“What’s wrong with that? I’d feel the same way if I found out that someone had been snooping around Arthur’s dome. By the way”—he stepped aside to give me an unobstructed view of the flowers—“do you like them?”
“You know I do.” I stood up. “But you haven’t seen the rest of the place yet. Come on, I’ll give you a guided tour.” We were halfway down the stairs when I heard tires crunching on the gravel drive.
“Who on earth—” I backed up a step. “Oh, no… not Evan.”
“You stay here,” said Bill, squaring his shoulders. “I’ll take care of this.”
12
If Bill had his heart set on giving Evan the boot, he must have been disappointed when he opened the door. I know I was, but for very different reasons. Our unexpected guests turned out to be Emma and Derek Harris, and one look was enough to tell me that they couldn’t possibly be the couple who had given my mother the photograph. They weren’t the doddering, white-haired caretakers I had envisioned. In fact, unless my ears deceived me, Emma wasn’t even English.
“You’re American?” I asked, coming down the stairs.
“Yes, I am,” said Emma, looking up from the doorway. She was shorter than I, a bit plumper and some years older, wearing a bulky hand-knit sweater beneath a lightweight parka, and a gorgeously mucky pair of Wellingtons. Dishwater blond hair hung to her waist and she peered shyly at me through a pair of wire-rim glasses. “But my husband is the real thing. Harrow, Oxford—he even plays cricket when he has the chance.”
“Which is none too often.” Derek Harris had eyes to kill for, the kind of deep, dark blue eyes that casting directors dream about and the rest of us don’t really believe exist. Emma would have been justified if she had married him for his eyes alone. He was tall and angular, with salt-and-pepper curls framing a weatherworn face. Like Emma, he wore a lightweight parka and appeared to be in his late forties. “I scarcely have enough time to run my business, let alone practice my bowling.” He eyed Bill speculatively. “I don’t suppose you…”
“Sorry,” said Bill, “speed-reading is my game.” He gestured for the Harrises to come into the hall, closed the door, and made formal introductions. “By the way, Harris, my father wanted me to express his gratitude to you for keeping an eye on the cottage.”
“Only too happy to help.” Derek turned his blue eyes toward me. “Hope we haven’t interrupted anything. Bill rang this morning to let us know you were coming out today. We spotted a car in the drive when we were coming back from town, so we thought we’d drop yours off.”
“My what?” I asked.
“Your car,” said Emma. “Bill asked us to lease one for you locally. It was no trouble,” she added. “Our house is just up the road. We can walk back.”
“Do you have to get back right away?” I asked. “If not, you’re welcome to stop in for a cup of tea. It’s the least I can do to thank you.”
“An Englishman never turns down a cup of tea,” said Derek with a smile. “Here, Em, let me help you with those.” Emma took his arm and stepped out of her Wellies while Bill hung their jackets in the hall closet.
“I assume I have you to thank for stocking the pantry?” I said to Emma.
“I didn’t want you to find the cupboards bare,” she replied. “I hope I haven’t forgotten anything.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that. I doubt that we’ll get through half of it before we leave. How about helping us tackle the crumpets tonight?”
Derek and Bill were all in favor, so I set them to work lighting a fire in the living room while Emma and I repaired to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She helped me locate a sturdy brown teapot and four stoneware mugs—“No need to use Dimity’s best china with us,” she assured me. She filled a tea ball with loose tea from the tin tea caddy in the pantry, then brought out a white ceramic sugar bowl, a squat cream jug, and four dessert plates, arranging them with the rest of the tea things on a polished wooden tray with brass handles.
“So this is a toasting fork.” I was fascinated. “I’ve read about them, but I’ve never used one before. I hope you know something about the fine art of crumpet toasting.”
“With a ten-year-old daughter and a fifteen-year-old son at home I’ve become something of an expert on crumpets. Oh, and before I forget…” Emma reached into the pocket of her brown woolen skirt. “I borrowed this yesterday and I wanted to return it. Peter and Nell prefer these even to crumpets and I can’t say that I blame them.” With a cheerful smile, Emma handed me a recipe for oatmeal cookies.
It was unmistakably my mother’s. An index card, browned with age and stained with use; her looping scrawl—I could almost smell the nutmeg.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.