updated—stainless steel appliances, birch countertops and cabinetry—but the rustic stone sink, the exposed beams, and the flagstone floor softened its modern edges, and the view of the river meadows from the window over the sink was timeless.
The tea caddy sat between an electric kettle and a chubby cherry-red teapot on the counter next to the sink. The only drinking vessels in sight were a dozen jam jars, one of which contained traces of Mrs. Thistle’s spartan breakfast. I’d never drunk tea from a jam jar before, but evidently Mrs. Thistle had.
I had no cream or sugar to offer my hostess, but she didn’t seem to mind. Once she’d quelled the worst of her hunger pangs, she accepted a jar of weak, unadulterated tea with a grateful smile. After a careful sip, she held the jam jar at arm’s length and examined it.
“I usually use these for cleaning my paintbrushes,” she said philosophically, “but needs must.”
I froze, with my jar of tea halfway to my lips.
“I rinsed them thoroughly,” Mrs. Thistle said, taking note of my startled reaction. “And the paints I use are nontoxic.”
“Do you paint?” I asked offhandedly, as if the thought of her wielding a paintbrush was new to me.
“I dabble,” she replied, and before I could press her for details about her “dabbling,” she was off and running again, taking the conversation in an entirely different direction.
“You’re an American,” she observed. “Your accent gave you away, as did your use of the word cookies . An Englishwoman would have said biscuits . Your informality betrayed you as well. An Englishwoman wouldn’t have urged me to ‘dig in.’ She would have insisted on searching high and low for a proper plate. Americans are, as a rule, much more easygoing about such matters, especially in an emergency, and I can promise you, it was an emergency.” She lifted her chin and gave me a searching look. “You’ve known what it is to be hungry.”
I froze again, this time in surprise. It was true that I’d gone through some lean years after my mother’s death, but Amelia Thistle couldn’t have known it. If she was Mae Bowen, however, andcould see into a crocus’s heart, perhaps the human heart was open to her as well.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve known what it’s like to be hungry. It’s the kind of thing a person doesn’t forget.”
“You’d be surprised by the number of people who do.” She opened one of the food storage boxes I’d filled with cookies, bent over it, and inhaled deeply. “Heavenly. What kind of, er, cookies are they?”
“Oatmeal,” I said. “My mother made them for me when I was little.”
“And now it’s your turn to make them,” she said. “My mother taught me to make brown bread. It’s my most special recipe. Perhaps I’ll bake a loaf for you after I’ve tamed my kitchen. Let’s enjoy your lovely oatmeal cookies in comfort, shall we?”
She stood, crossed to rummage through the cardboard box again, and came up with a Victorian silver salver engraved with an intricate floral motif.
“I can’t imagine why I put the tea tray in with the cutlery,” she said, shaking her head, “but it’s just as well I did. If I’d put it in with the crockery, we’d have to dig through who-knows-how-many boxes to find it.” She handed the salver to me and retrieved a broom and a handful of trash bags from a corner cupboard. “If you’ll bring the tea and the oatmeal cookies, I’ll put the parlor to rights and build a fire. I found some dry logs in the shed last night, before the rain set in. I should be able to coax a friendly flame or two out of them. Heaven knows I have enough tinder.”
“Don’t be silly.” I put the salver on the table and took the broom and the bags out of her hands. “I’ll see to the parlor and the fire. You’ll sit down and relax. You’ve had a rough night, Mrs. Thistle. You’ve earned a breather.”
“Not Mrs. Thistle, dear,” she said, and my ears pricked
The tea caddy sat between an electric kettle and a chubby cherry-red teapot on the counter next to the sink. The only drinking vessels in sight were a dozen jam jars, one of which contained traces of Mrs. Thistle’s spartan breakfast. I’d never drunk tea from a jam jar before, but evidently Mrs. Thistle had.
I had no cream or sugar to offer my hostess, but she didn’t seem to mind. Once she’d quelled the worst of her hunger pangs, she accepted a jar of weak, unadulterated tea with a grateful smile. After a careful sip, she held the jam jar at arm’s length and examined it.
“I usually use these for cleaning my paintbrushes,” she said philosophically, “but needs must.”
I froze, with my jar of tea halfway to my lips.
“I rinsed them thoroughly,” Mrs. Thistle said, taking note of my startled reaction. “And the paints I use are nontoxic.”
“Do you paint?” I asked offhandedly, as if the thought of her wielding a paintbrush was new to me.
“I dabble,” she replied, and before I could press her for details about her “dabbling,” she was off and running again, taking the conversation in an entirely different direction.
“You’re an American,” she observed. “Your accent gave you away, as did your use of the word cookies . An Englishwoman would have said biscuits . Your informality betrayed you as well. An Englishwoman wouldn’t have urged me to ‘dig in.’ She would have insisted on searching high and low for a proper plate. Americans are, as a rule, much more easygoing about such matters, especially in an emergency, and I can promise you, it was an emergency.” She lifted her chin and gave me a searching look. “You’ve known what it is to be hungry.”
I froze again, this time in surprise. It was true that I’d gone through some lean years after my mother’s death, but Amelia Thistle couldn’t have known it. If she was Mae Bowen, however, andcould see into a crocus’s heart, perhaps the human heart was open to her as well.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve known what it’s like to be hungry. It’s the kind of thing a person doesn’t forget.”
“You’d be surprised by the number of people who do.” She opened one of the food storage boxes I’d filled with cookies, bent over it, and inhaled deeply. “Heavenly. What kind of, er, cookies are they?”
“Oatmeal,” I said. “My mother made them for me when I was little.”
“And now it’s your turn to make them,” she said. “My mother taught me to make brown bread. It’s my most special recipe. Perhaps I’ll bake a loaf for you after I’ve tamed my kitchen. Let’s enjoy your lovely oatmeal cookies in comfort, shall we?”
She stood, crossed to rummage through the cardboard box again, and came up with a Victorian silver salver engraved with an intricate floral motif.
“I can’t imagine why I put the tea tray in with the cutlery,” she said, shaking her head, “but it’s just as well I did. If I’d put it in with the crockery, we’d have to dig through who-knows-how-many boxes to find it.” She handed the salver to me and retrieved a broom and a handful of trash bags from a corner cupboard. “If you’ll bring the tea and the oatmeal cookies, I’ll put the parlor to rights and build a fire. I found some dry logs in the shed last night, before the rain set in. I should be able to coax a friendly flame or two out of them. Heaven knows I have enough tinder.”
“Don’t be silly.” I put the salver on the table and took the broom and the bags out of her hands. “I’ll see to the parlor and the fire. You’ll sit down and relax. You’ve had a rough night, Mrs. Thistle. You’ve earned a breather.”
“Not Mrs. Thistle, dear,” she said, and my ears pricked
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