A Bitter Feast(14)
“Sir,” he said, then, at Ivan’s glare, corrected himself. “Ivan. If Gemma’s needed here, I’m sure I can get a taxi.” Managing to shower, shave, and dress had convinced him he shouldn’t attempt to drive, especially not a borrowed car. Not only was his right hand swollen and too tender to use, he felt surprisingly shaky and fuzzy-headed.
“Nonsense,” Ivan repeated firmly. “It would cost you a fortune. Besides, I know a chap or two.”
“But what about the boys?” Kincaid asked.
“I’ll run into Moreton for Doug and the boys,” said Melody. “Piece of cake.”
Kincaid sat back, lifting his coffee cup in a left-handed salute. “You’re a bossy lot, you Talbots.”
Gemma shot Melody a grin. “I could have told you that.”
The heady scent of caramel filled the quiet pub kitchen. Viv stood back, surveying her work with satisfaction.
The small glass jars filled with a spread made from local smoked trout were packed into a cool box. Earlier in the week, Grace had helped her make the labels for the jars, as well as for the two puddings which she would serve the same way. The guests would be encouraged to take home any that were left, as well as the larger jars of pickled vegetables. She’d fermented cabbage with radishes, and cauliflower with haricots verts and carrots. The spice mixtures were not as hot as traditional kimchee—a concession to the bland English palate—but still had a good bit of pop. The spicy, crunchy veg made a perfect counterpoint to the soft creaminess of the smoked lamb and beans.
Those she was serving together, in individual camping tins, to be warmed just before lunch in the Beck House warming ovens. It was all a bit precious, the jars and the tins, but she wanted the meal to be something people would remember.
She’d made a seeded crispbread for the potted trout course, and flatbreads to serve warm with the lamb and pickles. In between the trout and the lamb she planned a salad course—fresh greens, topped with roasted pear halves she’d done the previous day, a local soft blue cheese, and a drizzle of caramel. This was the course that had given her the most worry. It checked every foodie box, but would require last-minute assembly in the Beck House kitchen, and a good bit of willing volunteer help. She couldn’t pull Ibby or Angelica from the pub kitchen on a busy autumn Saturday.
When the back door creaked open, she thought it might be Ibby, there to start lunch prep, but it was Bea, looking considerably the worse for wear. Her dark hair was tousled, her eyes shadowed, and instead of her usual work uniform of dark skirt and white blouse she wore sweatpants and an old T-shirt.
Bea headed straight for the coffee machine. When she’d started a cup, she turned to Viv. “Now, are you going to tell me what that was all about last night? Why the hell would you let him come here?”
“I didn’t let him,” Viv protested, all her calm from a moment before vanishing. “I have no idea how he tracked me down.”
“I’ll tell you how. It was this damned lunch.” Bea waved a hand at Viv’s carefully prepared courses. “You bloody well know it was. One of the food critics Addie Talbot invited had to have mentioned it. I told you this whole thing was a bad idea.”
“Look.” Viv wiped her hands on her apron and fetched the cream for Bea’s coffee from the fridge. She hated seeing Bea so upset. Bea was the rock in their partnership, the dependable and steady half, and when she’d agreed to Addie Talbot’s plan, she’d had no idea that Bea would be so set against it. But, then, she hadn’t foreseen Fergus popping up, either. “It will be fine,” she said, handing Bea the bottle. “He’ll not come back after last night.” She knew she was reassuring herself.
“No?” Bea was still scowling. “Not even for the camel hair coat he left in the bar?”
As Duncan and Ivan left the breakfast table to get ready for their run to Cheltenham, Gemma heard Melody’s phone ding with a text. Frowning, Melody tapped an answer, then glanced up at Gemma, who’d stood to clear the table. “Um, slight change of plans,” she said. “That was Doug. He and the boys are coming early. So I’ll run pick them up now, if you don’t mind giving Mummy a hand in the garden.”
“Wait.” Gemma gave Melody a sharp look. “Why didn’t they tell us they were coming early? What about Toby’s class?” Realization dawned. “You told Doug about the accident, didn’t you?”
“I might have just texted him last night.” Melody smiled a little apologetically. “Can you imagine what he’d have said if he’d shown up at noon and no one had told him what happened to Duncan?”
Gemma had to admit she had a point. And she would be glad to have the boys with them sooner rather than later—although she wasn’t sure that Toby’s presence would help with the luncheon prep. Still, she didn’t like being left out of the loop. “I can pick them up, if you don’t mind me borrowing your car,” she said, realizing how much she really hated being dependent on someone else for transport.
“No, I’ll go.” Melody was already grabbing her bag from the sideboard. “I know the way, and the train’s due in twenty minutes. Don’t worry about the washing up. I’ll do it when I get back.” Then she was gone.
Gemma gazed after her. Duncan had been right about the Talbot bossiness. She’d been managed, and she wondered if there was more to Melody’s tactic than convenience.