I waited for several minutes, but the Captain played no more on the piano, and the chandelier remained motionless. Outside the French doors, the evening light was slanting, casting long shadows of the bare-branched trees along the driveway. Finally I went upstairs to collect Minuit and my toiletries.
She started calling as soon as she heard me on the stairs. Poor little kitty—so much noise and chaos! If I’d planned it better I would have moved her over to the new place in the morning. I took her out of the playpen and cuddled her as I turned to look at the upper hall.
The capstan table stood proudly encircled by all its chairs, fitting the space as if made for it. As it happened, the upstairs chandelier lined up perfectly with its center. Boy, would our staff meetings be elegant!
Of course, there was a clutter of furniture for the new alcoves shoved up against the wall. I’d deal with that tomorrow. Fishing my keys out of my pocket, I unlocked my suite—no longer my suite. The bedroom looked strange, empty as it was. Oddly, it looked smaller, perhaps because the sloping ceiling was now more visible.
“Mew,” Minuit said.
“Yeah. Let’s get you moved, sweetie.”
This involved a fair amount of work, including emptying the litter boxes and packing up her playpen, toys, and food. I gave her supper to keep her busy while I did all that and carried things down to my car. When I returned from the final trip, I found her standing in the middle of the empty bedroom. She looked up at me with a small, forlorn mew.
“You’re going to like the new place better, promise,” I told her.
I washed her bowl and put her in her carrier, then locked the suite (Why? Habit.) and carried her downstairs. She cried all through the short drive; she didn’t like riding in the car, even in her comfy carrier.
I took her into the townhome and set up her litter box in the laundry room and her playpen in the master bedroom, then put her in the playpen. I didn’t want her exploring unsupervised while I was at dinner, and it was almost six.
Taking out my phone, I walked over to the French doors in the bedroom. The sun was approaching the western horizon, and Santa Fe was already beginning to light up. Tony hadn’t responded to my text. With a sigh, I put away my phone and went to find the box with the canopy hangings for the bed. I’d have to make the bed, too, but that could wait until after dinner.
Monday morning, I woke up alone in my bed. The room was abnormally bright, and it took me a minute to realize why. Turning over on my back, I saw a glow of morning light from the French doors filling the room. I’d have to mount some drapes over them. In winter, the sun might get far enough south to shine directly in.
Tony hadn’t joined us for dinner. Nor had he joined me in the hot tub, where I had drunk the last bit of whiskey as I soaked my tired body in solitude. It felt blissfully good, and made me sleepy. I put on pajamas and made the bed, then fell into it.
Had to get up again at once, to release Minuit from her playpen in response to her strong complaints. Fell back into bed, and knew no more until morning. There had been a couple of thumps during the night, so Tony must have come home, but I hadn’t fully awakened.
Was this how it was going to be? Not all the time, surely. Or even most of the time, I hoped. Because otherwise, I wasn’t sure it would work.
With a frustrated sigh, I turned my head to look at what I already thought of as Tony’s pillow. There was a Minuit-shaped impression in it, but she was gone. I glanced at the clock: 8:16. Ai! I was late! Good thing it was Monday.
Feeling disinclined to dress up, especially since I would be moving furniture, I skipped the dresses I had carefully hung in my closet and dug in the boxes I had not yet unpacked until I found slacks and a pretty sweater. Walking down the hall to the kitchen I encountered Minuit sniffing at the crack under the closed door to Tony’s room. She looked up at me with a hopeful mew.
“Sorry. I don’t think he wants you in there.”
I fed her, then put some water in my electric kettle and turned it on. I’d have just one cup of tea here before going over to the tearoom.
After a cursory look in the fridge and the cupboards, I poured myself a bowl of Tony’s cereal for breakfast, put it on the table, then hunted for a notepad and pen to make a grocery list. I found them in the little mini-desk cubby near the door into the garage, and there was a note from Tony scrawled on the pad:
Didn’t want to wake you. See you tonight.
Promising, but I wasn’t going to hold my breath. At times, Tony’s job ate his life.
I made my cup of tea and drank it while I made a list—mostly staples: flour, sugar, more cereal, more milk, cream, butter, bread, eggs, some cheese and deli turkey, stuff for salad. Enough for me, and presumably Tony, to survive on without eating out all the time. If I was going to be cooking dinner on a regular basis I’d need to start making meal plans, but it looked like that wasn’t going to be an issue this week.
