“The usual place.” Emma went into the pantry and came back with a fat old dog-eared cookbook. “I used to borrow recipes from Dimity all the time. I’ve copied this one, though, so I won’t be needing the original again.”
I paged through the cookbook, culling card after card, until I held a fan of my mother’s old standbys: tuna casserole, meat loaf, onion soup, cookies, cakes, even the champagne punch she had made to celebrate my college graduation. She had gotten that one from Mrs. Frankenburg downstairs, who was fond of fancy touches.
“Should I have waited for your permission?” asked Emma in a small voice.
I had forgotten she was in the room.
“No, no,” I said. “It’s not that. It’s…” I tapped the fan into a pile and tried to collect myself. “These are my mother’s recipes. All of them. I mean, she wrote them herself. She must have exchanged recipes with Dimity Westwood. And she… she passed away last year.”
Emma looked stricken. “I’m so sorry, Lori. I didn’t mean to spring it on you like that. I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t. It’s all right, Emma, really. To tell you the truth, it’s a… a pleasant surprise. I knew that her letters were here, but I—”
“Is that what those are? In the boxes in the study?”
“Yes—hers and Dimity’s. I’m going to be reading through them while I’m here. Didn’t Bill tell you?”
“Bill told us that he was bringing someone to the cottage, and that it had something to do with Dimity’s will. Period. Derek and I have been referring to you as ‘the Westwood Estate’ all day.” Emma took a bottle of milk from the refrigerator and with a steady hand began to pour off the cream into the squat jug.
“I’m not the Westwood Estate,” I said firmly. “I wish I were. It’d be nice to take up permanent residence here, but I’m only staying for a month. I’m going to be… doing a research project. You know—exploring Dimity’s old haunts.”
Some drops of cream spattered the wooden surface of the table, and Emma wiped them up with a spare napkin. “Are you? That sounds interesting.”
“You knew her, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” said Emma. She put the milk bottle back in the fridge. “We knew Dimity. That’s the main reason we came over, in fact. We thought… That is, Derek and I thought you might want to know—” A shriek from the teakettle broke in on her words and as I was warming the pot, Bill put his head in the doorway.
“We can’t get the fire going, Lori,” he said. “Derek thinks you should have a try.”
*
“You’ve checked the flue?” I knelt on the hearthrug while Emma put the tea tray on a low table. Bill stood behind me, and Derek sat on the couch, his long legs crossed, very much at ease.
“It’s open,” said Bill. “The wood is dry, the tinder is in place, and Derek says that everything is in working order.”
I struck a match. “I used to be pretty good at this back in my hosteling days….” It was like flipping a switch. The match touched tinder and the fire caught on contact. I tossed the spent match into the flames. “Maybe you hit some rot or something. Wood can be funny that way.”
Emma glanced at Derek, then picked up a pair of toasting forks and knelt beside me. “Watch closely and I’ll show you how it’s done.”
She was a good teacher and we soon had a respectable pile of beautifully browned crumpets to butter and munch. I hadn’t burned a single one, a first in the annals of my cooking experience.
“My father told me that you helped with the renovation work here,” said Bill.
“We did a lot more than help,” said Emma. “Derek was in charge of it. He’s an independent contractor.”
“I specialize in dying arts,” Derek elaborated. “Thatched roofs, stone walls, stained glass—”
“Everything that makes a place like this so special,” Emma finished proudly. “I think the cottage is my husband’s finest achievement.”
“I can see why,” Bill agreed, dabbing butter from his beard with a napkin. “It’s magnificent. And you, Emma? What did you do?”
A self-deprecating smile played on her lips. “Dimity let me work in the garden.”
“‘Let you’?” Derek echoed indignantly. “Emma, she begged you to work on it.”
“Oh, Derek…”
“You’re a gardener?” Bill asked.
“Well…” When Emma faltered, Derek smoothly stepped in.
“My wife trained as a computer engineer at Caltech,” he explained. “She was working as a project manager for a Boston firm when we first met and she feels compelled to describe herself along those lines, although she’s nothing of the sort anymore. Oh, she still does the odd consulting job in London, but most of the time she’s rambling round the countryside or tending her gillyflowers. Emma is a gardener through and through. Cut her and she bleeds sphagnum moss.”
“It’s true,” admitted Emma. “When I’m working in a garden, I’m at peace with the world.”
“Then you’re in the right place,” I said, refilling Emma’s cup.
“What do you mean?” Derek asked, and his blue eyes were suddenly alert.