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  “Afternoon tea is right around the corner,” Tricia suggested.

  “Ooh! You’re right. We haven’t had an opportunity to indulge. And I think today is the champagne tea. That could be fun.”

  “I could use a little fun,” Tricia admitted.

  Angelica’s smile was full of sisterly affection. “Then champagne tea, here we come.”

  FIFTEEN

  During the ferry ride back to the wharf, Tricia told Angelica about her call to Pixie.

  “I’m glad Sarge and Miss Marple aren’t battling it out, but I will be glad to see my little man in three days. After this afternoon, I must admit I’m feeling a little combat weary.”

  Tricia didn’t comment.

  The gangplank was filled with other passengers returning from shore, and Tricia wondered if they’d make it through the gauntlet in time for afternoon tea. Still, they headed back to their suite to change into more formal attire.

  Sebastian had once again done his magic, transforming the suite to its glory, and once again there was another gift waiting for Tricia. This time, it was flowers; her favorite calla lilies. The card said, For someone special.

  “Well, somebody sure knows what you like,” Angelica said. “This has to mean that whoever is sending you gifts knows you pretty intimately.”

  Tricia wasn’t sure she liked that descriptor. She’d had intimate relations with two men during her time in Stoneham: Russ Smith, who was now happily married to someone else, and Chief Grant Baker, who had been out of her dating picture for quite some time. Still, how many of the villagers had seen the scores of lilies delivered to her shop on her birthday three years before? While she dressed for tea, Tricia did a mental head count of the local men who had signed up for the Authors at Sea cruise. The most eligible was Chauncey Porter, who couldn’t stand the sight of her. He wasn’t exactly her type, though, either.

  For someone special. Tricia had felt anything but special during the visit with her parents, but that hadn’t been her fault, and she swallowed down a pang of regret that her mother would never forgive her for something she had no part in causing.

  For someone special.

  Was it possible her father had had the flowers delivered in the hours since they’d parted at the hotel? Maybe, but it didn’t seem likely. Did he even know calla lilies were her favorite blooms?

  Tricia tried to put such thoughts out of her mind and looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the outside of her closet, admiring the crisp white blouse and long black skirt. She grabbed a black clutch, placed her keycard in it, and met Angelica in the lounge. She looked stunning in a floral suit with heels that had hoisted her to an inch taller than Tricia.

  “I must confess, I’m really looking forward to this,” Angelica said as they left the stateroom and headed for the lift.

  A cellist sat on a small stage, playing what sounded like a piece of classical music, when Tricia and Angelica entered the Crystal Ballroom. All the little round tables were covered with lovely white linen, while the enormous crystal chandelier glowed overhead and the luxurious carpet surrounding the wooden dance floor softened their steps.

  They sat at one of the empty tables and turned their attention to the cellist.

  “Isn’t this lovely?” Angelica asked, looking around the elegantly appointed room.

  “I wish we’d done this before today,” Tricia said in agreement.

  They hadn’t done much talking on the ferry ride back to the wharf where the Celtic Lady had been berthed, but Tricia had never felt closer to her sister than she had during that brief journey. Happily, that feeling had stayed with her upon their return to the ship.

  They watched in silence for several minutes as the white tux–clad waiters methodically set the tables with gold-rimmed china and beautiful cutlery, and the rest of the room filled with their fellow travelers.

  “I meant to mention before now that when I was walking down Front Street, I saw Dori Douglas coming out of an office supply store,” Angelica said.

  “Really?” Tricia asked. “I wonder what she needed there? Surely not a ream of paper. Did she have a bag?”

  “She seemed to be carrying several, but I don’t know what she might have purchased there. Perhaps she was just stopping at any shop she came to.”

  “I suppose she could have been souvenir shopping; but wouldn’t she have found more items like that on the wharf near the ship?”

  “You’d think,” Angelica said.

