I blinked. Not Ramon. Not Julio. “Dale?”
“Yes, he plays the Irish whistle,” Owen said.
“I didn’t know!”
“He’s also a mean hand on the bodhran.”
That was a kind of drum, I believed. “Not too rowdy, please,” I said as I wrote Dale’s name next to Owen’s on my notepad.
“We’ll keep it sedate. What time would you want us?”
“Eleven to six, if that’s not too much. Three seatings. You can play the same set for each one, and include substantial breaks. We have half an hour between seatings for changeover.”
“So, a two-hour set? Or one and a half?”
“One and a half should be plenty. We can have recorded music during your breaks.”
“Entirely doable. I’ll talk to Dale about rehearsing.”
“Thank you!”
“Where will we be playing?”
“In the hall, by the stairs. Where Ramon was for the Masquerade, if you remember?”
“Ah, yes. That will work, I think. I’ll come look, and if there’s not enough room for the concert harp, I’ll bring the large Celtic one.”
“Sounds good.”
“Do you want amplification?”
“Um, I guess so.” Ramon had used a little amp. “Just enough to reach the parlors.”
“We could check it the weekend before. Do our final rehearsal in the tearoom, if that works for you.”
“Yes, that would be fine. Maybe the Monday before?”
“Okay. I’ll go over all the details with Dale. If you’d tell him about the gig, and that he has your blessing?”
“I will. Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
I said goodbye and checked the call off on my list, thinking that pleasure was a word I very much associated with Owen. He was deeply interested in pleasure.
Well, in a way, so was I. The tearoom was designed for it—it was our signature. We worked hard to give our customers enjoyment through the furnishings, the ambiance, the tea, and the service.
Next on the list was Mr. Hidalgo. I wrote “wait” by his name, because I wanted to know the condition of the pistol ball—or if it even was a pistol ball—before talking to him.
The next couple of calls were business-related. I dealt with them, crossed them off, and decided I had earned my reward: some of that Wisteria Tearoom signature pleasure with Nat and Claudia.
The kitten was napping. I checked that she had everything she needed, then looked in on Kris. “I’m heading downstairs for my tea. Need anything?”
“No, I’m good. Thanks.”
“See you in a couple of hours.”
A murmur of voices rose to meet me as I came down the stairs. It was almost eleven, and early arrivals were waiting in the hall or browsing the gift shop. I glanced into the butler’s pantry—very busy with the servers brewing tea—then went up to the shop.
My arrival created a bit of a stir, as several of the waiting guests were regulars and wanted to say hello. I greeted them all and drifted closer to the fireplace, which was back-to-back with the one shared by Dahlia and Violet. The fire’s warmth was delightful, and I stood chatting there until Nat and Claudia came in, both looking splendid.
Claudia was the picture of silvery grace in a gray linen skirt and jacket over a white silk blouse, with a little matching gray pillbox hat and white gloves. Nat wore her (second) wedding dress, a red velvet ensemble in traditional Navajo style, with a classic silver-and-turquoise squash blossom necklace. She and I had made that dress together in her living room, along with my matching blue one, which would have been a more sensible choice than lace this morning, I reflected. Ah, well.
I greeted Claudia and Nat with hugs and led them back to Dahlia, exchanging a glance with Dee who stood at the hostess stand waiting to take guests to their alcoves. She smiled and nodded as the mantel clock in the main parlor chimed the hour, a sound I could just make out through the chatter.
The fire flickered softly, partly hidden by the curtain that separated Dahlia from Violet. My mind went to the upcoming changes: Dahlia would no longer share the view of the fireplace. Instead it would be small and cozy, while Violet would be larger with the focus centered on the fireplace and the portrait of Vi above it. Both alcoves would be better for it, though I wanted to come up with something special for Dahlia in place of the fire. Iris, in the main parlor, had a window to compensate, but Dahila had none. I’d have to think about that.
Dee came through leading a party of three young women, chattering as they went, to Violet. They even were more lightly attired than I was—one of them had on a sleeveless dress and sandals—but they were too excited to be here to notice the chill, I supposed. The fire would soon warm them.
Soon after Dee went back out, Iz brought in a pot of tea and poured the first cup for us, then went away again, promising to bring our tray shortly. The gentle aroma of Darjeeling wafted up from my cup, and I inhaled a deep breath before sipping.
