long.
“I’m Abbie Sinclair,” she said.
“Hi. I’m Bethanne Bridges. I run the inn and the gift shop. Actually I own it; well, my husband and I did, but . . .” She shrugged, trailed off.
“It’s lovely,” Abbie said.
Bethanne rang up her purchase and Abbie paid cash. No reason to keep receipts for her taxes. She wasn’t on location.
Bethanne returned her purchases in a neat white bag with a picture of the inn marked out in blue. White and blue seemed to be a theme around here. She’d seen the blue door on the community center she’d passed by as well as on the real estate office and a tiny hole in the wall that she assumed was a post office.
“Thanks.” Abbie started to leave. Bethanne grabbed her purse and caught up to her. “I was just going over to Flora’s. They serve afternoon tea or coffee. It can be daunting in a new place where you don’t know anyone. Would you like to join me?”
Abbie’s first response was to decline, but she stopped herself. Bethanne was being friendly, and Abbie needed to start interacting with people again. “Sure. That would be . . . great.” Abbie let Bethanne lead her out of the gift shop and through the front door.
She turned a sign over that said back in ten minutes. “Which hardly matters since I don’t have a soul staying at the inn now. Come on, it’s just right down the street.”
They walked to Flora’s Tea Shoppe, which was spelled with two p ’s and an e at the end, though a sign in the window assured passersby that they made the best mocha cappuccinos in town, which wasn’t hard to believe since they appeared to be the only coffee/tea shop in town.
Inside Flora’s was everything you’d expect and more. Blue gingham half curtains finished in blue gingham ruffles. Polished wood-planked floors. A glass display case only partially filled with an array of pastries.
Bethanne led her to a table by the window.
“It’s such a luxury to have all this space to ourselves. In season you can’t buy a seat.”
“That’s good,” Abbie said, wondering how any of them could do enough business to stay open; she hadn’t seen a car except for the rusted-out Chevy since she’d come to town. There was no one staying at the inn, and none of the other tables in Flora’s were occupied.
Flora turned out to be a middle-aged woman with springy reddish-blond curls, bright red lipstick, wearing jeans and a Vanderbilt sweatshirt.
“Before you ask,” she said, addressing Abbie, “I’m Penny Farlowe, owner of Flora’s. Flora died twenty-something years ago. I should put up a sign.” Penny looked down at her with eyes a shade of blue green that Abbie had never seen. Contacts?
“This is Abbie Sinclair,” Bethanne volunteered. “She’s staying up at Crispin House.”
“So she is,” Penny said. She seemed to be perpetually bubbly, perhaps cultivated for the ambiance of the tea shop. “This calls for high tea.” She leaned over the table and effervesced. “At least the Point’s version of it.”
“As long as it doesn’t involve pastries with fish heads sticking out of it.” Abbie had eaten a lot of weird things while out on a shoot, but fish heads . . . not so much.
Penny laughed. “I see you’ve heard of the famous Stargazey Pie. We tend not to push that delicacy here too much. We love our fish, especially of the shellfish variety, but summer people can get a bit squeamish.”
Bethanne frowned at them. “What are y’all talking about? Did I miss something?”
“Just a kind of pie they make in Cornwall,” Abbie said. “I only know about it because when I googled Stargazey Point, it was the first thing to come up.”
“Is it something weird, Stargazey Pie?”
“It’s fish pie, with their little heads sticking out of the pastry,” Penny said.
“Ugh.” Bethanne wrinkled her nose. “Sorry, but it sounds disgusting. Do people really eat it?”
“Beats me,” Penny said. “Do you know?”
“I guess they must,” said
“I’m Abbie Sinclair,” she said.
“Hi. I’m Bethanne Bridges. I run the inn and the gift shop. Actually I own it; well, my husband and I did, but . . .” She shrugged, trailed off.
“It’s lovely,” Abbie said.
Bethanne rang up her purchase and Abbie paid cash. No reason to keep receipts for her taxes. She wasn’t on location.
Bethanne returned her purchases in a neat white bag with a picture of the inn marked out in blue. White and blue seemed to be a theme around here. She’d seen the blue door on the community center she’d passed by as well as on the real estate office and a tiny hole in the wall that she assumed was a post office.
“Thanks.” Abbie started to leave. Bethanne grabbed her purse and caught up to her. “I was just going over to Flora’s. They serve afternoon tea or coffee. It can be daunting in a new place where you don’t know anyone. Would you like to join me?”
Abbie’s first response was to decline, but she stopped herself. Bethanne was being friendly, and Abbie needed to start interacting with people again. “Sure. That would be . . . great.” Abbie let Bethanne lead her out of the gift shop and through the front door.
She turned a sign over that said back in ten minutes. “Which hardly matters since I don’t have a soul staying at the inn now. Come on, it’s just right down the street.”
They walked to Flora’s Tea Shoppe, which was spelled with two p ’s and an e at the end, though a sign in the window assured passersby that they made the best mocha cappuccinos in town, which wasn’t hard to believe since they appeared to be the only coffee/tea shop in town.
Inside Flora’s was everything you’d expect and more. Blue gingham half curtains finished in blue gingham ruffles. Polished wood-planked floors. A glass display case only partially filled with an array of pastries.
Bethanne led her to a table by the window.
“It’s such a luxury to have all this space to ourselves. In season you can’t buy a seat.”
“That’s good,” Abbie said, wondering how any of them could do enough business to stay open; she hadn’t seen a car except for the rusted-out Chevy since she’d come to town. There was no one staying at the inn, and none of the other tables in Flora’s were occupied.
Flora turned out to be a middle-aged woman with springy reddish-blond curls, bright red lipstick, wearing jeans and a Vanderbilt sweatshirt.
“Before you ask,” she said, addressing Abbie, “I’m Penny Farlowe, owner of Flora’s. Flora died twenty-something years ago. I should put up a sign.” Penny looked down at her with eyes a shade of blue green that Abbie had never seen. Contacts?
“This is Abbie Sinclair,” Bethanne volunteered. “She’s staying up at Crispin House.”
“So she is,” Penny said. She seemed to be perpetually bubbly, perhaps cultivated for the ambiance of the tea shop. “This calls for high tea.” She leaned over the table and effervesced. “At least the Point’s version of it.”
“As long as it doesn’t involve pastries with fish heads sticking out of it.” Abbie had eaten a lot of weird things while out on a shoot, but fish heads . . . not so much.
Penny laughed. “I see you’ve heard of the famous Stargazey Pie. We tend not to push that delicacy here too much. We love our fish, especially of the shellfish variety, but summer people can get a bit squeamish.”
Bethanne frowned at them. “What are y’all talking about? Did I miss something?”
“Just a kind of pie they make in Cornwall,” Abbie said. “I only know about it because when I googled Stargazey Point, it was the first thing to come up.”
“Is it something weird, Stargazey Pie?”
“It’s fish pie, with their little heads sticking out of the pastry,” Penny said.
“Ugh.” Bethanne wrinkled her nose. “Sorry, but it sounds disgusting. Do people really eat it?”
“Beats me,” Penny said. “Do you know?”
“I guess they must,” said
Similar Books