  One of the waiters paused at their table, setting out linen napkins and silverware. Another stood behind him with plates, cups, saucers, and champagne flutes. “Thank you,” Angelica said, giving them both a smile.

  Another waiter appeared with a sugar bowl, creamer, ramekins filled with sweet butter and clotted cream, and two small jars of jam.

  “Everything is just so lovely,” Angelica gushed.

  “Very nice,” Tricia agreed.

  Another waiter appeared with a tray heaped with an assortment of finger sandwiches and petite scones.

  “Madam?” he asked Angelica.

  “Oh, they all look so lovely. I’ll have one of each,” she said, and watched as the waiter plucked the sandwiches and a scone with a set of silver tongs.

  “And you?” he asked Tricia.

  “I’ll have one of the cucumber sandwiches and one of the salmon.”

  “That’s all?” Angelica asked, taking her napkin, shaking out the folds, and placing it on her lap.

  Tricia looked up at the waiter. “That’s all, thank you.”

  The waiter nodded and turned away, only to be followed by another with a large white teapot rimmed with green and gold. “Tea?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Tricia said, letting him pour.

  “I’ll have a cup, too,” Angelica said.

  The waiter poured another cup before turning away.

  “Why did you only get two tiny sandwiches?” Angelica asked.

  “I’m pretty sure they’re going to have little cakes. I wanted to save room for one.”

  “Little is the word. I’ve seen them up at the Lido Restaurant.”

  “When did you go to the Lido for tea?” Tricia asked.

  “On more than one occasion to get a coffee fix, and simply had to check out what else they had on offer. After all, I am a restaurateur.”

  Tricia picked up the delicate triangular salmon sandwich and took a bite. It was wonderful, but was already half gone.

  “Do you mind if I bring up a potentially painful subject?” Angelica asked at last.

  Tricia turned to face her. “I thought we agreed not to talk about Mother.”

  “Well, this concerns her peripherally. I’m talking about your eating habits.”

  “My what?” Tricia asked, confused.

  “Until today, I’d never noticed the way Mother constantly criticized every morsel you ever put in your mouth.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” Tricia said with a shake of her head.

  “No, I’m not. Have you ever enjoyed a meal in your entire life?”

  Tricia scowled. “Of course I have.”

  “You eat yogurt for breakfast; back home you eat a tuna plate almost every day for lunch; and when you come to my house for dinner, your portions are minuscule.”

  “You know how hard I try to maintain my weight.”

  “A little too hard. Why?”

  “Because I don’t need to eat any more.”

  “Don’t need—or since childhood have been bullied not to have more? And not to enjoy what you have?”

  Tricia thought about her sister’s questions. There had always been a little voice in the back of her head telling her what she should and shouldn’t eat. Until that moment, she hadn’t recognized that voice as being her mother’s. And suddenly she thought of her fifth birthday party.

  A
ngelica had been ten and had been enlisted to help—something she’d been mortified to do. The little girl guests—dressed in their party best—had all sat around the big dining room table, laughing and then singing “Happy Birthday.” Tricia made a wish (for the kitty that she had never received), blown out the candles, and then Angelica had cut the big sheet cake into slabs three or four inches in size, plopping them onto plates for the ten or so of Tricia’s schoolmates—none of whom she remembered some forty years later.

  Tricia had held her fork and was about to dive into the white cake with pink frosting roses when she’d heard a voice behind her say, “Uh-uh-uh!” She’d turned around to see her mother towering over her, frowning. “Do you want to grow up to be a fat, ugly, repulsive person who nobody will ever love? Someone to be made fun of?”

  Tricia remembered being puzzled by the question, and she’d shaken her head, frightened by the images her mother’s words had evoked. Still, she’d whimpered, “But it’s my birthday.”

  Her mother had looked at her and had shaken her head. Tricia well remembered the terrible weight on her soul as she’d carefully considered her mother’s words. Not wanting to disappoint the person she needed the most, Tricia had set down her fork and pushed the cake aside.

