The Final Crumpet (6 page)

Flick fought to keep her jaw from dropping.

Church shopping? Couples don’t go church shopping, unless…

There it was again. The question that Philip Pellicano had asked the day before. The question that Flick didn’t want to contemplate, much less answer.

What is your relationship with Nigel Owen? More to the point, are you prepared to trust him over the long run?

Her response during the rehearsal had temporarily sidetracked the issue. She and Nigel followed Stuart Battlebridge’s instructions and worked out a simple answer of convenience:
We’re good friends and committed colleagues, both devoted to the long-term success of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum.

It was answer enough to give to a curious reporter, but it didn’t resolve the problem that she had let develop during the past eight weeks. Nigel clearly believed they had started a long-term relationship. She felt much less sure—even though they spent most of their free time together and she occasionally perched on his lap.

You also bought him an electronic coffeemaker for Christmas.

It had seemed an innocuous enough present when she purchased it—a bright blue appliance that brewed “coffeehouse-quality coffee,” to echo the words on the box, by pumping boiling water through a plastic disk filled with ground coffee. What better gift for a single man who enjoyed a good cup of coffee?

Nigel had been delighted when he tore off the wrapping paper. “I’ve wanted one of these gadgets for months,” he had said. But then he smiled awkwardly. “Did you know that the stores that sell coffee disks also sell tea disks? You’ll use this machine as much as I will.”

Flick recalled her confused reaction. She hadn’t known how to respond to the gist of Nigel’s comment—the idea that they would someday share the same kitchen. In the end, she returned Nigel’s smile and gave him a peck on the cheek.

The start of the service at Christ Church drove the topic from her mind; the vicar’s benediction invited it back in. But then, Nigel announced his second surprise of the morning. “For obvious reasons, our Friday dinner at Thackeray’s never happened. However, I am a man who pays his gambling debts promptly. Therefore, I have made us reservations for lunch today. I plan to have the foie gras starter and the roasted lamb main course.

“You’ll burp through the concert.”

“As will many others in the audience. Hefty Sunday dinners, served at noontime, are an age-old tradition in England. Fortunately, no one will care. After all, the orchestra is playing nothing but kitschy American music.”

Flick thrust her finger at Nigel’s ribs, but he sidestepped like a bullfighter and avoided the jab.

Nigel kept talking. “There’s no doubt that the concert is Stuart Battlebridge’s way of paying me back for not reading his blinkin’ briefing document. Only a Brit set on revenge would give another Brit tickets to a program entitled ‘Treats from the American Colonies.’ ”

This time, Flick anticipated Nigel’s parry. Her finger hit home.

“Ouch.” Nigel rubbed his side. “May one ask the reason for your violence?”

“You just dissed three of my favorite pieces. How can anyone not like Aaron Copland’s music?”

“Oh, I grant you that ‘Fanfare for the Common Man’ and ‘Appalachian Spring’ are worth listening to, but Howard Hanson’s ‘Romantic’ symphony is too much like movie music for my refined, old-world tastes.”

“Suck it up! I intend to enjoy every note.”

Now, after lunch, they strolled down London Road, Nigel’s oversized umbrella vanquishing the rain. The fine mist that made it under the brolly, Flick decided, would probably moisturize her face. Well and good, as long as her complexion didn’t go ruddy like his. Then they would look “a proper pair,” as the English were fond of saying.

Great! You started thinking about him again. Stop it!

When they turned a corner, she gave her head a little shake and said, “I’ve lost my bearings. Where are we?”

“Walking east on Lime Hill Road, not far from my flat.

We’ll turn right once we reach Mount Pleasant Road.”

They walked in silence for several minutes until Flick said, “You’ve become remarkably quiet—is anything wrong?”

“Not really. I’ve begun to feel a bit guilty about all the work underway to get the museum ready to reopen tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock. The curators are working hard. Jim Sizer and his lads are working hard. We should be, too.”

“Nonsense! Everything is under control. You and I are clearing our minds, remember?”

