Tea & Treachery. Vicki Delany

Lincoln repeated to his companions.

      “Don’t worry about that one,” Jack said. “She’s nuttier than an English fruitcake. And she’ll crumble like one.”

      I decided it would be best not to mention that English fruitcake does not traditionally contain nuts. Or that my grandmother never crumbled in the face of opposition.

      Chapter 4

      I made the mistake of trying to argue with Rose. “The property is a shambles. The house looks like the set of Night of the Living Dead. Is a conference hotel and golf course really going to be so bad?”

      She glared at me. “I came to Cape Cod in search of peace and quiet for my declining years. I am not going to have dump trucks and jackhammers breaking the silence at all hours of the day and night, and then corrupt politicians and crooked businessmen in ghastly pastel trousers and checked shirts yelling, ‘Fore,’ and knocking my planters over with their golf balls. I will stop this development, Lily.”

      “Plenty of nice people golf, you know.”

      “I am making a point, Lily.”

      “So am I. If you want peace and quiet in your declining years, as you call them, going up against town hall isn’t a good way to go about it. I doubt you’ll get much support, if any, when the vote comes up to change the zoning. The project will bring jobs to the area, and it won’t ruin the view of anyone except you—us. You might even benefit from overflow business from the hotel. The tearoom will.”

      “Whose side are you on, Lily?”

      “I’m on your side, Rose. In everything. And because I’m on your side, I’m asking you to face facts.”

      She harrumphed. No one but my grandmother could put so much disapproval into a single sound.

      We turned at the beep of a horn. A dusty red car was turning off the main road. Cheryl tooted again and waved.

      “Time to go to work.” I was still holding my coffee mug and uneaten muffin. So much for a relaxing break before plunging into a day in the kitchen.

      “Don’t do anything rash,” I said to my grandmother.

      Once again, I might have saved my breath.

      * * *

      It was almost eleven: opening time. Cheryl was in the tearoom’s enclosed patio, putting the finishing touches on the tables, Marybeth was starting on the sandwiches, and I was up to my elbows in shortbread dough when the swinging half doors opened and Bernie’s tousled red curls popped in. “Knock, knock,” she said. “Can I come in? Cheryl told me you were here.”

      “Sure. I’d tell you to take a seat, but we don’t have one.” The kitchen was barely big enough for me and one helper as it was.

      Bernie leaned against the counter next to the sink and studied my domain. “So this is where it all happens, is it? It’s . . . uh . . .”

      “Small?” I said.

      “Small.”

      “I prefer to say compact. I know where everything is, and I can put my hand on anything I need in a moment.”

      Bernie sucked in her stomach and moved aside to let Marybeth get to the fridge. “I suppose there’s that. What smells so nice?”

      “Miniature cinnamon buns for the children’s tea.” I slipped my oven mitts on and lifted the baking sheets out of the oven. A wave of warm sugar and spicy cinnamon goodness washed over me, and I almost groaned in pleasure. No matter how many pastries I’ve made over my lifetime, I never get tired of these scents. Or of the pleasure in producing beautiful food and having it enjoyed.

      I put the little buns on cooling racks as I said, “How are you today?”

      “Terrible,” Bernie said.

      Once I had the shortbread dough rolled out to a suitable size and thickness, I patted it into the baking sheet ready to be popped into the waiting oven. I was working at the square butcher’s block in the center of the room, the top of which was devoted exclusively to rolling pastry and dough. Today we’d be serving traditional English shortbread, made from a recipe that supposedly came from the kitchens of Buckingham Palace itself. Shortbread is normally a Christmas treat, but my customers love it no matter the time of year. It’s the perfect accompaniment to a cup of fragrant tea and the centerpiece of our featured light tea offering for those with smaller appetites.

      “Are you sick?” I glanced up from the dough and studied my friend’s face. She looked okay. “If you’re coming down with something, I’ll have to ask you to leave the kitchen.”

      “Not sick, no.” She threw up her hands and moaned in despair. “My life is a disaster! Everything I touch leads to failure!”

      I left the dough—it wouldn’t hurt it to sit a few minutes—and hurried to wash my hands. I dried them on my apron and then gathered my best friend into my arms as she started to cry. “What’s happened? Is it your mom? You said she wasn’t doing too well.”

      Bernie sobbed into my chest. “Mom’s fine. It’s . . . it’s my book. I’m stuck!”

      I released Bernie and turned my attention back to the shortbread.

      “You don’t understand,” Bernie cried. “I have a terrible case of writer’s block. I can’t come up with a single decent idea. My characters are boring. I keep peeking over my shoulder, expecting to see them standing there, accusing me, blaming me for their dull lives.”

      “What happened since yesterday?” I finished patting the dough into place in the baking sheet. “I thought the change of environment was unleashing your pent-up energies and freeing your imagination.”

      “It didn’t,” she moaned. “I sat at my desk at seven this morning, excited and ready to start work.” She pulled a tattered tissue out of the pocket of her shorts and wiped at her eyes.

      “And . . . ?”

      “And nothing. Nothing came to me. Not one single word.” She blew her nose. “I might as well go back to New York. Not that I have a job or apartment to go back to, and I’ve paid two months’ rent on the place here in advance.”

      I refrained from saying, “I told you so.” But I thought it. “Maybe you need to give it time.”

      I’d read the short stories Bernie had had published over the past few years. They were good—more than good. She had genuine talent; her writing worked on the reader’s emotions in a way I’d rarely come across. But three short stories in five years do not a writing career make. She’d been writing a novel for more than two years now, and I no longer asked how it was going. Not since the first time I’d done so and then spent the next hour trying to comfort her. Whenever she had talked about it, she’d said it was taking so long because her mind was always too occupied with her accounting job and she couldn’t focus properly. I’d been hoping the move to the Cape would give her the time and the headspace she needed. Apparently not.

      “I’m kinda busy,” I said to her now. “We have reservations for a full house this afternoon. Let’s do an exchange. You tell me about the book—talking about it might open your imagination—while you take over from Marybeth and finish that lot of sandwiches.”

      “I suppose I can do that.” Bernie gave her eyes a final wipe and stuffed the tissue into her pocket.

      “What do you want me to do instead?” Marybeth asked.

      “Ice the cinnamon buns, please. They should be cool enough by now.”

      “I don’t know what you want me to make,” Bernie said.

      “First, wash your hands. Second, assembly and arrangement instructions are in that folder on the top shelf. It looks as though Marybeth has started the curried cucumber. You can finish them. Next, we need egg and roast beef.”

      “Egg