Chapter Eleven
Every Friday, Debbie Fernandez hosted a formal Afternoon Tea at The Adelaide. After clearing it with the widows Thursday night, Whitney made reservations.
Friday at three, the old station wagon pulled up to the B&B, and Whitney walked down the garden path to accompany the ladies.
“Don’t you look lovely!” Mrs. Palmer gushed.
“Thanks.” Whitney glanced down at her billowy lavender sundress. “I wasn’t sure what to wear—formal or not? I’m glad we all look good together.” She didn’t make any comment about Mrs. Palmer’s rather vivid use of purple-and-orange patterns in her belted dress. The woman had her own style, and it was part of her charm.
“Debbie would make you feel at ease whatever you wore.” Mrs. Ludlow used her walker to rise from the car, gently turning down Whitney’s gesture of help.
They slowly made their way up the garden path, and when the ladies would have gone inside, Whitney said, “It’s such a beautiful day, Debbie is hosting the tea in her garden. Will that be all right?”
They all spoke their agreement at once in chirping voices, so Whitney led the way along the slate stone path until she reached the patio.
Mrs. Thalberg gasped when they all saw the formal table Debbie had laid out. Debbie had included beautiful linens and china that didn’t perfectly match but echoed each other in various colorful flower designs. Different tiers of platters showed off finger sandwiches and scones. Whitney didn’t think she’d seen anything finer in London, and told Debbie so, making her blush.
“Go ahead and make yourselves comfortable,” Debbie said. “We have three more guests, and they should be arriving anytime.”
While they waited, Mrs. Thalberg discussed gardening with Debbie, and Mrs. Ludlow showed Whitney pictures of her granddaughters on her iPhone.
Whitney heard Debbie call another “Hello,” and saw Mrs. Ludlow’s expression both lighten and grow tense in rapid succession.
Frowning, Whitney said, “What’s—”
And then she saw Emily, her sister Steph, and another older woman about the widows’ ages.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Ludlow said softly.
“Let me guess—Mrs. Sweet,” Whitney said, intrigued.
“Eileen Sweet, the matriarch of the family,” Mrs. Ludlow murmured. “A dear woman—but rather used to being in charge.”
So this was the woman who didn’t get along with Mrs. Thalberg and Mrs. Palmer—who Whitney had a hard time imagining could dislike anyone. Mrs. Sweet was thin and elegant in a floral chiffon dress, wearing a perfect little straw hat atop her chignon-styled white hair.
“She’s a strong woman,” Mrs. Ludlow continued. “Took it upon herself to open the Sweetheart Inn to help support her family at a time when most women didn’t do such things. It meant she had to move back to the old family homestead, a log cabin. This was before they were able to build the new ranch house, of course.”
Emily finished greeting Debbie, and then her blue-eyed gaze met Whitney’s—and widened. She gave the faintest, helpless shrug, and Whitney returned the gesture. After all, there was nothing to do but continue on with the afternoon. Steph was already pointing to the table in surprise, looking adorable in a tank top, short skirt, and flip-flops.
“It’s my fault,” Mrs. Ludlow said, shaking her head. “I mentioned Debbie’s tea to Emily, but never explained that we were actually attending today.”
Whitney touched her arm. “Oh, please, there’s nothing to apologize for. I’ve been wanting to meet Emily’s grandmother, and what a beautiful day to do so.”
Mrs. Ludlow looked beyond her to the other two widows. “If you say so, dear.”
Mrs. Thalberg and Mrs. Palmer stood stiffly together for a moment, and then Mrs. Thalberg approached the new arrivals, hand held out to clasp Emily’s, Steph’s, and then Mrs. Sweet’s.
“Emily, dear, how thoughtful of you and your sister to escort Eileen today.”
Mrs. Sweet turned to her granddaughters, and said in a too-pleasant voice, “I had no idea this would turn into a garden party.”
“Me neither,” Emily fairly chirped. “Hi, Whitney!”
“Hi, Emily!” Whitney responded just as cheerfully.
Steph hid a smirk, as if she knew exactly what was going on.
Debbie displayed a moment of uncertainty, looking from one widow to another. “Give me a moment, ladies, I’m sure the hot water must be boiling by now. Please take your seats.”