“Ah, this is lovely,” Claudia said. “I’ve been wanting this meal ever since I smelled it all day last weekend.”
“Well, you earned it!” I said. “Thank you so much for your help.”
“It was fun. I’d have done it for free.”
“Me, too!” Nat said, picking up her cup.
That was generous of her, I knew. Nat had given up a lot of time to the tearoom lately. More than she wanted to. I paid her, just as I had paid Claudia and Andre, but she didn’t really need the money and would no doubt be glad to have more free time once we hired the gift shop manager.
“Well, I wouldn’t expect anyone to work for us for free,” I said. “We’re a business, we can afford to pay our staff.”
“True,” Claudia said. “Volunteering has its rewards, though. I started as a volunteer at the Trust.”
I added a little milk to my tea. “Did you?”
Nat chuckled. “Yes, and then Sylvia wheedled her into joining the staff.”
“Sylvia was good at wheedling.” Claudia nodded.
“I knew what she was up to,” Nat said. “She tried to get me to volunteer too, but I did my time as a candy striper back in the day.”
I hadn’t heard of that. “Candy striper?”
“Yes, helping in the hospital,” Nat said. “I did it when I was a teenager. Now they’re just called volunteers, since there are more boys doing it. But we used to wear these candy-striped pinafores. We’d help deliver mail and meals to the patients, or just keep them company when they didn’t have visitors.”
“I didn’t know you did that!”
“It was long ago, when I was in school. Before you were born.”
Iz slipped through with a teapot for Violet, where the young ladies were still chattering. I finished my tea and lifted the cozy from our pot, offering a warm-up to the others before filling my cup.
“Claudia,” I said, “I know you’re busy with the Trust, but now that you’ve seen how our gift shop runs, do you know of anyone who might like to manage it? We’re looking for full-time.”
“Hm. No one comes to mind immediately, but I’ll think about it.”
“Thanks.”
Our tea tray arrived, and we busied ourselves with consuming the savories. I went for the bastilla first, since they were warm from the oven. A delightful morsel of chicken and almonds, cinnamon and powdered sugar, bundled in crispy filo pastry. Blissfully messy.
“Have you decided which opera you’ll be seeing this summer?” Claudia asked me.
“Oh—no, I haven’t had time to look at it.”
“Better do it soon. The prices are about to go up.”
“Thanks for reminding me. It’s been, well, busy as you know.”
Nat picked up a slice of baguette spread with brie. “What are you planning for the tearoom’s anniversary?”
“Oh, I’m just toying with ideas so far—nothing concrete.”
“But a party?” Claudia said. “Or just a special menu?”
“I think we’ll have an event, yes.”
“With music?”
“Yes.”
“Manny can connect you with the mariachis,” Nat said, with a laughing sidelong glance at me.
“Thanks. I was thinking more string-quartet.”
Or maybe harp, but I didn’t want to impose on Owen again so soon after St. Patrick’s Day. His performance here would amount to volunteering, since he, too, needed no extra income.
I am surrounded by kind and generous people, I reflected. Sipping tea, I dwelt silently on how grateful I was to all of them.
“How are the wedding plans coming?” Nat asked.
“That’s right!” Claudia said, turning to me. “Congratulations!”
“Oh, thanks! They’re, coming,” I said. “Still looking for a venue.”
“Not in church?” Claudia asked.
“No, she wants outdoors,” Nat said, shooting me another sidelong glance. “You should check with the Opera,”
I gave her a quelling look. “Much too big. I’m thinking more like a garden somewhere.”
“The new museum has a nice courtyard,” Claudia suggested.
New was a relative term; the new building at the New Mexico History Museum had opened several years ago, behind the Palace of the Governors. Another modern intrusion on Captain Dusenberry’s former domain, Fort Marcy Post.
“Hm. I hadn’t thought of that,” I said. “I’ll walk over and look at it.” I needed to talk to Bennett Cole at the museum anyway, about donating Maria Hidalgo’s letters.
“Might be a bit public,” Nat said. “But it’s worth a look.”
“Thanks,” I told Claudia, and picked up the pot to refill her cup.
We continued to chat as we worked our way through the scones and sweets and subsequent pots of tea. Our two hours passed swiftly, and before we knew it Iz brought us warm, lavender-scented towels for our hands. Nat took a deep sniff of hers before wiping her fingers.