I ate the cereal (uninteresting), tidied up, and found my coat. The list went into my purse; I’d pick all that up on the way home from the tearoom. With a farewell scritch for Minuit, who had shadowed me from room to room, I headed off to work.
The tearoom stood bathed in morning light, a sight I hadn’t seen often. Even the back of the house was pretty, the gentle blue of the pitched roof contrasting with warm beige adobe walls and the white frames of the windows and doors. Smiling, I went in through the kitchen door so I could say good morning to Julio and Hanh.
Hanh was putting flour into the big mixer. Julio was at the stove, creating something. Inter-esting savory aromas filled the room: onion, sage, some kind of cheese toasting.
“Ten o’clock?” I asked him, peeking over his shoulder into a pan of simmering onions.
He nodded, and I got out of the way. Upstairs I found that Kris had turned on the samovar and made a pot of Keemun, for which I was grateful, though I was a little embarrassed that she’d arrived before me. Resolving to do better from now on, poked my head into her office to say hello.
“Morning,” Kris replied, and nodded toward the hall. “Where’d you get the table?”
“Ah—well, it’s not mine. It’s Owen’s.”
She gave me a quizzical look. “Oh?”
I poured myself a cup of tea, sat in her guest chair, and gave her the whole story. By the end of it she was looking amused.
“Yeah, that’s Owen’s M.O. If you’re not careful, he’ll give it to you permanently.”
“I know. I won’t let him. But come see how it works.”
We went out to the hall and I demonstrated collapsing the table. “That is pretty awesome,” she said. “Can I try?”
I nodded. She opened it easily.
“We’ll keep it closed most of the time, I think,” I said. “You and I can use it for lunch if we’re eating in. I thought I’d leave it open for now, since we have a staff meeting tomorrow.”
The phone rang, and Kris went back to her desk. I refilled my teacup and settled at my own desk to check my messages. After dealing with the ones requiring immediate attention, I went down to pull screens out of the shed.
The first one went in front of the hole that Phillips had made. Four others I stacked against the wall, to be set up after the furniture was in. While I was bringing them in, Louie Cordova arrived to look at the hole in the wall. I moved the screen aside.
“Uh-huh,” he said, peering at the hole and touching the wall. “Should be easy to fix. When do you want me to come?”
“Maybe next Monday?”
He agreed, quoted me a price that sounded fair, and we shook hands. I saw him out, then checked my phone.
Almost ten. The rest could wait until after my meeting with Julio.
I nipped upstairs and fetched my travel mug from my suite, emptied the samovar teapot into it, started a fresh pot and dropped the timer on Kris’s desk, then grabbed a notebook and pen and went down to the kitchen.
Hanh glanced up from the work table where she was cutting scones as I came in. I smiled, then went to the break table. Julio was waiting for me there, with several small plates holding things for me to taste. Usually there were only a couple, but I had asked him for special items to add on St. Patrick’s Day. My mouth started watering at the sight of them.
He gave me a printed copy of his draft menu for March, and we went over it together. The savories all sounded good—watercress and cucumber sandwiches, shepherd’s pie, mushroom and onion pasties—none so exotic that I felt I should try them before approving them. For the special bread, Julio offered me an orangeish scone. On the plate beside it was a small shamrock piped out of butter.
“Cheddar scone,” he said. “The butter is optional, but we usually offer condiments with the breads.”
“Well, it looks adorable.” I tried a bite of the scone without butter. “Oh, Julio—that’s fabulous!”
He smiled as I put a dab of the butter on my second bite. “It’s pretty easy,” he said. “I had to tweak the recipe. The cheese pretty much takes the place of the butter.”
“Mmm.”
He offered me a taste of an Irish Butter Tea Cake, simple and delicious. The other sweets would be apple pie and a ginger snap. It was a lovely, hearty menu and a nice contrast from the more delicate February menu.
“Now, these are the ideas for additions for St. Patrick’s Day.” He set a plate before me with a miniature sandwich on it: two, maybe three bites. Looked like rye bread.
“Corned beef?” I said, picking it up and trying a small bite. An unexpected medley of flavors filled my mouth: sauerkraut and Swiss cheese and something spicy in addition to the corned beef. “Mm!”