When Debbie had gone inside through the sunroom, Emily brought her grandmother over and introduced her.
Whitney shook the woman’s dry, thin hand, knowing its fragility must be deceptive. “Mrs. Sweet, it’s wonderful to meet you. Emily has told me the romantic history of your parents, and I found it inspiring.”
Behind Mrs. Sweet’s back, Mrs. Palmer rolled her eyes, and her eyebrows almost climbed into her blond wig.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Sweet said. “My parents were very much in love and set such a fine example of happiness. Their love built my inn, of course.”
“It’s great you can share it with guests,” Whitney said.
“I’m surprised you didn’t choose a suite there for your stays in Valentine.” Mrs. Sweet took a seat near the head of the table.
“Now don’t let Debbie hear you say that, Eileen,” Mrs. Thalberg said. “You’ll hurt her feelings.”
Patiently, Mrs. Sweet answered, “Which is why I chose now to mention it, Rosemary.”
“Oh, Grandma,” Steph said, plopping down in the next seat. “Some people like a cozier place to stay. I really think B&Bs are adorable.”
“And this one is very well run,” Mrs. Ludlow said, sitting down across from Mrs. Sweet. “This tea table is so meticulous in detail. I won’t want to eat, for fear of disturbing the lovely setting.”
Whitney admired Mrs. Ludlow’s attempt to steer the conversation, even as she took her own seat in the center, beside Emily. The other two widows sat at the opposite end.
Debbie came out carrying a large china teapot, a creamer, and a sugar bowl on a matching platter.
The women all complimented the set in overlapping voices, and Whitney, exchanging a relieved glance with Emily, was just thinking this might go better than she’d feared.
Debbie handed down a carved box filled with an assortment of tea, and everyone chose their flavors. She poured steaming cups of water and passed those along, too.
Mrs. Sweet took it upon herself to educate Steph in the proper tea etiquette. “My dear, you should never use the cream itself. Save that for the scones. Cream masks the taste of the tea. Instead, use milk.”
Whitney saw Mrs. Thalberg and Mrs. Palmer exchange a silent, aggrieved look.
Mrs. Sweet smiled at Debbie. “And you remembered lemon slices rather than wedges.”
Debbie blushed. “I’ve done my research.”
When Steph went to lift her teacup with both hands, Mrs. Sweet said, “No, no, you must always grip the handle, but not loop your fingers through. And your pinkie finger isn’t an affectation—it’s for balance.”
“Oh, knock it off, Eileen,” Mrs. Palmer grumbled. “Can’t we just enjoy the afternoon without lessons?”
Mrs. Sweet frowned at her over the top of her reading glasses. “How will the girl ever learn if she’s not taught properly? For instance, Stephanie, did you know you should never wrap the string around your teabag? Just set it on your saucer.”
Mrs. Thalberg, in the process of wrapping her string, paused, then continued, her jaw twitching as if she gritted her teeth.
As they devoured finger sandwiches of salmon and cucumber, and watercress egg salad, Whitney knew it was time to change the subject.
“Ladies, I thought you all could help me with a project. I’m used to clientele from San Francisco or Vegas. I want to learn about the women of Valentine Valley, get to know the town itself, to help me market my store the best way possible. Are there any public events I can attend that would help?”
Mrs. Thalberg opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Mrs. Sweet said, “Oh, I know the perfect event. The Royal Theater is hosting a fund-raiser to bring opera back. It was so popular in the nineteenth century—”
“When people had little choice if they wanted to be entertained,” Mrs. Palmer pointed out.
“—and I know we can make it popular again,” Mrs. Sweet continued, as if Mrs. Palmer hadn’t spoken. “You’ll meet all kinds of people, some even from Basalt and Carbondale and Aspen itself.”
“God forbid we not socialize with the wonderful people of Aspen,” Mrs. Thalberg said.
Mrs. Ludlow wiped her lips with her linen napkin. “I’m attending.”
Her two roommates stared at her.
“I was going to invite you both, but if you’d rather not attend, I’d understand.”
“That’s not what this is about,” Mrs. Thalberg said patiently. “If Whitney wants to get to know Valentine, I think she should attend an event that is more casual, fun, and relaxing.”
