the stairs, thinking she was being absurd to worry about a few degrees of temperature, considering the life she’d led in the last few years.
She stopped in the kitchen to let Millie know that she was going out. The kitchen was empty, though there was evidence of food preparations on the counters. She backtracked into the foyer in search of one of the sisters and heard voices from the library whose door was behind the staircase.
She meant to stick her head in just long enough to tell them where she was going, but just as she reached the open door of the library, Marnie’s voice rose in exasperation. “Just when were you going to tell me about this?”
Stargazey Point Page 6