“Ahh. The perfect lagniappe,” she said.
I gave a comfortable sigh as the lavender wafted around me. I was warm, well-fed, and for the moment I’d had enough tea.
“Thank you both for joining me, and for all of your help.”
“You know it’s our pleasure,” Nat said.
Pleasure. I smiled. That was the word of the day.
Having indulged myself, I was determined to be virtuous for the rest of the day. I caught Dale in a spare moment and told him about the music plan. He was delighted. I checked in with Kris, who informed me the drapers were coming the next morning to measure for the new alcove drapes. Then I stationed myself at my desk, where I spent the early afternoon catching up on neglected to-dos that were lower priority. We were finally getting back to normal—sort of—after Valentine’s. The tearoom was still busy, but no longer crazy.
Gina texted me a second list of potential wedding venues, which guilted me into looking at her first list. Mostly hotels, several of which I’d already considered. None appealed. I looked at her new list, with the same result.
I’d better check out the museum courtyard. It was too late today, and I wasn’t dressed for walking. Tomorrow was Friday, bound to be busy, but maybe I could slip away for a break.
The other possibility was Hyde State Park, on the road up to the ski hill and, incidentally, to Ten Thousand Waves. Closer to town that street was called Artist Road—and gave access to the townhome that would be my new home—but the name became Hyde Park Road farther up.
I spent a mental moment luxuriating in a hot tub at 10k Waves. Time to schedule another visit, I thought, sighing with longing for pine trees, blue skies, and the gentle sound of water. And maybe a hot stone massage.
There was a hot tub at the townhome, though. And Tony was there. I hadn’t seen him in a couple of days, because he was having one of those weeks where he was intently involved in an investigation and basically non-verbal about everything else. I sent him a text asking if he’d like to meet for dinner Friday evening. He’d probably say no.
I could just go over to the townhome tonight. Pack an overnight bag, surprise Tony.
Except he didn’t love surprises.
Another sigh. What I really should do was start packing to move. I felt reluctant to do so, mostly because I didn’t like moving. But I had to start preparing, because my uncle Manny was bringing his truck to move my bed and the dining table on Sunday.
I looked up at the sloping ceiling above my desk, and the stained glass ceiling lamp I’d indulged in when I moved in. Quirky old Victorian house. I’d enjoyed living here. I would miss it.
None of which was work.
I blinked, coming back from the rabbit-hole I’d wandered down. Looking at my list, I was about to pick up my desk phone when my cell rang. A hope that it was Tony died when I looked and saw that the caller was Owen.
“Hi, Ellen,” he said when I answered. “I’m downstairs. Do you have a minute to come talk?”
“Sure.”
Talking with Owen was work, in this case. It was also pleasure, but because it was work I needn’t feel guilty about abandoning my less attractive chores and going downstairs.
Owen was standing at the foot of the staircase, in the space where he’d be playing on St. Patrick’s Day, and with him was Dale looking natty as always in his work attire: dress shirt and slacks, brocade vest, and bow tie. Today the color palette was muted blues with touches of green in the brocade.
The mantel clock in the main parlor happened to chime as I arrived. I paused, and Owen and Dale both stood still, looking toward the parlor and reminding me strongly of the masquerade, where everything had come to a stop when the clock chimed the hour. Ghosts of fantastical costumes flitted through my memory, including Owen in a jewel-encrusted frock coat and a mask of leaves.
The Westminster chimes concluded, and the clock struck the hour: three o’clock. The second seating had half an hour to go. With guests taken care of, Dale had a little time to spare.
“Hi, Ellen,” Owen said, turning toward me as the sound of the clock faded. He was wearing his black wool coat over a gray turtleneck and black jeans, long hair caught back with a silver sandcast clip. All the dark clothing was rather stark, but his smile did away with any sense of gloom. “There’s enough room for us here, but we’re kind of going to block the stairs a bit,” he said. “Will there be a lot of traffic on them?”
“Not usually. Kris and I may come and go.”
“I can be on this side,” Dale said, stepping to the foot of the staircase. “I’ll need something to hold my instruments, but it can be against the wall and I’ll stand, so I can step out of the way if I need to.”
Owen moved in line with the banister and a couple of paces to the west. “Then the harp will be here.”
“Is there enough room for the concert harp?” I asked.
