Diane Davidson - Sticks & Scones

Tom will know what to do, I thought as I swung through the castle gates. Snowflakes swirled down. I slowed the van, as the icy patches of the long drive were treacherous in the white blur. Concentrating on not slipping, I reflected that being completely honest with Tom was not something I’d been very good at lately. Covert ops and frustration had intruded - in the form of Sara Beth O’Malley. My mind spun back to the question tormenting me for the last two days: What secret is Tom keeping from me? For my part, I was definitely shielding my investigation of Nurse O’Malley from him. He was crazy about her. Connie Oliver had said of Tom and Sara Beth. He was terribly protective of her: Maybe he didn’t love her anymore, as he’d claimed to me. But could he be protecting her? From what? How would I find out without asking him? As I strode into the castle, I realized that while I had many questions, I didn’t have a single answer. It was time to bite the bullet.

I was surprised to see Tom in the kitchen, groping through one of the glass-fronted cabinets. With his right shoulder bandaged and his arm immobilized by the sling, he was moving with a slowness that made me cringe. In contrast, Julian bounced back and forth from the counter - where an enticing array of miniature finger-shaped sandwiches was arranged - and the kitchen table. Tom shuffled to a stop and gave me a baleful look.

“Miss G.” His voice was an attempt at joviality, but his eyes betrayed his physical pain. “I’ve been worried about you.”

“Tom,” I scolded, “you shouldn’t be up.”

“Please. I couldn’t lie there another minute. Looking at all that old English furniture gave me the heebie-jeebies. So I thought Julian and I could make tea - “

Julian interjected, “Make that he tells me what he wants for a Brit-style tea, and I make all the sandwiches and cakes. Hungry?”

The Italian ice cream was a distant memory. I grinned and nodded. Tom loved to cook and to direct cooking. Before relaxing, though, I had to check the dinner ingredients. On the counter beside the refrigerator, the Hydes’ lamb roast was happily defrosting. I washed my hands and stuck the meat with a thermometer probe so that room temperature for the interior wouldn’t be a matter of guesswork. Now all I had to find was some mint jelly to go with the lamb. If you were going to be English, you had to go all the way, right?

“Well, boss,” Julian remarked, “In one department, our tea won’t be authentic.” His smile was impish. “No smoked salmon. So I made cucumber sandwiches. And I’m about to spread cream cheese on that sweet bread you made. Eat your heart out, Weight Watchers.”

Tom awkwardly stretched his free hand to unlock a high cabinet. “If this isn’t where Sukie stores her tea strainer, and teapot, I’m going to have words with that woman.” He fumbled about on the shelf and ultimately drew out a box of English Breakfast tea leaves, a silver strainer, and Eliot’s ceramic teapot shaped like an English butler. Tom pulled the key from the cupboard. “And before you ask, Goldy, Sukie gave me the keys and told me to get out anything we needed. The trick is just to find which key goes with which hole.” He surveyed the kitchen table. “What else do we need?”

“Scones!” Julian and I said in unison.

Julian offered to put together butter, jams, and thick whipped cream if I would bake the treats. I was happy for scone duty, since I had a recipe that I’d been tinkering with back in Ye Olde Home Kitchen, the same one I’d tried – unsuccessfully - to make for the cops. Eliot had mentioned that he eventually wanted to serve Victorian-style tea to conference clients, and I was eager to offer irresistible samples of my wares. My laptop booted while I rummaged through my boxes for a package of currants. I inserted the disk with British-fare recipes. Eventually the scone recipe flashed on the screen.

I preheated the oven and poured boiling water over the currants. While the currants were plumping up, I measured dry ingredients into the Hydes’ food processor. Chunks of cold unsalted butter went in next, followed by a quick binding with egg, milk, and cream. I patted out and cut the resulting rich dough, then slid scone triangles into the oven. While Tom merrily squabbled with Julian over the taste merits of meat-based over vegetarian chili, Julian searched through the kitchen jam cabinet for lemon marmalade.

“See if you can nab some mint jelly,” I begged him. After a few minutes of clattering, Julian brought out small crystal jars of blackberry jelly, orange and lemon marmalades, and raspberry jam.

“No mint jelly,” he said, discouraged. After a moment, he brightened. “Hold on, I think I remember seeing some mint jelly in Eliot’s other jam cabinet.” He grabbed the keys, disappeared into the buttery/dining room, and cursed colorfully. Then more sounds of clanking glass reached the kitchen. After a moment, Julian marched back into the kitchen, clutching jars of mint and sherry jelly.

While the baking scones filled the kitchen with a homey scent, we sipped Tom’s dark, hot, perfectly brewed English Breakfast tea and ate the delectable cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches. Julian remembered that Michaela had called to say she was bringing Arch home. When I expressed guilt that we weren’t including our hosts, Julian said the Hydes would be out until the evening meal. Eliot, Julian went on, had signed up to attend a late-afternoon seminar on running a home-based business. Sukie, vowing that she was the only Hyde who had any business running anything, had insisted on accompanying him. Julian had packed them a snack of gourmet vegetarian wraps. They’d said they’d be back at seven for dinner in the Great Hall, where Eliot had already set up the Elizabethan games he wanted us to try. Great, I thought. Cook, eat, and playa rousing game or two of indoor badminton and horseshoes. Excuse me - shuttlecock and penny prick. Why did Elizabethan games sound like naughty sex? Would the Elk Park parents call after Friday’s banquet and complain?

I put these worries out of my head when the steaming scones emerged from the oven. We cooed and chattered and spread layers of whipped cream and jams on each split half. Yum, my brain cried, when I bit into flaky, moist layers slathered with cream and melting sherry jelly. I noticed Tom was still not eating much. Nevertheless, his spirits seemed to have perked up in the presence of family and food. I glanced at the clock: quarter to four. If we were going to have our heart-to-heart, the time was approaching.

“Goldy?” asked Julian. “I forgot to tell you your supplier finally arrived. She brought another lamb roast, plus all the extra foodstuffs for tomorrow and Friday. When we finish here, do you want me to keep working on the labyrinth lunch? I finished the soup. Eliot said before he left that he wanted us to check that the tables would arrive early tomorrow morning.”

“Let’s wait on that,” I replied. “And thanks for helping Alicia, and for getting started here. I want to work on tonight’s dinner, but not quite yet.” Even though the bedroom would have been a better setting for my tęte-ŕ-tęte with Tom, the time was ripe. I gave Julian a meaningful glance.

“Okay!” Julian exclaimed. “I guess I’ll go set the six of us up in the Great Hall.” In a wink, he was gone.

“Tom,” I plunged in, “we need to talk. Something’s been bothering me.…” I faltered.

He furrowed his brow, but his face was blank. “Go on.”

“Right after you were shot, you said something strange to me. You said, ‘I don’t love her.’”

His shoulders slumped and he looked away. “Oh God. So it’s true. I didn’t imagine it.”

“Didn’t imagine what? That Sara Beth O’Malley is alive?”