“Yeah, it’s a Reuben,” Julio said. “I used a remoulade instead of thousand island, but if that’s too hot I can go back.”
“No, it’s wonderful! Oh, man, I want this for lunch.”
He smiled, and pushed another plate toward me. “Soda bread.”
Resisting the temptation to gobble the rest of the Reuben, I put it down and tried the soda bread. Not usually my favorite bread, but this one was nice and light with a sprinkling of currants. I spread some of the shamrock butter on it.
“If it’s too similar to our cream scones, we could leave the currants out,” Julio said.
“But I like the currants! It would be pretty plain without them.”
“Another option would be to replace the cream scones with this for the month.”
“Good idea! Let’s do that. Oh—but for cream tea, as well?”
“I thought we weren’t going to be doing cream tea.”
“We’ve got a few reservations that we’re going to go ahead and honor, and we’re going to offer it for carryout.”
“Ah. Well we can make some scones, too. Not difficult.”
“Good. People will still want to buy scones from the pastry case. Maybe offer a choice, for the cream tea?”
“Sure.”
He picked up the final plate and set it before me. On it was a little round cookie-looking thing with a peak of stiff whipped cream on top.
“Oat cake,” he said. “Actually Scottish, but I think we can get away with it.”
I picked it up and turned it this way and that. It held together, and the cream didn’t slop around. Not messy to eat. When I took a bite it was more delicate than I expected, with a buttery sweetness that was the perfect base for the cream, which had a little whiskey kick.
“Irish whiskey in the cream?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Perfect.” I brazenly ate the rest of it. “Yes, that’s lovely. Can we do them all?”
“Sure, especially if we sub in the soda bread for the cream scone. The sandwich is the most expensive item. The cream doesn’t take a whole lot of whiskey.”
“Let’s do it. Let Kris know how much to bump the price for St. Patrick’s to cover the additions.”
“Will do.”
We kicked around a few ideas for the April menu, which would be the tearoom’s first anniversary. I nibbled the rest of the samples while we talked, starting with the Reuben which I unabashedly devoured. When we had discussed all the ideas we had so far, I thanked Julio and went back upstairs, checked my desk, then turned to the task of setting up the alcoves.
Rugs first: two small ones from the former Poppy and Hyacinth went into Lilac and the new Hyacinth. Then the tables, one of the green wing chairs from my suite for Lilac until I could get something else, the Hyacinth chairs, and finally the Hyacinth screen.
Next: Poppy (mach 2) and Marigold (mach 2). The chairs were in the ground floor hall, so I didn’t have to carry them down the stairs, yay! My legs were getting tired already.
When I had the chairs situated, I set up two screens between them to make the corridor to Lilac and Hyacinth. The screens would be replaced by the new drapes, but for now we’d be able to use the alcoves.
I was tired, but I was almost done with this part. I brought down the tables for Poppy and Marigold. The new alcoves looked sparse, especially the larger two, but they were beginning to take shape. Some ornaments would help. I’d go raid my storage unit in the afternoon, but I was ready for a break.
Taking out my phone, I found a text from Gina and oh! It was past noon. No wonder I was hungry.
The thought of food brought my awareness to the mouth-watering smells that pervaded the hall. I followed my nose to the kitchen, where my dreams had come true: a plate holding three full-sized Reubens sat on the break table.
Julio glanced up from washing utensils as I came in. “Ready for lunch?”
“Oh, yeah! Thank you, Julio!”
“Hey, we had the ingredients. Might as well use ’em.” He moved to the table and invited me to serve myself with a wave of his hand.
“Are you joining us, Hanh?” I called.
“I brought my lunch,” she said, putting the lid on a container of scones, then picking it up and taking it to the freezer.
“Well, you’re welcome to sit with us if you like.”
“The other sandwich is for Kris, if she wants it,” Julio said, taking a seat across from me.
I called Kris and informed her that she did indeed want the sandwich awaiting her. Before putting away my phone, I glanced at Gina’s text:
How did you and Tony like Hyde Park?
Hyde Park. Oops.
Well, Tony wouldn’t have been able to come. I’d answer later. Meanwhile, I helped myself to a Reuben and dug in.
“Mm. Oh.” I swallowed a bite. “Julio, you’ll want to add this to your menu.”
He nodded, mouth full.