“Yes, the biggest issue is front-to-back space, because I have to lean it back to play, and there’s plenty of room that way.” He gestured toward the south wall. It looked like he and Dale might be a little cozy, but they wouldn’t completely block the stairs, and they’d be out of the traffic in the hallway.
“I wanted to check now because the musical arrangements differ between the concert harp and the Celtic,” Owen said. “I need to know which way to rehearse.”
“Well, I suppose the Celtic harp would be perfectly appropriate,” I said.
“True, but the concert harp is more versatile. And the sound will carry farther.”
“Ah. Then that’s better.”
“Speaking of which, the room that will get the least sound acoustically is the dining parlor,” Owen said, taking a couple of steps in that direction and gesturing. “Would it be all right to place a speaker about here?”
He was standing roughly midway along the side of the staircase.
I bit my lip. “I’m concerned about cables being a trip hazard.”
“It would be a Bluetooth speaker. Cordless.”
“Oh. I suppose that would be all right, as long as no one kicks it by mistake.”
“Better to tuck it at the back of the stairs,” Dale said, moving there and indicating where he meant, the dead space behind the staircase. “The servers come and go along the hall, but if it’s here it will be out of the way.”
“That should work,” I said.
Owen nodded. “Good call.” He turned to me. “Do you have time to go over some music? I’ve got a preliminary list.”
“All right,” I said. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“Can Dale join us?”
Iz emerged from the butler’s pantry, carrying the chimes we used to warn guests that their teatime was coming to an end. She stepped into the main parlor and began playing them.
“I’d better check on my alcoves,” Dale said. “I can come up in a few minutes, when they’re gone.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Bring some scones. I’ll make tea in the meantime.”
He grinned. “Yes, ma’am!”
As Owen and I started up the stairs, I smiled. Spur-of-the moment cream tea, an easy way to pamper my guest. The kitchen always made a few extra scones.
Not that I needed more scones today, but one more wouldn’t hurt me.
Maybe I should walk over to the museum after all. Or jog.
I led Owen to the seating area by the front window. “Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll make us some tea and be right back.”
“Thanks,” he said, taking off his coat.
“Let me hang that up for you.”
The coat rack was by the top of the stairs. I put Owen’s coat on a hook, then stepped to the samovar to check that it had enough hot water to brew another pot. It did, so I went across to my suite and put some oolong into my larger teapot, filled it from the samovar and left it steeping while I set up a tray. I chose three teacups from my small personal collection of absolute favorites: wisteria for me, green leaves for Owen, malachite and gold art deco for Dale. To these I added small plates for the scones, milk and sugar, silverware, lace-edged napkins (serviettes, the British called them, as “napkin” had an unfortunate different meaning in the U.K.).
I loved tea things. The array of pretty china made me smile. I dropped a cozy over the teapot and added it to the tray along with the timer, then carried everything out to the window area, where Owen had made himself comfortable in an armchair.
“Wow, I wasn’t expecting a feast,” he said as I set the tray on the low table.
“It’s just cream tea.”
“It’s not ‘just’ anything. This is elaborate!”
“Well, elaborate is what I do, I suppose.”
He gave a delighted smile. “And that is why I admire you.”
I checked the timer—tea almost ready—and kept it in my hand so I could turn it off quickly.
“When will you be joining Tony?” Owen asked. He meant when would I be moving in.
“This weekend we’re moving my bed and the dining table. And the cat.”
“Ah. The essentials. Whither the cat goes, is home.”
I chuckled.
“Wait, do you mean the dining table downstairs?” he asked. “In the Captain’s room?”
“Yes. It was my mother’s. We’re making some changes to the parlor.”
“I am all anticipation!”
The timer began to chirp. I shut it off and removed the infuser from the teapot.
This weekend would be nuts. Not only were we moving the big pieces out, and (I hoped) extracting the pistol ball from the wall, but I had to move furniture in to the dining parlor, to accommodate the few reservations we had for it until the changeover to alcoves was complete.
Dale arrived carrying a plate of scones, curd, and cream. He settled beside me on the sofa, putting the scones on the table. The complex aroma of oolong arose as I poured the tea and handed cups to Owen and Dale.
Owen closed his eyes and inhaled the fragrant steam. “Ahh. Lovely. What is this?”
“Iron Goddess of Mercy,” Dale said, smiling. “My fave.”
