“Yes, I did.”
“And you don’t see anything wrong with that?”
She moves over to the table, takes a seat, and starts shoveling my eggs into her mouth. “No, I think it’s quite hospitable of us.” Talking with a mouthful of eggs, she continues, “What you don’t understand is that the British live and die by their hospitality, so we need to extend the same courtesy.”
“Where did you hear that from?”
She motions the fork in a circle and says, “Around. By the way, do you know how to make scones?”
“No,” I nearly shout. “I don’t even know what a scone is.”
“Oof, better do some research because your new investor has been promised some.”
For the love of God.
I take a few deep breaths, reminding myself that she has good intentions. This is who Aunt Kitty is, who she’s always been, attempting to help in her own special way. From the outside looking in, I’m sure it’s easy to question why I put up with it, and the not so easy explanation is…well, she saved me when I thought I was going to be all alone. She was there when my mom walked out on me and my dad. She was there when I was going through my teenage years and my dad wasn’t quite sure how to handle all the girly things that came along with that. She was there when my dad passed, holding my hand every night while I cried myself to sleep. And when I started my handywoman business, she was the one to go from house to house, handing out fliers and telling everyone they needed to hire me.
She might go about it in an odd, sometimes frustrating way, but she’s always been there for me—for the most part—and I know she always will be…even when she drives me nuts.
Once I calm myself, I say, “Well, I’ll go into town and see if I can find any scones at the bakery. If not, I’ll head up to Elias Town and see if they have anything at the bakery there. Their selection is always larger.”
“Great. While you do that, I’m going to limber up the muscles, stretch out the thighs, and lube myself up in case we need to perform any sort of sexual favors to earn his business. When warmed up, I can be incredibly bendy.”
“Uh…we will not be offering any sort of sexual favors to him.”
“I’m not opposed.”
“I am.” I grab two eggs from the fridge and crack them into the bowl I used earlier to make myself breakfast, since Aunt Kitty ate mine. “We’re going to go about this in a professional manner, which means your legs will remain closed, we will not be parading about and attempting to speak to him in a British accent—” I point at Aunt Kitty, whose face falls flat with disappointment.
“But I have a great British accent.”
“You have a Dick Van Dyke British accent that will more than likely offend rather than impress.”
“’Ow dare you, guv’nor! I’ve been workin’ on this ’ere accent for years, I ’ave! Diddly o’, and Bob’s yer uncle!”
“That’s right, get it out now, because you will not—and I repeat, will not—be talking like that tomorrow.”
Chapter Seven
RENLEY
The scones have been secured. I had to drive thirty minutes out of the way to get them, but that’s fine.
The house has been scrubbed from top to bottom.
All of Aunt Kitty’s hobby horse obstacles have been removed from the front yard, and I made sure to mow and edge the grass, giving the house an almost brand-new look, especially since I refreshed the mulch in the front planters.
Aunt Kitty has spent a great deal of time creating a tea buffet—as she calls it—so that he has a variety of flavors to choose from. And to my horror, she added a basket full of Cadbury chocolate.
Listen, you can’t win them all. She put away the hobby horse stuff; that’s all I could ask for at this point.
Satisfied with how the house looks, I head across the street to my friend Tilly’s house. I texted her last night asking her if I could use some of her linens and finer China, and she was more than willing to help out.
I cross the quiet street and think about how I’m going to present myself. He’s going to be here in about thirty minutes and I’m nervous.
So nervous.
We really need this money and this entire situation almost seems too good to be true, so I’m on edge.