Hanh got out her lunch—a bento box of rice and veggies—and joined us at the table, where she demonstrated skillful use of her chopsticks. Evidence was mounting that she was a vegetarian.
Note to self: don’t offer Hanh corned beef.
Kris came in, saying, “I looked in the dining parlor. It’s looking good. Are you going to get more chairs?”
I nodded. “We’ll start with what we have. Two in each alcove is enough for cream tea, probably.”
“You could use some of the chairs from the conference table until you get more comfy chairs,” she said, sitting next to Julio and helping herself to a sandwich.
“Good idea,” I said.
Hanh looked up. “Conference table?”
Julio shot me a grin. Owen had told him, no doubt.
“Yes,” I told Hanh. “We have a new table upstairs. We’ll use it for the staff meeting tomorrow.”
She gave a nod and continued eating. I’d better post a note by the time clock about the meeting being upstairs, so the staff would see it when they checked in tomorrow morning.
Always something more to do.
After lunch I thanked Julio again with a hug, then got my coat and purse and drove to my storage unit. The sky had clouded over, and a brisk breeze had kicked up. Maybe we’d get some rain. It smelled like rain as I got out of my car and dug out the key to the unit. I left the door open for light and went in.
A whiff of dust was swept away by rain-scent from the doorway. I stood in the middle, where Dad’s sleeper sofa had been, and looked around. There were a couple of boxes of nick-knacks, I knew. I just needed to find them. Near the back, I spotted the big boxes marked CHINA.
Oh, right. Mom’s china. Well, not right now, but I did want to take it to the townhome. Maybe Owen would help. The boxes looked like they might fit in my Camry ... one at a time.
Never mind. I turned slowly, looking at each object until I figured out what it was. A little end table that had been in Dad’s study would do for one of the alcoves—probably Poppy, as it was slightly oriental-looking and would go with the cranes screen. I put it in the Camry’s back seat, as it was too tall for the trunk.
A four-foot-tall, skinny wooden case that had once held Mom’s collection of CDs might make a nice display for some pretty teacups, or some other little gewgaws. Back seat as well.
Still hadn’t found the ornaments, but a small rolled rug bundled in plastic caught my eye. I brushed the dust off the top and recognized the rug—a runner that had been in a short hallway in my parents’ house. Perfect for the passage back to Lilac and Hyacinth! I put it in the car.
Behind the garden furniture was a stack of smallish boxes, two of which were labeled “ornaments.” Bingo! I put them in the trunk and took a last look around for anything that might be useful for the alcoves. There was an arts-and-crafts table lamp that had been Dad’s, with a mica lamp shade. Very pretty, but it didn’t go with any of the alcoves. Still, it brought back fond memories.
Maybe Tony would like it. I put it in the car.
I had enough of a jumble to deal with for now, and I was starting to get caught up in reminiscing, so I locked the storage unit and returned to the tearoom. The end table went into Poppy, the skinny display case into Marigold, and I unwrapped the runner on the back portal, leaving the dusty bag outside to deal with later.
The rug fit perfectly in the space between Poppy and Marigold. Poppy now had two end tables, so I moved the thrift store one to Marigold.
That left the ornaments. I brought the boxes in and sat in my green chair in Lilac to go through them.
Memories wafted up as I unwrapped tissue paper from the items. The first box contained an iridescent glass globe in shades of purple and blue, a black-on-black pot from San Ildefonso Pueblo (probably valuable—I’d take it to the townhome), an amber-hued stained-glass snail with a light inside, and a ceramic rose blossom, white with yellow edges.
The snail had been Mom’s night light. I remembered gazing at it as I fell asleep after seeking refuge from nightmares in her arms.
In the second box were a small bronze stag sitting on the ground with its little forelegs tucked beneath its chest, a round box covered with red and gold beads (Poppy, for sure), a pair of bookends in the form of busts of a Grecian-looking man and woman, a lotus-shaped candle holder, and a white ceramic statuette of an Asian-looking woman.
Ah, yes. Kwan Yin, the Iron Goddess of Mercy. She might go on my desk—I wasn’t sure I wanted to share her with the tearoom guests, and risk her possibly being broken.
The rose and the candle holder went into Hyacinth, the globe into lilac, the beaded box and one of the busts into Poppy, the snail and the other bust into Marigold. The little stag fit perfectly on top of the skinny case.
