by Jill Amadio
“Oh, this is delightful.” Tosca sat up straighter. “It has a village atmosphere, almost like Cornwall. I think I’m going to like it here.”
J.J. turned left onto Felton Drive, passing two policemen on bicycles.
“I feel at home already. Bobbies on bikes,” said Tosca, waving and smiling at them.
“The island is mostly narrow, one-way streets, Mother. Believe me, it’s much easier for the cops to ride their bicycles than maneuver cars around here.”
She drove to the end of Felton, turned left, left again into a narrow alley and stopped in front of a garage beneath a two-story house. She pressed the door opener on the car’s sun visor, drove in and parked.
“Here we are. My apartment is upstairs. We’ll get you a rental car tomorrow. You’ll only need it for a few days, then you can drive the Austin-Healey. Oh, don’t groan like that. It’s a really great car. A classic.”
“Sixty years ago that old bucket may have been great, but the last time I sat in it, with your father behind the wheel, the seat bit my bum.” At J.J.’s laugh Tosca added, “It’s true. The gap between the seatback and the seat itself had widened. When I sat down, I got nipped.”
They exited the Porsche and unloaded the suitcases. J.J. led the way up two flights of wooden steps that hugged the outside wall of the house and opened the Dutch door to the living room of her apartment.
“The bedrooms are up there.” She pointed to a spiral staircase. “We can take the luggage up later. Cup of tea? I have all your favorites.”
Tosca shook her head. “No thanks, love. I’m anxious to have a glass of mead. I made one of the recipes from sweet briar. It should have come out perfectly. Oh, roses!” Tosca turned toward the large floral display on the coffee table.
“Yes, Professor Whittaker gave them to me after the funeral service. It was his wife Monica who died.”
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