“I know just what you’re goin’ to suggest,” Mrs. Palmer gushed.
Then together, the two women said, “The St. John’s Parish Festival.”
Mrs. Sweet frowned as if she smelled something bad.
“Oh, is it this weekend?” Steph demanded, clapping her hands together. “I used to love the rides when I was a kid.”
“They take over the whole parking lot and still bring in all the rides,” Mrs. Thalberg said. “But now you’re old enough that your boyfriend can play the games and win you a prize.”
“Steph could actually win her own prize,” Emily said with amusement.
“Boyfriend?” Mrs. Sweet said coolly. “Are you still dating that wild young man?”
Steph rolled her eyes. “Grandma, Tyler’s a nice guy. We’re researching colleges together. He’s not going to end up in jail like his brother did.”
Mrs. Sweet winced. Debbie looked around her in bewilderment, as if her Afternoon Tea was getting away from her.
“I could attend both events,” Whitney said. To Mrs. Sweet, she added, “I do love to dress up for a good cause.”
“There will be auctions, of course,” Mrs. Sweet began.
“Bachelor auctions?” Steph interjected with glee.
“Nonsense,” her grandmother said firmly. “That is crass. No one needs to buy men.”
“I don’t know, Eileen,” Mrs. Ludlow said on a sigh. “We’ve all been widowed a long time.”
Whitney barely withheld a snort of laughter at the image that invoked.
Mrs. Sweet’s eyes narrowed. “It would seem that your grandson would enjoy being part of a bachelor auction, Rosemary. He is putting himself on display lately, is he not?”
Steph’s eyes went round and she looked from one old woman to the next with anticipation.
Mrs. Thalberg inhaled deeply. “My grandson is incredibly talented. Geneva Iacuzzi wanted photos for her website. It is not his fault that his appeal is spreading.”
“It’s mostly my fault,” Whitney said, trying to redirect the tension. “He hesitated, but I told him it was a good idea for marketing purposes.”
“And he’s so talented, Grandma,” Emily said, leaning forward eagerly. “Monica says that since the first article mentioning her store, she has so many more customers, and they’re not just buying Josh’s work.”
“That is wonderful, of course,” Mrs. Sweet said.
“Maybe it’ll help sell your work, too, Grandma,” Steph said, gingerly lifting a scone off the tray, then pausing at the sudden lengthy silence. “What?”
“You have somethin’ on consignment at Monica’s store, Eileen?” Mrs. Palmer asked, her expression gleeful. “I had no idea you dabbled in crafts.”
“You act as if I’ve been hiding something, Renee.”
“Not at all,” Mrs. Palmer said, drawing out the last word in her Western drawl. “So what do you make? Doilies?”
“I like doilies,” Emily said in a small voice.
“I paint vases,” Mrs. Sweet informed them.
Mrs. Thalberg and Mrs. Palmer looked disappointed.
“Now if I’ve satisfied your curiosity,” Mrs. Sweet turned to Steph, “let me show you the proper way to eat a scone. You break it, not cut it. Try it with clotted cream.”
“It looks kind of gross,” Steph said, “but I’ll try it.”
“Eileen and I once took a painting class together,” Mrs. Ludlow said. “She has quite the talent.”
“I’ve seen the vases,” Mrs. Thalberg said. “They’re lovely.”
Mrs. Sweet’s faint smile was her only acknowledgment of the praise.
“So the parish festival is this weekend,” Whitney said to no one in particular as she broke her own scone.
Emily smiled. “We’re all going. I’m sure Josh would love to bring you.”
“What do I wear?”
Emily frowned. “I haven’t even seen you in shorts.”
“I didn’t bring any except to work out in. But I do have short, casual skirts.”
“Perfect. What about cowboy boots?”
“Uh… no. My riding boots are at home.”
“Then you and I need to head into Aspen for a quick shopping trip tomorrow morning. My dad took me to this great store when I first moved here.”
Mrs. Sweet looked up. “Joseph is so thoughtful.”
Emily’s smile was all soft and tender. “He is,” she said quietly. “I’m very lucky that you raised such a wonderful son.”
