We both know he wouldn’t.
Nine
Everything seems more manageable with a cup of tea.
The scrapbook sits still on the coffee table in the living room, and I cast a glance at it as I busy myself around the kitchen, pulling out all the things I need for a decadent late night tea. Imported British biscuits, my favorites dipped in milk chocolate, some toast and clotted cream, raspberry preserves made over the summer.
And, of course, one of the tea sets my grandmother collected, a fine porcelain and gilded floral teapot.
The scrapbook will wait.
My gaze drifts to it again.
“You’re stalling,” Gunner says, laying on the floor with his big block head on his paws.
“So I am,” I agree. “But the problem isn’t going to be solved tonight, and tea never hurt anyone.”
“It hurts a lot of people in Agatha Christie novels,” Gunner observes.
I sigh. “I want a snack. Posey and Rose are just getting off work. It’s a nice thing to do.”
“I want a biscuit.”
“You can’t have chocolate.”
“I’m also not supposed to talk,” Gunner says, giving me big eyes.
I break a digestive in half and hand a piece over to him. His tail thumps against the floor as his little lips delicately take the biscuit from me.
The resulting, tiny tidy crunching noises Gunner makes is almost more delightful than the cookies themselves, and seeing him so blissful makes me feel better just by extension.
I think maybe the simple pleasure of watching a dog enjoy something as banal as a British biscuit might be the universe’s way of telling me everything is going to be okay.
“You’re stalling again,” Gunner says, a spray of crumbs dribbling from his lower lip.
Ugh. He’s not wrong.
With the sassiest swish of my skirt as I can manage, which isn’t much, since my hands are occupied with the loaded tray of goodies, I turn on my heels and stalk into the living room.
The fireplace lights itself, another charm my grandmother put on the house, so that “we’d always have warmth.” It’s been misfiring for a few weeks, as it’s still slightly too balmy to really enjoy it… but I take my cardigan off and decide to pretend it’s fine. The sweat is a glow, or something.
The front door slams, and the sound of Posey and Rose bickering floats through the house.
“I’m in here,” I call. “I have tea and snacks.”
“Of course you do,” Rose says, flopping down on the couch, giving me an appraising look. “You have dinner with the long-lost love of your life, witness some kind of magical malfunction at the lighthouse, as well as… something ominous in the bay, and you make us a whole platter of stuff to eat.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I say.
Gunner stares at me.
“It absolutely is like that,” Posey responds, folding her legs underneath her and sitting on the rug in front of the fire. She does, however, load up one of the gold-rimmed floral plates with a variety of the snacks I assembled.
Which settles a tiny part of my soul, just a little.
“What’s this book?” Rose asks, untying the velvet ribbon before hefting it into her hands.
“That’s Grandma’s scrapbook,” Posey says, then pours herself a cup of tea without a second glance.
