LITMIR.BIZ

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for the bathrooms, every guest room and the public areas were lovingly decorated almost exactly as they would have been when the house was originally built.

      Every room, including, unfortunately, this kitchen. At least I didn’t have to cook over an open fire or pump water by hand. Somewhere back in the fifties, the owners had made some improvements. The kitchen was dark and tiny; the appliances old and dated. Back then, the well-being of the kitchen staff wasn’t considered worth putting a window in for, and whoever designed the kitchen clearly never worked in one: the sink was on the far side of the room from the cutlery drawers, and the island so close to the fridge no one could get past when the door was open. But these days, the only meal actually cooked in this kitchen was breakfast. Rose might have invited Bernie and me for dinner this evening, but she didn’t intend to cook. My grandmother didn’t cook—she reheated. The day after my grandfather’s funeral, following a lifetime spent over a stove, Rose hung up her apron forever.

      This morning she was dressed in her tattered red-and-purple-checked dressing gown and fluffy woolen slippers. Her thick gray hair stuck up in all directions, and she hadn’t yet put her makeup on.

      “You’re up early,” I said. “Problem sleeping?” She didn’t usually come down until eight thirty or nine, when she’d pass through the dining room, graciously greeting her guests. Even then she complained—if only to me—about early mornings.

      “I got an unwelcome phone call.” She rubbed the fingers of her right hand together, as she always did under stress.

      I hid a grin. My grandmother had smoked a pack a day every day of her life since she was fourteen, until five years ago, when she’d given it up under doctors’ orders after a heart attack scare. It hadn’t been her heart, just indigestion and heartburn, but her doctor had torn a strip off her. My mother said she’d never be able to kick the habit, but Rose had gone about it the way she did everything in life once she’d made up her mind: with determination and a will of iron.

      She hadn’t had so much as a puff since, although her hands obviously still ached to feel the thin, firm roll resting between her fingers.

      “Bad news?” I asked.

      This morning I was making bran muffins to go with the traditional full English breakfast—eggs, sausages, grilled tomatoes, sautéed mushrooms, baked beans, and toast—which was one of the features of the B & B. For those who didn’t want such a substantial start to the day or were watching their weight but still wanted a hot breakfast, I’d make an egg-white omelet. We also served an assortment of cereals and yogurt and a huge bowl of fresh fruit every morning.

      Rose didn’t answer my question, so I said, “As long as you’re up, you can start slicing the fruit.” I put a paring knife and a bunch of bananas on the table in front of her.

      She gave me a look. The very look that must have intimidated legions of young kitchen maids. “Really, Lily. I don’t employ you so I can work.”

      “If by employ,” I said, “you mean pay a living wage, you’re failing on that account.”

      “I allowed you to rent that old cottage, didn’t I?” she said, as though she’d done me a big favor by letting me save her from bankruptcy.

      “Whatever. What’s the bad news?”

      “Gerald has quit.”

      “Oh, no. That is bad news. What happened? You didn’t criticize the hostas again, did you? You know how sensitive he is about them.”

      “No, I did not criticize the hostas. I learned my lesson the last time. I didn’t say they’re a thoroughly common plant that anyone can have in their garden.”

      “Glad to hear it.”

      “I did think it, though. I considered mentioning that at Thornecroft we had—”

      “Yes, yes. I know all about Thornecroft. I also know Gerry refused to even attempt to re-create the Thornecroft gardens here. Not with all the sand in the soil. What made him quit?” I stirred muffin batter as I talked. Rose had pushed the knife and the bananas to one side.

      “Quit might not be the correct word. He decided to retire and move to Florida.”

      “Florida? He’s Cape Cod born and raised. He always says he’s never lived anywhere else in all his fifty-seven years and never intends to.”

      “It seems he met a lady.” Rose sniffed with disapproval.

      “Ooh, a lady. Do tell. I suppose this lady is from Florida?”

      “Yes. Highly inconsiderate of him, to my mind.”

      “When does he finish? I hope he gave you enough notice to have time to find someone else.”

      “Yesterday.”

      I stopped stirring. “Yesterday?”

      “His last day at work was yesterday. They’re driving to Florida this morning. He called me from the car.” Rose sniffed once again. “At least he was considerate enough to think of me at the last minute.”

      “Hardly considerate. We’ll never get anyone else in the middle of the season.”

      The gardens at Victoria-on-Sea are large and lush and beautiful and are one of the highlights of the place. It’s not easy maintaining an English country garden on the bluffs overlooking Cape Cod Bay, but Gerry and generations of skilled gardeners before him had accomplished miracles. The Victoria-on-Sea gardens occupy almost half an acre with neat hedgerows, carefully placed boxwoods and perennials, tall, swaying grasses, a rose garden, and the occasional statue or little folly scattered about to create interest. Gerald, whom everyone except Rose called Gerry, had worked four days a week, eight months of the year, to keep it all under control.

      “Do you have much of a green thumb, Lily?” Rose asked.

      “If you’re asking me to take on the job of head gardener, along with everything else I do around here, the answer is a firm no. I grew up in an apartment in Manhattan, as you well know. Not much call for gardeners there. Mom didn’t even have herbs growing in a pot on the kitchen windowsill.”

      “Your mother didn’t do a lot of things.”

      “Why don’t we not go there? You might be able to get a landscaping firm to come out once or twice a week to at least keep the weeds under control and cut the grass.”

      “I hope that won’t be necessary.”

      I finished pouring batter into the muffin tins and popped them into the oven. This was a mighty big house, with eight rooms for B & B guests and a private suite for Rose. As she did every evening, last night Rose had left a note tucked under the saltshaker telling me how many to prepare breakfast for. We were almost full today, meaning fourteen meals.

      “Not necessary? You’ll be surprised how quickly a garden can get out of control. By tomorrow the foxgloves will be waging war on the portulaca.”

      “Portulaca. Such a lovely word, isn’t it? It feels nice in the mouth. Port-chu-laca.”

      Muffins in the oven, I got the sausages out of the fridge. Whenever possible, I try, here and in the tearoom, to feature locally sourced and produced Cape Cod ingredients. The sausages were handmade by a local butcher. Guests had their choice this morning of pork sausages with spices and hot pepper, hearty German bratwurst, or a mild chicken sausage. In case any of our guests were vegetarians, I kept nonmeat versions in the freezer. Rose’s instructions for this morning hadn’t said anything about special dietary requirements.

      “Are you going to abandon the gardens, then?” I asked. “I know they’re an incredible amount of work, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. Some garden clubs stay here just to spend time in them.”

      “Gerald has a nephew, newly arrived from England, prepared to take on the job.”

      “Does this English nephew know one end of a rake from the other?”

      “He

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