“Indeed? That would be Kwan Yin.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s also called Ti Kwan Yin.” I took a sip, pausing first to appreciate the aroma as Owen had done.
“Bodhisattva of Compassion,” Owen added.
I glanced at him and found him watching me with a small smile. Setting down my cup, I offered him the scones, then passed them to Dale.
“Thanks, Ellen,” Dale said, putting a scone on his plate along with dollops of curd and cream. “I forgot to bring lunch.”
“Did the kitchen not make lunch today?”
“They did, but it was soup, and I didn’t have a lot.”
“Take another, then.”
He grinned and did so. I took a scone myself, pulled it apart, decorated one half with a dab of lemon curd, and looked out of the window as I savored a bite. Clouds were gathering out beyond the rooftops. Not enough for a storm, I judged, but they would make a pretty sunset.
For a few minutes we enjoyed our tea and scones in companionable silence. When Owen took the last sip from his cup, I picked up the teapot and filled it again.
“Thank you,” he said. “This tea is exquisite. Would it be sacrilege to add milk and sugar?”
“Not at all. It’s your cup, do as you wish!”
He did so, then sat back comfortably, stirring with his small, silver spoon. I filled my own cup and topped up Dale’s, surreptitiously watching Owen enjoying his tea. He closed his eyes again, smiling.
“Bliss,” he said, setting down the cup. “Now, let me tell you what I’ve got so far.” He took out his phone and brought up a list. “We should begin with ‘Brian Boru’s March,’ I think. Get the Irish rolling.”
“Bodhran?” Dale asked.
“Flute, I think,” Owen said, glancing at me. “Maybe a little bodhran at the end.”
“Tearoom,” I said, looking at Dale. “Peaceful.”
Dale gave a mischievous grin, then nodded. “Yes, Mistress.”
Owen read off his list, explaining any titles I didn’t recognize, singing a few bars now and then. When Dale joined in with him, adding a lilting harmony to a traditional air I didn’t know, Kris came out of her office.
“Rehearsing already?”
“Just choosing the music,” Owen said.
“Would you like some cream tea?” I asked, not wanting her to feel excluded.
Kris smiled. “Sure. I’ll get my cup.”
She fetched her favorite black corset cup and saucer from her office, and sat in the chair next to Dale, across from Owen. I supplied her with tea and gave her the plate bearing the last scone, then returned my attention to Owen. His knowledge of Irish music was clearly deeper than mine. The list he’d drafted ranged from Turloch O’Carolan to Enya, and from folk to classical. It would be a lovely set.
“And that’s what I’ve got so far,” he said, putting down his phone and picking up his teacup. “I think it’s about thirty-five, forty minutes.”
“I notice the absence of ‘Danny Boy,’” I remarked.
Owen grimaced. “If you insist.”
“I don’t, but you might get requests for it.”
“We can do it at the end,” Dale said. “That’ll leave them sighing.”
Kris laughed.
“No,” Owen said, “because the final song must be ‘The Parting Glass’. But very well, we’ll include Danny.”
“Would you sing it?” I asked tentatively.
“I’d rather not.”
“I will,” Dale said, then looked at Owen. “If that’s okay.”
Owen quirked an eyebrow. “We’ll try it out. ”
“Should we charge extra that day?” Kris asked. “For the music?”
I looked at her. “Do we have any bookings?”
“We do, and I’ll grandfather those at the regular price if you want. But the minute word gets out about the music, guarantee you we’ll sell out.”
I sipped my tea, thinking. Would it be greedy to raise the price? I hadn’t planned to, but we had charged extra for Valentine’s Day. And I would be paying Owen, and possibly an extra server since Dale would be making music. And we did have new expenses coming up.
“Maybe Julio can add a special treat to the menu for that day,” I said. “Then we could bump the price a little.”
Kris nodded. “I’ll consult with him.”
I uncovered the teapot and lifted the lid. A little tea was left. I divided it between Owen and Dale, since Kris and I had access to the pot on the samovar.
“Thank you for coming, Owen,” I said, putting down the pot. “I think it’s a lovely set.”
“Well, it will be, I hope. At the moment it’s a theoretical set. Dale, when would you like to start rehearsing?”
The phone in Kris’s office rang while they were sorting out the details. She excused herself and went to answer it, taking her teacup with her. I gathered the teapot and small plates onto the tray, adding my wisteria teacup.