  “Aren’t you going to eat that?” Angelica had asked, horrified.

  Tricia remembered again shaking her head.

  “Good. Then I will.”

  Angelica had grabbed the plate, sat down at the table, and had plunged her fork into the sea of white and pink icing. Tricia had had to swallow hard as she watched Angelica practically inhale the lovely confection. And when she’d looked back at her mother, she’d found her gaze planted squarely on Angelica, smiling broadly.

  Tricia looked down at her plate and frowned. She remembered so many Christmas dinners when she’d had a teaspoon of each item served—but no more, and then going to bed hungry.

  On their first trip away as a couple, she and Christopher had gone to Portland, Maine, for a long weekend. He’d ordered lobster for both of them, but she’d picked at hers, taking a bite of the corn and maybe one or two of the boiled potatoes, totally bypassing the drawn butter. He’d been disappointed she didn’t want to finish her meal, and had appropriated what was left of her entrée.

  Several times she’d shared pieces of Angelica’s decadent carrot cake with Ginny, always taking the smaller half—and never the one with the most icing—and then feeling guilty for having eaten it at all.

  And yet, despite the memories that had assaulted her, instead of wanting more, Tricia suddenly found she’d lost her appetite.

  “It never occurred to me before this afternoon, but Tricia, darling, you’ve been a victim of parental abuse your entire life.”

  Victim? That wasn’t a word Tricia wanted to be associated with. Indoctrinated? Yes, perhaps that was a better explanation, but it wasn’t any more palatable—and wasn’t that ironic?

  Their mother had punished Tricia for the death of the brother she had never known—a death she hadn’t caused. Angelica was right. That was child abuse. And yet . . . why did she still cling to the hope that one day her mother would suddenly forget her errors of the past and love her unconditionally?

  It was a pipe dream. And when Tricia thought of her mother, she didn’t have kind words to apply to her vision of the woman. And what about her father? He had known how Sheila treated his younger daughter and hadn’t interceded. Yet when she thought of her father, Tricia associated him with the word downtrodden. Beaten. Dominated. Weak willed. And yet, she loved him. He’d always called her his princess. He had never called Angelica by that pet name.

  Yes. When she’d looked into her father’s eyes, she’d felt like a princess. Had he accorded her that moniker because he knew how her mother had repeatedly browbeaten her? Yes, he must have, because he’d told Angelica he’d been spineless to counter his wife’s abuse because he had to live with her.

  There was only one person in Tricia’s—and in Angelica’s—life who had given unconditional love: their Grandma Miles. At that moment, Tricia felt an overwhelming gush of love for that selfless woman who had taught Tricia the love of books filled with mystery, and Angelica, books filled with the love of cookery. She’d picked up on what each girl was most interested in and had encouraged that pursuit.

  “Trish,” Angelica said, bringing Tricia back to the here and now. “What are you thinking about?”

  Tricia sighed. “That you may just be right.” Again she looked down at her plate and yet did not want to take a bite of the cucumber sandwich or what was left of the tiny salmon sandwich.

  At that moment, a waiter with a bottle of champagne showed up at the table. “Shall I pour?”

  “Please do,” Angelica said with a nod.

  He did so, and the bubbles frothed up before settling down in the glasses—and then he topped them up again.

  “Thank you,” Tricia said, giving the bored waiter a wan smile. He nodded and turned away.

  Angelica’s expression was somber. “How does one undo a life of coercion?”

  “Are you suggesting I should consult a shrink?”

  Angelica looked thoughtful. “Maybe you should.”

  Tricia again looked down at the tiny rectangle of bread, butter, and cucumber, which looked so delicate and inviting, yet there was nothing she could think of that would activate her appetite.

  “Perhaps it’s time for a toast,” Angelica said, picking up her champagne flute.

