Close Encounter with a Crumpet Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Praise for Fleeta Cunningham…

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books You Might Enjoy

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Close Encounter

  with a

  Crumpet

  by

  Fleeta Cunningham

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Close Encounter with a Crumpet

  COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Fleeta Cunningham

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Sweetheart Rose Edition, 2014

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-234-9

  Published in the United States of America

  Praise for Fleeta Cunningham…

  And her books in the vintage Santa Rita Series:

  “Well-crafted story… exciting plot… interesting characters… I am now determined to read the rest of the series.”

  ~The Romance Studio (5 Stars)

  “One of the most fantastic books I’ve read this year… An author of increasing distinction who will never disappoint her readers.”

  ~Two Lips Reviews (5 Lips, Recommended)

  “A warm, thought-provoking book… The best thing is she balances the build-up with a really good ending.”

  ~WRDF (rated Fantastic)

  “Delightful to read. Fleeta Cunningham slips in mores, styles, and pastimes of the 1950s era… a sparkling, enjoyable vicarious experience.”

  ~Camellia, Long and Short Reviews (4.5 Stars)

  ~*~

  Books by Fleeta Cunningham

  available at The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Elopement for One

  Black Rain Rising

  Don’t Call Me Darlin’

  Half Past Mourning

  Cry Against the Wind

  Bal Masque

  Close Encounter with a Crumpet

  Help Wanted: WIFE

  Dedication

  To the ladies of the Texas Altar Guild—

  Thanks for the trip of a lifetime.

  The company was as impeccable

  as the trip was glorious.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Parish Vacations,

  the gracious people of the Village of Pulborough,

  and especially John and Mary Bowker,

  Father Paul,

  and our own dear Gill

  for making their corner of England our second home.

  I promised you a story.

  Gillian Banks stared at her tea cup and refused to let burning tears fall. Disappointment was one thing; giving way to it in public—no, her Boston pride wouldn’t let her do that. The trip to England had been a dismal letdown from the moment she introduced herself to the tour group, but she’d pinned all her hopes on today being different. No chilly cathedrals today. No echoing churches hailing back to the fourteenth century, with gloomy memorials underfoot to remind the visitor life is a fleeting, temporary thing. Today was to be a celebration, a joyous parade with flags and bands and brilliant uniforms. A lifelong Anglophile, for years Gill had dreamed of standing in Trafalgar Square. Today she’d expected to see the magnificent square as a backdrop when the Queen of England received a salute from her troops in honor of the royal birthday.

  Even the sudden icy downpour that left her new hat sodden hadn’t quelled her expectations. It took two meandering, peevish, chattering septuagenarians to do that. Two traveling companions who had not had a pleasant word to say to her in the past twelve days succeeded in scuttling her anticipation with a fifteen-minute “favor.” Now Gill shivered in her soggy light blue sweater, wiped damp trickles—she was certain they were raindrops, not tears—from her cheeks, and stirred the cooling cup of tea.

  “Pardon, but this is the only free spot left in the place. Mind if I share the table for a bit?”

  Gill looked up at the query. “Simon?”

  A slow grin lit his face. “Gill! All on your own, are you? Thought you’d gone off with the grannies to cheer the Queen and see the lads in their fine uniforms.”

  Gill couldn’t keep from returning his smile but covered her confusion at his appearance by taking her bag from the empty chair and moving her tea cup closer. She’d never expected to run into Simon, the fair-haired, pleasant fellow who drove the tour bus, helping the old ladies up and down the steps and giving each one a cheery greeting day after day. One of them, a little less stuffy than her companions, had flushed at his attention and declared him “quite a crumpet.” Gill had last seen him at their hotel, waving, assuring them he’d see them early Monday morning to drive the group to Heathrow and the departing flight.

