I shook off my foolish pang of envy and told Mom I’d call Mel as soon as I could. There was no point in allowing my own sadness to cloud my sister’s, or my mother’s, happiness. Besides, Mel and Bea’s baby just meant another niece or nephew for me to spoil.
Not that I got to see the ones I already had as much as I liked. I coughed to hide a bit of rawness in my voice and asked after Sophie, Bill, and the kids before telling Mom I had to go and deal with some more bed-and-breakfast chores.
“Sometimes I think all you do is work. I hope you manage to squeeze in a little fun and adventure now and then,” my mom said, before telling me good-bye.
As I hung up the phone, I shook my head over the reply I’d given her.
“Of course I do,” I’d said, even though it wasn’t exactly true. Except for Julie and a few members of Chapters’ book club, I scarcely talked to anyone other than Alicia, Damian, or our guests.
Grabbing some pewter vases off one of the pantry shelves, I had to admit that while running the bed-and-breakfast was challenging and interesting, it wasn’t often what I’d call fun or exciting.I really wouldn’t mind a little adventure, I thought as I arranged the roses.
Which, as it turned out, was one of those instances that proved the old adageBe careful what you wish for.
Chapter Five
“The orange ginger cake was a hit.” I entered the kitchen, balancing a teetering stack of dirty dishes. “Even Pete agreed that it was one medieval recipe that has stood the test of time.”
“Probably because it was soaked in enough brandy to cover the unusual combination of spices.” Damian Carr, the bed-and-breakfast’s part-time chef, took the plates from my hands and deposited them in the sink before turning back to face me.
I met his intense gaze and tugged my sleeve up over my shoulder. The square neckline of the emerald velveteen gown was cut so wide that the sleeve cap tended to slip down my upper arm. “Could be. He wasn’t too complimentary about the vegetables or the pike. But he did say that the boar was nice.”
“Damned with faint praise, as always.” Damian tucked a dangling dreadlock back up under his starched chef’s hat. “I think Pete Nelson would complain about the food at a Michelin-starred restaurant. Just because he and his wife run a café, he thinks he’s an expert on all things food related.”
“Oh, I expect he just likes to rile you up. You know— professional jealousy.” I tugged on the recalcitrant sleeve.
Despite a lack of interest in playacting, I’d decided when I’d taken over Chapters that, as hostess, I should participate in any costume parties. Damian had no such sense of obligation. Tall, lanky, and fifteen years my junior, the part-time chef refused to don anything other than a white chef’s jacket over a black T-shirt and pants. In fact, Damian had emphatically stated during his interview that he wouldn’t “play dress-up” during any special events. I’d acquiesced, knowing he was one of the few local freelance chefs who possessed the skill required to create specialty menus.
I examined the young chef’s angular face, noting the bags under his dark eyes. Damian hadn’t been able to land a full-time position at a prestigious restaurant yet, despite numerous interviews. Which meant he worked a patchwork of jobs, including acting as a personal chef for some of the yacht owners who regularly docked at Beaufort. Knowing his erratic schedule probably took a toll on his health, I tended to cut Damian some slack, even when his temper got the better of him.
“Hello, dear,” called out a loud voice.
I turned to face one of the dinner guests, an older woman wearing a peach-and-gold brocade gown that made her look like an overstuffed bolster.
But that first impression was instantly dispelled by the twinkle in the woman’s bright-blue eyes. Seventy-six-year-old Bernadette Sandberg was a longtime member of Chapters’ book club. She lived locally and often participated in the bed-and-breakfast’s special literary events, as did her sister, seventy-three-year-old Ophelia.
“I must say, you’ve outdone yourself. Fee and I are having a grand time, even after fighting these ridiculous things.” Bernadette patted the taut linen stretched between the wires of the head covering that completely obscured her gray hair. The headdress, which she’d commissioned, along with her gown, from a local costume designer, replicated the saillike head coverings worn during the late fifteenth century.
“Yes, simply delightful.” Ophelia, who was as tall and thin as Bernadette was short and stout, popped up behind her sister. Her headdress, pointed at the top like an upside-down ice cream cone, was draped with a sparkle-dusted sheer veil. Unlike Bernadette, Ophelia had made her own costume, apparently without relying heavily on historic sources. The lilac satin of her gown was not something I’d ever seen in paintings from the period.
More like a Saturday morning cartoon depiction of a princess, I thought, covering my mouth to hide a smile.
It was charming, nonetheless, as were the two ladies, who claimed to have never missed a special event at Chapters since the bed-and-breakfast opened in 1983. And before that, as they’d informed me on numerous occasions, they’d often visited Isabella when the house was still her private home.
“And Damian—bravo. Everything was perfectly delicious, even that strange concoction of dried fruit and potted cheese.” Bernadette flicked Ophelia’s trailing veil away from her shoulder. “Fee, dear, please back off. That bubblegum atrocity of yours is going to poke my eye out.”
Ophelia snorted in a distinctly unprincesslike way. “Hardly. You’re far too short for that, Bernie.” The pointed end of her headdress wobbled as she tossed her head for emphasis.
Damian, watching this scene with a smile, held up his hands. “Thank you for the kind words, ladies. I know medieval-inspired food is not exactly the rage right now.”
“But perfect for celebratingThe Daughter of Time,” Bernadette said. “Takes one right back to Richard the Third’s era, just like Inspector Grant studying all those books after he saw that sympathetic portrait of Richard.”
“I’m afraid your reference is lost on me,” Damian said. “I haven’t read the book.”
As Ophelia bobbed her head, her headdress slid over toward her left ear, exposing her short hair. Dyed a brilliant cardinal red, it provided a startling contrast with her rosy-pink headgear. “You ought to. It’s a classic. Anyway, you should be proud of yourself, chef. Not many could pull off a meal like that.”
“Fee, you’re losing your hat,” Bernadette observed, before waving her fingers at Damian and me. “We must go. Everyone has headed outside, and I expect a literary discussion is in the offing.” She beamed. “My favorite thing, as you know.”
“Yes, mine too.” I cast both sisters a warm smile. “Go ahead. I’ll join the group as soon as I can.”