“I suppose so.” Nigel guided Flick around a large puddle.

“Are we there yet?”

“One more left turn will bring us to the Civic Centre. The time has come for you to admit that you enjoyed our walk in the rain. I can see it on your face—I know it’s true.”

Oh my. He’s sure he can read my moods.

They climbed up the short flight of steps to Civic Way and made for Assembly Hall, a redbrick art deco building sandwiched between the Tunbridge Wells Town Hall and the police station. The letters on the marquee announced RTW SYMPHONY—SUNDAY AT 3:00 PM.

Flick cast a discreet glance at Nigel as he collapsed his umbrella and led her into the high-ceilinged lobby. What was she to make of him?

It’s not your fault that I’ve made lousy choices in men throughout my life.

Flick let herself sigh. No, she was entirely responsible for committing to men who lacked commitment themselves and were all to easily attracted to other women. Men like the graduate student at the University of Michigan, the tea importer from Connecticut, and the marketing executive from Texas. They had, each in his own turn, broken her heart for the most familiar of reasons: “I’m sorry, Flick, but I’ve fallen in love with someone else.”

Each time she had promised herself it would never happen again. But it had—three times during a span of seven years. And because no one could tell Flick how to be sure that a man she trusted would actually be loyal in return, she decided that her safest course of action was to avoid long-term relationships.

Make me no promises, and you’ll tell me no lies.

Without thinking, Flick reached for Nigel’s hand and squeezed his fingers. When Nigel smiled delightedly at her, she quickly said, “Assembly Hall reminds me of an old movie palace in York, Pennsylvania. It also had a lobby that was two stories high, with marble paneling on the walls, big glass light fixtures, faux Greek decorations, gilt accents, and a flight of steps leading to the theater.”

Nigel bent down and whispered in her ear, “I love it when you talk architecture.”

“Stars and garters,” said an amused voice behind Flick.

“We meet again.”

Flick felt herself stiffen.
Polly Reid. Nigel’s administrative assistant.

Flick turned and forced herself to smile. Polly went on.

“You know, when I saw you in Christ Church this morning, I said to myself, ‘Polly, those two look as comfortable together as an old married couple.’ ”

There were too many other people nearby to shout,
We’re merely friends—nothing more!
Instead, Flick said, “Wow! Polly, you look spectacular today.”

“And you sound completely amazed that I do,” Polly replied.

“Well…”

When Polly began to laugh, Flick joined in quickly.

Nigel’s associate was a plump, fortyish brunette, with a no-nonsense attitude and a penchant for showing up each day with quiet clothing, minimal makeup, and hair wound tight in a businesslike bun. This afternoon, she wore a dazzling red dress that deftly shaped her figure, a cascading hairdo that framed her face perfectly, and stylish makeup that would have done a supermodel proud.

“As it happens,” Polly said, “I have a date, too. He’s a member of the orchestra. Third violin from the end in the second row.”

“You go, girl!” Flick said.

Polly crooked her thumb at Nigel. “How did you manage to get him here today? When I extended an invitation last season, he announced that he wouldn’t be caught dead at a performance by an amateur orchestra.”

Nigel launched a prompt defense—“That’s a wee bit of an exaggeration, Polly. In fact…”—but Flick interrupted him.

“Aha! Now I understand your unreasonable guilt feelings and your unprovoked comments about kitschy music. You’re worried that a local orchestra will play out of tune. Nigel Owen, you’re a snob.”

“I’m neither worried nor a snob.” Nigel sniffed. “I’m properly skeptical.”

“And altogether wrong,” Polly said. “While there are a few top-notch amateurs, the lion’s share of the performers are paid musicians. Our orchestra is brilliant—you’ll see.”

Flick saw a bemused expression grow on Nigel’s face as he watched Polly walk away. He seemed to be craning his neck so as not to lose sight of her as she passed through the double doors that led to the stalls and tiers.

“Not the Polly we see every day, huh?” Flick said cautiously.

“Not by a long shot!” He looked back at her and smiled.