Whitney knew that Emily hadn’t known she had a biological father different than the dad who’d died when she was a little girl. Emily was now being exposed to the wonders of a thoughtful dad. Much as Whitney still had her own father, she felt a little… jealous. Her dad’s idea of taking her shopping meant handing her a credit card as the limousine dropped her off at Bloomingdale’s. He had continued with his phone conversation without even a wave good-bye.
“So how’s the job going at the cafe?” Emily asked Steph, as they both worked on a second scone.
Steph made a face. “I don’t know what’s going on there. I’ve tried to be as patient as I can, but I can’t keep covering so many tables, nor picking up extra shifts, now that school is about to start. They could hire more people, but they won’t.” She hesitated. “I’m thinking of quitting, but I’m worried I won’t be able to find another job easily. And I need to save for college.”
Whitney watched Mrs. Sweet open her mouth, then close it, and found herself impressed by the woman’s restraint. It would obviously be easy for her to solve all her granddaughter’s problems and offer her a job at the inn.
Emily gave Steph an encouraging nod as she chewed her scone.
“So I was wondering…” Steph began slowly, “ . . . if maybe you have an opening at the bakery?”
Emily’s smile burst from her like a sunrise. “Yes, I do! I would love it if you’d come work with me!”
She slung her arms around her sister’s neck, and the two shared a brief hug that made all the other women smile with tenderness, their tension forgotten. Mrs. Sweet even dabbed at the corner of her eye, and Mrs. Palmer slipped her a tissue. Everyone knew how rocky Emily and Steph’s relationship had been at first, when Steph had discovered she wasn’t Daddy’s only little girl. Now, to see how close they were becoming, well, it made Whitney hope for a better relationship with her own family.
So before calling Josh that evening, she called her mom, filling her in on the news that she’d just bought the building, and would be staying a while to oversee the renovations—and to keep seeing Josh, but she didn’t mention that. To her surprise, her mom was actually in Manhattan, instead of off in Europe as she often was that time of year. And instead of sounding vaguely distracted, she seemed… distractedly worried, but Whitney couldn’t get anything more out of her.
When their phones disconnected, she stared at hers a moment, wondering what was going on.
That night, as Josh was working late over a piece of leather, looking through a magnifying glass, his cell phone rang. He gave it an irritated glance until he saw it was from Whitney.
Answering it quickly, he said, “Hey, Whitney.”
“Hey, Josh.”
Just the sound of her voice made him close his eyes and imagine her with him.
“Am I interrupting you?” she continued.
“Not a bit.”
She seemed to blow out a breath. “Did you hear about the Afternoon Tea your grandmother and friends attended with me?”
“Nope, I haven’t seen her today.”
“Well, let’s just say… Mrs. Sweet was there, too.”
“The elder Mrs. Sweet?”
“The same.”
“Fireworks?” he asked, grinning.
“Not too bad. But they did mention a parish festival this weekend, and how I just wouldn’t get to know Valentine without attending.”
“Are you asking me out?”
“Nope. This cannot possibly be our big date. I asked you to the museum, and I barged in on your Robbers’ Roost night at Tony’s to claim a dance. I do believe I’m doing most of the work in this relationship.”
He chuckled and turned about on the stool so he could lean back against his workbench. “So it’s a relationship now?”
“A courtship—those were your words. I’m not feeling very courted right about now.”
“Then let me make up for my terrible neglect—”
“And your use of me in a business capacity as your agent,” she pointed out.
“I will make up for that, too. There’s a church festival this weekend.”
“Really? How fascinating!”
He smiled. “Would you like to attend with me?”
“A group date again?”
“Some of my friends might be there.”
“Those weren’t the groupies I was talking about. No more women chasing you down the street?”
“I haven’t left the ranch. Too busy working for various slave drivers. I’ll pick you up around three. Most of the fun begins in the evening, but you can’t miss the Married Women Race.”
“The what?”
“It’s a holdover from the early 1900s. They used to actually have a race called that. St. John’s brought it back. Emily entered.”
“Oh, she forgot to mention that! Someone to cheer for. See you then, Josh.”
“Wait, you can’t hang up. What about phone sex?”
Her laugh was throaty and wicked. “No phone sex during courtship. Good night, Josh.”