Dale swallowed the last of his tea and handed me his cup. “Thanks, Ellen. I’d better get back downstairs.”
“Yes. Thank you, Dale,” I added as he picked up the scones plate and headed for the stairs.
Owen was leaning back in his chair, swirling the last of his tea in the cup, gazing down at it with veiled eyes. I liked the way he took deep interest in his tea. There were times when I drank it without thinking, being distracted or hurried, and that was a pity, I decided. Maybe I’d work on paying better attention to my tea.
“This is going to make St. Patrick’s special,” I said. “Thank you for being willing to play.”
Owen looked up at me. “Thank you for the opportunity. I haven’t taken the grand harp out in years.”
“Is it difficult to transport?”
“Not really. I have a mattress in the back of the SUV, so all I have to do is pack it up and put it in.” He finished his tea and handed me the cup and saucer, which I added to the tray.
“I didn’t know you had an SUV,” I remarked.
“I keep it at the studio. It’s handy for moving big things. Speaking of which, do you need help with your move?”
I shook my head. “My uncle is bringing his truck, so we should be fine, but thank you.”
He smiled. “I’ll look forward to welcoming you home, then. And now I’d better get out of your way. Thank you for the delightful cream tea.”
I saw him to the top of the stairs and handed him his coat, then said goodbye and stepped into my office to check for new messages. Nothing urgent, and Kris was still on the phone. I fetched the tea tray and took it to my suite, where I washed up the china and silver. When everything was put away, I returned to my desk and started a to-do list for the next day.
Drapers to measure: I should be available to discuss the new placements with them. They were coming at nine, before we opened.
Furniture for the dining parlor: Nat and I were going shopping in the afternoon, starting with antique and consignment places. Not the best timing since Friday would be busy, but it had to be done. We needed to set up the new alcoves for next week.
On a separate slip of paper, I started a list of what to look for. We had the chairs and tables from Hyacinth and Poppy, and the original chairs from Marigold-that-was, but we’d need two more chairs and two low tables to provide enough seating for eight.
I could use the wing chairs from my suite, I supposed, but at least one of those would be going to the townhome, eventually. They were my comfort chairs, upholstered in dark green velvet. I could curl up in one and pretend I was in a mossy forest nook.
Until the new drapes were done, we’d need dividers for the new alcoves. Fortunately, I’d kept all the screens from the main parlor when we switched to the drapes. They were out in the shed, and the Poppy and Hyacinth screens were here upstairs.
I glanced toward the hall, thinking about the Hyacinth screen, which I’d placed to divide the front seating area from the rest of the hall. I liked having that separation; maybe I’d keep it. Or I could bring one of the other screens up from the shed. The Hyacinth screen—a floral tapestry of blue and purple and green—went perfectly with the soft blue Hyacinth chairs and really established the garden mood of that alcove, plus it would no doubt please our regulars to see it again. I’d probably keep it there even after the new drapes went in, unless it clashed with the wisteria fabric.
I got up and stepped into Kris’s office. “Can you show me that fabric for the drapes again?”
“Sure,” she said, and brought it up with a few keystrokes. “They agreed to give us a discount for a bulk order, by the way. And they’ll quote it both ways—just the new drapes, and the whole tearoom.”
“Wonderful!” I gazed at her monitor, trying to fix the image in my head, then stepped to the doorway to look out at the Hyacinth screen. The two together might be too busy. “Can they bring a sample of the fabric tomorrow?” I asked.
“They’re going to,” Kris said.
“Perfect. Thanks.”
Returning to my desk, I glanced at my list and added look at museum courtyard to the bottom. I probably wouldn’t get to that one on Friday. Sorry, Gina.
It was almost five-thirty. Downstairs, the final seating would be winding down. I decided to get a little exercise and go down to check on the tearoom.
Two women and a young girl were in the hallway, putting on their coats. I slipped past them with a smile and a nod, and headed to the gift shop. A vision in bright pink and purple brought me up short in the doorway: the Bird Woman, standing by the seasonal table and holding the last of the black heart mugs. Her dress was hot pink with bell sleeves, and her hat was a matching pink with an explosion of purple feathers coming out of the top, looking rather like a giant, upside-down fuchsia blossom. Her purple gloves and the wide sleeves made it look like her arms ended in two more blossoms.