“But even dressed to kill, she’s hardly in your league. Let’s find our seats.” He offered his arm. “I give you fair warning:

I intend to have my arm around you for much of the concert. What better way to listen to the ‘Romantic’ symphony than by sitting next to an American beauty?”

Flick looked down at her clenched hands.

What am I going to do? What are we going to do?

Three

O
ne gentle, yodel-like woof was enough to wake Nigel on Monday morning—fifteen minutes before his alarm clock was set to ring. He raised his head and peered at Cha-Cha, who was standing expectantly in front of the wicker dog bed that Nigel had tucked between his chest of drawers and an old upholstered armchair in his bedroom.

“I’ll be ready to take you out in half a tick, old chum.”

Nigel reluctantly pulled himself up on his elbows. “I can see that you had a good night’s sleep. Alas, I didn’t. In fact, I woke up twice last night and tossed and turned for more than an hour.”

The little dog’s big triangular eyes seemed to peer quizzically at Nigel, as if trying to understand why his master had difficulty sleeping.

“Well, if you insist on poking your snout in my business, it’s this way. We will shortly be besieged by members of the British press. The confidence I felt on Saturday has oozed out of me like water from a leaky tap. I am more than a bit concerned that the future of the museum will rest on our well-chosen words. If we mess up today, misspeak, or make a bad impression, we could put both the museum and our careers at risk.”

Cha-Cha tilted his head skeptically.

“Okay, I admit it. I’m worried about me messing up today.

Flick has done this before. She has written three popular books about tea and has been on media tours. She knows how to meet the press successfully.” He let himself sigh. “No wonder she did so well at the rehearsal.”

Nigel glanced at the top of his chest of drawers, at the framed photograph of Flick. It was a formal pose, taken by a professional photographer soon after Flick joined the museum and sent out to the media with a news release that described her impressive background. One day soon, he would ask her for a more personal photo—one more in keeping with their blossoming relationship.

He felt himself smiling. Felicity Adams was a very special woman and, as such, required a special approach. He had decided to move slowly, to avoid the risk of spooking her with clumsy rhetoric. Before he spoke words of love to Flick, he would think long and hard about the right words to utter. A question at the news conference about their relationship would force the issue—much better if none came up. But Nigel was prepared should a foolish reporter asked a question.

“Felicity Adams and I are dear friends—and proud of it,” he said aloud, testing the words.

Cha-Cha replied with a louder woof.

“I get the point—you still want to go out.”

Because the level of heat in his bedroom was an uncertain thing, Nigel kept his slippers (a pair of fleecy moccasins) and his bathrobe (a venerable Scottish tartan dressing gown) at the ready at the foot of his bed. He slipped into them, cinched his belt tightly around his middle, and led Cha-Cha downstairs to the back garden.

The winter-dormant shrubs and trees placed decorously throughout the narrow walled-in plot were coated with frost that shone silvery in the illumination from the floodlight attached to the rear of the house. It had just gone six thirty and was still dark. The sun would not rise until almost eight at this time of year. Then the melting would begin. Nigel sheltered close to the back door while Cha-Cha trotted off to the rear of the garden. Chill air seeped beneath the thick plaid flannel of his robe. He tugged his belt tighter.

Nigel’s flat occupied the top two stories of a four-story house on Lime Hill Road. He lived on the second and third floors while his landlords—a charming couple named Bacon and Hildegard Jenkins—lived on the ground and first floors. Nigel suspected that the Jenkinses were older than the house itself, although all three looked in sterling shape to him. Nigel’s living room faced Lime Hill Road; his dining room and kitchen overlooked the back garden. The top floor contained his bedroom, an enormous bathroom, and a second, smaller bedroom that he had turned into a home office. The flat encompassed far more floor space than any apartment he had occupied in London, and Nigel had been reluctant to buy more furniture, initially assuming that his sojourn at the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum would be over in a year. When Nigel invited Flick to share a homemade dinner two weeks earlier, the first thing she said when she saw the apartment was, “My goodness, Nigel, your place is only half furnished.”