I’d been thinking about putting teacups in that case. We had some chipped ones from the gift shop—unsellable, but perfectly good for decorations—that would do for now. I dug them out from under the displays, unwrapped them, and put one in each little shelf. The result was charming.
The alcoves still looked sparse. They would need more décor and furniture, but there were now a few homey touches in each. Good enough for starters.
Poppy was looking pretty good, with its screen, chairs, and beaded standing lamp. Hadn’t there been a teapot we used as a vase?
Yes! There were other ornaments too, from Poppy and Hyacinth, in boxes somewhere. The storeroom, maybe? I’d find them.
Glancing out the window, I saw that it was now raining—a gentle, soaking rain. Good for the garden.
I checked my phone and was surprised to see that it was after four. I had two more texts from Gina, about our lunch the next day. I texted back:
Didn’t get to Hyde Park. See you tomorrow.
I tidied up the boxes and wrappings, fetched the rug bag from the back portal and gave it a good hard shake before bringing it in (fortunately the portal roof had kept the rain off it), then went upstairs, taking Kwan Yin with me.
I set her on the little café table in my suite, poured myself a cup of tea, and sat there to drink it, watching the rain fall on the garden south of the house. The roses and cottonwoods were still bare-branched, and the lawn had not yet greened up, but in a month I knew it would all be different. Everything would be green and the wisteria would be blooming. I sighed with anticipatory pleasure.
The remainder of the afternoon was spent searching for the ornaments from Hyacinth and Poppy. They were not in the storeroom, nor in my office credenza, nor in the cupboards under the gift shop tables. I finally unearthed them from the bottom storage shelf under the pastry case, where they had been shoved behind a stack of take-out boxes.
The stained-glass table lamp from Hyacinth was there, too, which gave each of the alcoves a pretty light source: table lamps in Hyacinth and Lilac, standing lamp in Poppy, snail in Marigold. Still needed something special for Dahlia, but that was less urgent.
Kris, Julio, and Hanh had all gone home. With a small shock, I realized it was time for me to go home, too.
I went upstairs just to make sure there were no emergencies in my in box, though Kris would have told me if there were. I did find a to-do list, mostly about the new alcoves, but at the bottom of it was “Agenda for staff meeting.” Gah! Well, I’d do it first thing in the morning. Maybe I’d make some notes tonight. At home.
It felt strange to close my suite after shutting down the samovar. Downstairs I paused for a final peek into the dining parlor: I could see into Marigold and Poppy, and down the passage to Lilac and Hyacinth, from the door. Very similar now to the layout of the main parlor. It would be a good change.
I locked up and drove home. Grateful for the garage, because it was still raining, I parked and carried the mica lamp and the little San Ildefonso pot into the house.
Minuit greeted me at the door, stridently criticizing me for leaving her alone all day. I put the lamp and pot on the kitchen table and picked her up for a cuddle.
Which did I want more? Dinner or a soak in the hot tub? My body was tired, but also hungry. Maybe the rain would stop while I ate.
Setting Minuit down, I dealt with her needs, then put a pot of water on the stove to boil. I got out a second pot and made a simple marinara sauce with a can of tomatoes and some garlic. While it was cooking down, I texted Tony:
Making dinner.
No response.
Okay. I’d put his share in the fridge, if he didn’t show up. I put together a salad while the pasta cooked, then moved the mica lamp into Tony’s room; it looked great on his coffee table. I left it on for him, chased out Minuit who had followed me in, and closed the door.
The little black pot went into a nicho in the still-empty living room. We needed furniture there, too. I was starting to get burned out on furniture hunting. Maybe Tony would have ideas.
With a bottle of red wine that I’d brought from my suite, a brocade placemat and even a candle on the table, I was ready for dinner. Minuit wandered through as I dined in elegant solitude.
Afterward I made a few notes for the staff meeting agenda: look at the new alcoves, think about anyone they knew who might like a job as a server or gift shop manager. I’d have to phrase it so they knew that they could apply for the gift shop job if they wanted. I doubted any of them would want it. What else? St. Patrick’s. We could use an extra server that day. If we were lucky we’d have a new one on the team by then.
Enough. Time for a soak. I poured myself more wine and took it out to the tub.