“Hiya, Ellen,” she called, catching sight of me. “When are you going to put out your Irish stuff?”
“Oh—ah, probably on the first?”
“Got any pots of gold? I need a dozen.”
“Pots of gold? I don’t think so.”
“Eh, I’ll get ’em at the craft store, I guess. Wanted to ask you first, though.”
“That’s kind of you,” I said.
“When’s the wedding? I don’t want to miss it,” she said. “My calendar gets filled up fast.”
Oh dear. She was expecting to be invited.
“In September,” I said, somewhat evasively. “We haven’t booked a venue yet.”
“Better get on it. All the hotels go fast.”
“We’ll have it outdoors, I think. I haven’t found the right place yet.”
“Outdoors?”
“Yes, I’m looking for a place with a garden. Or maybe a park.”
I was babbling, I realized. I stepped up to the table and rearranged the heart boxes, seeking equilibrium. The Bird Woman still flustered me. She was kind and generous to a fault, but her behavior was—unpredictable. That continued to knock me off balance.
I glanced up at her, since she was uncharacteristically silent. She was gazing at me thoughtfully.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, nodding.
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
“Got any more of these left?” She held up the mug.
“That’s the last one,” I said.
“I’ll take it.”
She stepped to the counter and handed the mug to Dale, who was standing there. He shot me a glance, and got out a sheet of lavender tissue to wrap it in.
I took a deep breath, managed a smile, and withdrew. Heading back to the kitchen, I found Mick there alone, washing china. Julio and Hanh had gone home.
I stood in the center of the room between the work tables, deliberately taking slow, deep breaths. The Bird Woman would not bring chaos to my wedding. I could fend off any well-meaning attempts to help. A vision of a wedding in the middle of a theme park flashed through my mind, with dancing animal-costumed people and a mariachi band. I swiftly banished it.
This was my wedding, or rather Tony’s and mine, and no one else would make it into something we didn’t want. Not the Bird Woman, not Gina. No one.
Tony’s voice was missing from the plans, come to think of it. Maybe he wasn’t interested, but I ought to discuss it with him. Past tradition made the wedding the responsibility of the bride’s family, but I wanted us to step into marriage as equal partners. I wanted it to be Tony’s wedding as much as mine.
He had commented that he’d just as soon go to a Justice of the Peace, which implied that he didn’t care about ceremony and tradition. He was willing to go with whatever I wanted, but since he would be in the middle of it, I wanted to make sure he was comfortable—as comfortable as he could be. I suspected his cop-self would be on guard in the midst of a gathering. It wouldn’t be huge, but we had family and friends to include, and the guest list would probably approach a hundred people.
Invitations. Oh, argh. We needed to finish the guest list. I really had to talk with Tony, as soon as he had the time.
A small clink of china roused me, and I realized I was staring out the window. Dusk was falling outside. I suddenly wanted to curl up with a book by a fire, but I had too much to do.
Turning, I saw Mick dancing to music I couldn’t hear. He paused to place a clean cup carefully in the rack. That gentle, mindful movement calmed me. Leaving him to his work, I went upstairs.
Kris was on her way out, and we traded farewells at the top of the stairs. I went into my office. Minuit began to cry for her supper, and I gave her a treat to appease her while I tidied my desk and shut down my computer.
The few new messages could all wait. No response to my text from Tony. Disappointed, I knew it meant that he was focused on his work and wouldn’t relish interruption.
Collecting Minuit from her playpen, I hugged her for comfort as I went across to my suite. I fed her, then changed into comfortable (warmer) clothes and made myself a virtuous salad for dinner. As I ate it at the small café table, I looked around the suite, remembering all the work I’d done setting it up: painting, choosing furniture and decorations, creating a “fireplace” of candles beside the brick wall of the chimney. The first time we’d made fires downstairs, the candles had all melted because I’d put them too close to the chimney.
Three more nights here. I needed to get to work.
After cleaning up my dishes I went into my bedroom, put my big suitcase on my bed, and opened my wardrobe to choose clothes for the next week. It meant thinking about what I’d be wearing to work all week, and what I wanted to wear at home.
Home. The meaning of the word was changing. This suite would still be my space, but it would no longer be my home. My desk would go in here where the bed was, and I’d be leaving the stained glass ceiling lamp in my old office for Kris, who would love it, I was sure.
