Tea & Treachery. Vicki Delany

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СКАЧАТЬ correct word. He decided to retire and move to Florida.”

      “Florida? He’s Cape Cod born and raised. He always says he’s never lived anywhere else in all his fifty-seven years and never intends to.”

      “It seems he met a lady.” Rose sniffed with disapproval.

      “Ooh, a lady. Do tell. I suppose this lady is from Florida?”

      “Yes. Highly inconsiderate of him, to my mind.”

      “When does he finish? I hope he gave you enough notice to have time to find someone else.”

      “Yesterday.”

      I stopped stirring. “Yesterday?”

      “His last day at work was yesterday. They’re driving to Florida this morning. He called me from the car.” Rose sniffed once again. “At least he was considerate enough to think of me at the last minute.”

      “Hardly considerate. We’ll never get anyone else in the middle of the season.”

      The gardens at Victoria-on-Sea are large and lush and beautiful and are one of the highlights of the place. It’s not easy maintaining an English country garden on the bluffs overlooking Cape Cod Bay, but Gerry and generations of skilled gardeners before him had accomplished miracles. The Victoria-on-Sea gardens occupy almost half an acre with neat hedgerows, carefully placed boxwoods and perennials, tall, swaying grasses, a rose garden, and the occasional statue or little folly scattered about to create interest. Gerald, whom everyone except Rose called Gerry, had worked four days a week, eight months of the year, to keep it all under control.

      “Do you have much of a green thumb, Lily?” Rose asked.

      “If you’re asking me to take on the job of head gardener, along with everything else I do around here, the answer is a firm no. I grew up in an apartment in Manhattan, as you well know. Not much call for gardeners there. Mom didn’t even have herbs growing in a pot on the kitchen windowsill.”

      “Your mother didn’t do a lot of things.”

      “Why don’t we not go there? You might be able to get a landscaping firm to come out once or twice a week to at least keep the weeds under control and cut the grass.”

      “I hope that won’t be necessary.”

      I finished pouring batter into the muffin tins and popped them into the oven. This was a mighty big house, with eight rooms for B & B guests and a private suite for Rose. As she did every evening, last night Rose had left a note tucked under the saltshaker telling me how many to prepare breakfast for. We were almost full today, meaning fourteen meals.

      “Not necessary? You’ll be surprised how quickly a garden can get out of control. By tomorrow the foxgloves will be waging war on the portulaca.”

      “Portulaca. Such a lovely word, isn’t it? It feels nice in the mouth. Port-chu-laca.”

      Muffins in the oven, I got the sausages out of the fridge. Whenever possible, I try, here and in the tearoom, to feature locally sourced and produced Cape Cod ingredients. The sausages were handmade by a local butcher. Guests had their choice this morning of pork sausages with spices and hot pepper, hearty German bratwurst, or a mild chicken sausage. In case any of our guests were vegetarians, I kept nonmeat versions in the freezer. Rose’s instructions for this morning hadn’t said anything about special dietary requirements.

      “Are you going to abandon the gardens, then?” I asked. “I know they’re an incredible amount of work, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. Some garden clubs stay here just to spend time in them.”

      “Gerald has a nephew, newly arrived from England, prepared to take on the job.”

      “Does this English nephew know one end of a rake from the other?”

      “He is, according to Gerald, a professional horticulturalist.”

      “I wouldn’t read too much into that,” I said. “Gerald has been known to embellish the truth on occasion.”

      “Quite. It was difficult to hear him over the roar of the wind as he sped out of town in his new girlfriend’s convertible, but I think that’s what he said.”

      “When does this nephew arrive?”

      “This afternoon. He’s driving in from Boston. You can interview him in the tearoom.”

      “Me?”

      “You manage the staff, love.”

      “Since when?”

      “Since now. I’m promoting you.”

      “With commensurate pay, I hope,” I said, knowing I was wasting my breath.

      A tap on the kitchen door and Edna came in, giving us a cheerful “good morning,” as she wrapped the strings of her apron around her waist. At least I didn’t have to wait tables as well as do all the cooking. Edna was one of my grandmother’s bridge partners, and not much younger than her. She’d been complaining at bridge one day in the spring of being bored since her daughter and the grandchildren moved away, and before she knew what was happening, she’d been hired. She also makes many of the delicious jams and other preserves I use and sell in the tearoom.

      “I see you’ve laid out bananas. Shall I start on the fruit?” she asked.

      “Seeing as how no one else is slicing them, yes, please.” I checked the clock. Six thirty. We start service at seven. “Do you know anyone who’s looking for a landscaping job?”

      “No,” she said, “but I know plenty of people looking for landscapers. Why?”

      While Rose filled Edna in on Gerald’s romantic entanglements, I poured myself a second cup of coffee. Sausages sizzled on the stove, and the room was full of the aroma of brewing coffee, spitting fat, and warm baking.

      “Heads-up,” Edna said. “Frank told me the proposal to rezone the property next door is going to a vote the week after next.”

      Judging by the look on her face, if my grandmother didn’t consider herself to be a lady, she’d have spat on the floor.

      “Already?” I said. “That was quick. A developer was poking around yesterday.”

      “Was it Jack Ford by any chance?”

      I nodded. “He was with some guy named Gleeson.”

      “Roy Gleeson’s the councillor sponsoring the motion. Jack knows there’s opposition, and he hopes to push it through while everyone’s busy with their summer businesses.”

      “Jack Ford can—” my grandmother began.

      “Careful, Rose,” I said. “My delicate ears.”

      She poured the last of her tea into the saucer and placed it on the table. Robert the Bruce leapt off her lap, landed lightly on the table, and began to drink. He loved his tea, Robbie did.

      “Bad enough feeding the cat at the table,” I grumbled. “Never mind on the table.”

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