The rain had stopped and a chill breeze had come up. The full moon was riding high over the mountains, darting between shreds of cloud. I watched it as I drank my wine, then went inside.
Shower, wash dishes, then bed. I untied the drapes on the side of my bed near the French doors and pulled them together, hoping they’d protect me from the morning sunlight.
Minuit curled up against my calves. I read for a bit, then turned out the light and went to sleep.
I was roused not by daylight, but by the sensation of being watched. Holding my breath, I listened.
It was dark and still. Minuit was a warm spot against my leg, asleep. I heard a small sound, like a footstep of someone trying to be silent.
“Tony?”
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
I turned on my bedside lamp and blinked against the brightness. Tony came and sat on the foot of the bed, in jeans and a sweater. Minuit woke and jumped down, gave an indignant mew, and wandered off down the hall.
“Is the curtain there to keep me out?” Tony asked in a tired voice. “It’s okay if you want your space.”
“No, no—it’s because of the light from the windows in the morning,” I said, gesturing toward the French doors. “I’ll get drapes for them.”
“Oh.”
I could see him better now that my eyes were adjusting to the light. He looked tired.
“I saved you some supper,” I said. “It’s in the fridge.”
“I ate, but thanks.”
Ate what, I wondered. Junk food?
“It’s good to see you,” I said. “Hope you’re making progress on the case.”
“Yeah. Slowly, but yeah. Maybe a couple more days.”
What was keeping him up so late? Talking to witnesses who worked at night? He hadn’t told me much about this case. Hadn’t had the chance—we’d both been busy.
He rubbed his hands over his face. “Well, I’ll go sleep in the other bed. I need a shower but I’m too tired.”
“You’re welcome to sleep here.”
He smiled wearily, leaned forward to kiss me. “Nah. I’d rather come to you clean.”
He did smell a little ripe. In a not-entirely unpleasant way.
“Sleep well, then,” I said.
“You too.”
He stood and walked slowly down the hall to his room. I turned off the light and rolled onto my side.
Welcome home.
The staff meeting the next morning went well. Everyone was impressed with the conference table. There were eleven of us, including Nat, so I brought one of the café chairs out from my suite and sat in that. We still all fit comfortably around the table.
No one had immediate ideas about candidates for the two jobs. I invited them to come talk to me if they thought of someone later.
Dee, Rosa, and Iz all agreed to work on St. Patrick’s Day. They’d probably get some overtime, which was fine.
The first part of March was now almost completely booked up. Kris had called the people who already had reservations for the 17th, explaining the higher price and offering them the chance to re-book. Most of them had kept their reservations, expressing delight about the additional treats and the music.
I refrained from mentioning that we’d talked about grandfathering them at the regular price. Too late, since Kris had already made the calls. She was a fierce defender of our bottom line, and apparently the customers didn’t mind the change, so all was well.
Kris had created some pretty little table tents adorned with shamrocks, announcing the special menu and music for that day. She was sure that we’d sell out with only this and our monthly newsletter as marketing—no need to buy advertising.
She wanted to put out the table tents right after the meeting, and I okayed it. When we adjourned, I demonstrated collapsing the capstan table, receiving a round of applause from the staff.
At my request, Dale, Ramon, and Mick helped carry chairs downstairs to Poppy and Marigold, while the others moved all but four of the remaining chairs to the walls of the upper hall. The servers had already set up the new alcoves with our lace placements, china, and silver, so they were looking less stark.
Iz brought in two more place settings each for Poppy and Marigold, to go with the conference table chairs, and I hastily put together some flower arrangements from the week’s flower order, which had arrived during the staff meeting. Much better—we were getting close to a cozy feeling, now.
And it was time to open the front door. Rosa went to do that, welcoming happily-chattering customers into the hall. I’d have to finish the flowers for the rest of the tearoom that evening.
I headed back upstairs with Kris, who had put her table tents out in all the alcoves and in the gift shop. The upper hall looked better with the extra chairs against the wall. At my desk, I found the estimate for the new drapery dividers for the alcoves.
It was ouchy, but we needed it. The difference between doing only the new curtains and doing the whole tearoom wasn’t that much. Looking at the detailed description, I realized we were replacing most of the existing drapes anyway, what with realigning the alcoves.
What the heck. Might as well go whole hog.
Hunting through the line items, I found a price per yard for the fabric. Not bad, and it was sixty inches wide.