  With reluctance, Tricia picked up her glass, but there was nothing on earth she wanted to celebrate. The day had been full of too many painful memories and surprises.

  “This sister,” Angelica said, indicating herself, “has the best sister in the world.”

  “Now you’re joking,” Tricia said.

  “No, truly. I couldn’t have asked for a kinder, smarter, more generous sister than you. I’m so sorry we weren’t closer when we were growing up, but I now realize exactly why that was.”

  “You promised we weren’t going to talk about her.” No need to clarify who her was.

  “That’s all behind us now. You’re my sister, and you’re my best friend.” Angelica moved her glass to clink Tricia’s.

  “You’re my best friend, too.”

  Angelica smiled, her eyes growing moist.

  They drank, and the bubbles tickled Tricia’s nose. “Good stuff.”

  “It sure is.” Angelica set her glass back on the tablecloth and picked up the cucumber sandwich on her plate, taking a bite. “I wish I’d brought my phone so I could have taken a picture of the table setting and these darling little sandwiches. We’ll have to do this again before we return to New York. We’re going to begin afternoon tea at the Brookside Inn the first weekend in April. I thought it might be fun to have a trial run for the Chamber members. What do you think?”

  “I think they’d love it. I know I would.”

  “Good. The Brookview Inn’s sous chef’s specialty is pastries. I want to give her an opportunity to shine.”

  “If you do that, you might not have her much longer,” Tricia pointed out.

  “Ah, but when she goes on to work at bigger and better places, she’ll tell everyone where she got her break, and that will be fabulous PR for the inn.”

  “Everybody wins?” Tricia asked, amused.

  “Why not?”

  Tricia found herself smiling. For many years she’d been too blinded by her animosity toward her sister to notice the depth of Angelica’s generous nature.

  “The next time we have tea, we should try to get Grace, Mr. Everett, and Antonio and Ginny to join us. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “Our real family,” Angelica had said of them back at the Hamilton Contessa Hotel. Yes. That’s just how Tricia thought of them.

  She let out a breath and reached for the cucumber sandwich on her plate, taking
a nibble. The combination of bread, sweet butter, and cucumber was delightful. She ate the rest of it and enjoyed every last morsel.

  SIXTEEN

  Angelica decided that after such a stressful day she needed a deep tissue massage and a nap, and went off to book the former or attempt the latter. Tricia went back to the stateroom and changed clothes, filled her tote bag with several books and her e-reader, and went off in search of somewhere to rest, relax, and possibly reflect, although the latter wasn’t going to be high on her list of things to do.

  The temperature never did go up to where she thought it would be warm enough to sit by the pool (unlike some sun-starved passengers), and she decided to find a cozy niche in the ship’s Garden Lounge.

  The ship seemed quiet with so many of its temporary denizens off to take in the sights in Bermuda, and she found a seat in the sun with no trouble.

  Tricia read for nearly an hour before she looked up from the page and out the window to the pier below, where she saw Cathy Copper approach a man holding a duffel bag. He wasn’t a lover, or even a friend, for Cathy offered her hand and the man shook it. They stood looking at the big ship for a couple of minutes, conversing, and then Cathy led him to the gangplank. Was he going to board the ship?

  Tricia sat back in her comfortable chair, placing a bookmark between the pages of her book and setting it aside. Who could the mysterious man be? Was he from EM’s publishing company? Could he be a member of EM’s family here to claim the body, or at least accompany it back to New York? Tricia’s curiosity was certainly piqued, and she wondered if she might accidentally run into Cathy again at another of the cruise’s book-related functions—or maybe later that night at one of the bars.

  “Tricia?”

  Tricia looked up to see Ginny heading in her direction without Antonio or Sofia.

  “There you are. Angelica thought you might be here.”

  “Did she get her massage?”

  “I don’t think she ever made it down to the spa. She’s holding court at the Portside Bar, talking with a bunch of authors. She seemed to be doing Chamber networking.”