Maybe I’d get a new stained glass lamp for in here? There was no ceiling fixture in this room. I’d have to get an electrician in to wire it up.
That could wait. There were a hundred more urgent tasks to be done. I pulled out my dresses for the week and turned to put them in the suitcase.
Minuit was sitting in it, watching me with curious eyes.
“No, darling. You’re going on Sunday.”
I reached for her, but she hopped out of the case, evading my grasp. I folded the dresses into it and closed the lid to prevent her nesting in them, then went to my dresser for stockings, undergarments, and casual clothes.
When the suitcase was full, I set it by the door and took stock of what remained in the wardrobe and my dresser. The wardrobe was staying, since I had a huge closet at the townhome and wanted the storage space here, as well as the anchor of a familiar piece of furniture in its familiar place.
A long, flat, white box sat on the topmost shelf. I took it out, set it on the bed, and opened it. Soft silk and lace nestled in a bed of tissue paper. My wedding dress.
There were a million things to do before I would put this dress on and exchange vows with Tony. The wedding seemed far away, and also seemed to be approaching rather fast.
We’d get there. Smiling softly, I folded the tissue back over the dress and closed the box.
Manny’s truck was big enough for the bed and dresser as well as the dining table and chairs, I was pretty sure. Taking the bedroom furniture now would mean I probably wouldn’t have to bother him again.
I checked the time. Not quite eight. Plenty of time for more packing.
Music would help. Sorting through my old CDs, I put on a Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makum album that my father had given me when I was a teen, no doubt hoping to expand my musical horizons. I had liked it, and had all the songs memorized, but I hadn’t bothered to get more of their albums.
I fetched empty boxes from the storeroom behind Kris’s desk, took them back to my bedroom, and started filling them, dancing and sometimes singing along with the music. A couple of the songs were on Owen’s playlist for St. Patrick’s Day, including “The Parting Glass,” which came up just as I finished filling a box with shoes. I paused to appreciate the music.
A quiet song; a song of farewell. My heart welled with emotion as I listened. I sang softly along with the end of the final verse:
But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not,
I’ll gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be with you all.
Minuit hopped onto the bed and mewed. I put the shoes with the other boxes by the door and picked her up for a cuddle.
Now it felt real. I was moving. New home, new adventure. New life.
With Tony.
I checked my cell, but he hadn’t answered. It was not yet nine. If I took the suitcase and boxes over to the townhome, I wouldn’t be waking him up, and maybe I’d get a chance to see him.
Yes.
I gave Minuit some treats to distract her while I shifted things out into the hall, then collected coat, purse, keys and phone, and the box with my wedding dress. Locking Minuit in, I carried the dress down to my car, then fetched the suitcase and the other boxes. The tearoom was silent except for the little creaks of old wooden floors. I locked up and drove to the townhome.
The front porch light was on, crescent moon gleaming cheerfully, but Tony’s bike was not there. I used the garage door opener Owen had provided and parked in the one-car garage, closing the door before unloading the boxes.
The house was dark. I set the first box on the kitchen counter and turned on the light.
It looked lived in. The kitchen wasn’t dirty, but there was a cereal box on the counter and a small stack of unopened mail on the table. Also, two glasses in the sink.
I went over to look at them. They were the glasses we’d been using for whiskey. Manhattans, Mom had called them—I’d unearthed them from the storage shed, and they reminded me of my parents sipping drinks together by the fire. Quality glass, with a slight taper and a massive base for stability.
I opened the cupboard where Tony had put the whiskey and checked the bottle: almost empty. Either he’d been drinking a lot, or he’d had company.
To be fair, I’d helped him drink some of it. I was tempted to have some now. It was good whiskey, a welcoming gift from Owen.
Shaking my head, I fetched my box and carried it to the master bedroom, turning on lights as I went. Tony had already yielded the larger of the two closets to me, so I stacked the boxes inside it, then found my hangars and unpacked the suitcase so my clothes for next week wouldn’t get wrinkled.
I checked my phone. Almost ten. Still no Tony, and no text.
Bother.
The hot tub was calling me, but that would make me pretty late and I ought to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow would be busy. With a regretful glance toward the French doors, beyond which Santa Fe lay glittering, I turned out the lights and headed back to the tearoom.