I wrote a note to Kris approving the purchase and asking her to buy five extra yards of the fabric if they’d sell it. I envisioned matching tea cozies in that pretty wisteria fabric. Maybe even a couple of table runners.
Okay, six yards.
Time for lunch with Gina and Angela. I went into Kris’s office, but she was on the phone so I left the drapery estimate in her in box, grabbed my coat and purse, and headed downstairs.
The morning was bright, with puffy white clouds in a brilliant blue sky. Evergreens smelled vibrant and fresh after the rain, lifting my spirits at once. I drove to Piccolino and spotted Gina’s car in the parking lot. Was I late? No. Head high, I went in and joined her at a table in the back corner.
“Hug!” she said, jumping up and enfolding me in a Chanel-scented embrace. “Haven’t seen you in forever.”
“It’s been busy. Making changes at the tearoom.”
“Again?”
I took a seat where I could keep an eye on the door, ordered coffee, and told Gina about the new alcoves, the new furniture (including the magical capstan table), and my move to the townhome.
“Well, no wonder you didn’t make it to Hyde Park,” she said.
“Yeah. Tony couldn’t have gone anyway—he’s up to his eyebrows in a case. We’ll go soon, I promise.”
“You know, you could hire a wedding planner to find you a space,” she said, stirring sugar into her coffee.
Another expense? Gah.
“Why would I do that when I have you?” I said.
She shot me a look. “You don’t like my ideas.”
“That’s not it. I’m just too picky, is all.”
“Hm.”
Angela appeared at the door and stood looking around the restaurant. I waved, and she came over and joined us, hanging her pink parka on the back of her chair. She met my smile with a wan little smile of her own, and submitted to a Gina hug without comment. Something was bothering her, I thought as she picked up her menu.
The waiter brought more coffee and took our orders. We all chose salads, and Gina added an order of ravioli for us to split.
“They make it in house,” she told Angela. “It’s really good. So’s the pizza.”
Angela smiled and sipped her coffee. Gina launched into a list of ideas for wedding favors: candied almonds in my bridal colors, paper napkins printed with Tony’s and my names and the date, shot glasses similarly inscribed, little bags of rice for the guests to throw at me and Tony.
“No,” I said. “The birds will eat it, and it’s bad for them.”
“Well, then, how about bird seed instead?” Gina said.
“Why do they have to throw anything?”
“It’s traditional. I thought you liked traditions!”
Biting back a reply that I wasn’t, at present, interested in the implications of that particular traditional fertility ritual, I sighed. “Fine. Bird seed.”
I nixed the napkins and the shot glasses, and suggested mixed nuts instead of the designer almonds, which I was sure would be expensive. The whole idea of favors at a wedding reception was a bit off-putting for me. Shouldn’t a nice meal and dancing be enough?
“How about a photo booth?” Gina suggested. “Everyone can get a souvenir picture taken with you and Tony.”
“We’d be there the whole afternoon.”
“Just off and on.”
I shook my head, knowing Tony wouldn’t like it. Glancing at Angela, I saw she was staring at the black-and-white checkered tablecloth.
“Okay, then how about a magnet with a photo of you and Tony?” Gina said.
“What do you think, Angela?” I asked gently.
She started, looked at me, and blushed. “Sorry. What was the question?”
“A photo magnet of Ellen and Tony for a favor,” Gina said. “Something the guests can keep as a memento.”
Angela blinked, swallowed, and said. “Um.”
Her thoughts were clearly elsewhere. To let her off the hook, I looked at Gina. “It’s not quite right, I think. Kind of commercial.”
“Well, they’re all commercial, then,” Gina said.
“I guess that’s my point. You know I’m old-fashioned. Wouldn’t the nuts and the bird seed be enough?”
“But they’re not something people can take home,” Gina protested.
The arrival of our salads ended the discussion for the moment. Gina shifted gears and began to talk about the menu for the reception.
“I’m leaving that up to Julio,” I said, wanting to forestall yet another long discussion.
“And he’s doing the cake?”
“I might ask Hanh, if he doesn’t want to,” I said, thinking of the design I’d seen her working on for Buddha’s birthday.
The ravioli arrived and Gina busied herself dividing it onto three small plates. Angela was picking at her salad. I touched her wrist.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
Angela looked up at me, then burst into tears.