  “I got separated from the party when they went to their seats in the stands.” Gill tried to camouflage her disappointment with a polite smile, making light of it. “Two of the ladies suddenly needed to locate a…a loo and didn’t feel safe taking off on their own. They asked me to go with them so I could hold their bags and hats and things. I guess, since they had tickets for seats, they didn’t see the need to rush along. By the time they were certain they knew where they were and were well on the way to their places, I was hopelessly separated from our group.” She shrugged off her distress. “I didn’t have a ticket for the stands and couldn’t shove through the crowd to get close enough to see anything. I just came in here hoping to see some of the parade on TV.”

  “Did you now?” Simon raised two fingers and caught the attention of the waitress. “By the look of you, the morning shower caught you along the way, too. Throw out that cold tea and have a half pint of something that will warm your bones.” He turned to the waitress. “Bring the lady a half pint of cider, and a pint of Guinness for me. And have you a platter of bread and cheese? A bowl of your ham-and-pea soup for each of us, as well, if you will.”

  “Weren’t you off for the weekend? Didn’t you have plans to visit family or friends?” Gill asked when a plate of bread and cheese covered half the small table and a glass of tart cider was at hand.

  “I did intend to see a mate of mine, but he and his wife had a bit of a surprise.” He mimicked rocking a baby. “Seems the little nipper didn’t like the day the doctor picked and chose to move his arrival up a couple of weeks. Wanted to share the royal celebration, I’m thinking. At any rate, I wound up all on my own for the day.”

  Tickled by his breezy explanation, Gill’s dark mood lightened, and she smiled. “Sorry your plans got changed.”

  “Not as much as yours, it appears.” He raised his pint. “Didn’t I hear you saying this Trooping of the Colors and all the flags and bands were the whole reason you made the trip across the pond?”

  Gill felt her lower lip quiver as disappointment welled up again. She took a quick swallow of cider. “Oh, just one of those things that happen, I guess. I’ve seen more of England than I ever thought I would. I have to be grateful for that.” She hoped her casual air covered her frustration.

  Simon’s l
evel blue eyes widened a little, but he politely didn’t dispute her claim to gratitude. “How is it that a pretty young thing like yourself would be tagging along with a clutch of gossiping grannies anyway? Seems to me you’d be more inclined to take a turn about the West End or spend an afternoon at Harrods.”

  The bowl of hearty soup steamed with enticing flavor. Gill dipped her bread into it, considering her answer. “I never expected to be with the tour. My aunt is the altar guild director at the church at home. She booked the trip, but then she had a car accident and couldn’t come. It was too late for her to get her fare back, so she arranged to transfer the reservation to me.” Gill glanced through the window at the historic square beyond, the site of her most recent shattered hopes. “I was so excited about coming to England that I really didn’t ask too many questions. When I saw we’d be in London on the Queen’s birthday, the rest of the trip didn’t matter.” She saw the twinkle in Simon’s glance before he hid behind the pint glass in his hand.

  “Didn’t sign on for quite so many churches and such, did you? Or the cold shoulder your traveling companions offered?”

  “Not exactly.” Gill thought with longing of bypassed castles, palaces, and historic landmarks, then redirected the conversation. “Do you know where that expression ‘cold shoulder’ came from?”

  “Never thought about it.” He lowered the level in his pint by half. “Don’t tell me you do?”

  “I do, actually. It comes from the old custom of hospitality. If a host wanted a guest to feel welcomed, he offered a hot dinner. If the guest was less welcome, the host showed it by making a dinner from the leftovers of the day before, probably a shoulder of mutton, thereby giving the unwanted visitor the ‘cold shoulder.’ ”

  Simon chuckled. “And how would you be knowing that bit of trivia?”

  “Words are my job, more or less. I’m the librarian for a rather snooty private boys’ school back home.” She felt a surge of familiar affection for her absent students. “Most of the pupils are under fourteen. From time to time I broaden their education by connecting their latest slang or put-down to its historical origin. Most of their linguistic license isn’t nearly as original or shocking as they think.”

  “Librarian, are you? University and all that, I suppose.”

  “All that,” Gill agreed. “It takes everything I ever learned to keep up with the kids. Most of the time I enjoy it, but sub-teen boys are as unpredictable as wild horses and harder to handle than a speeding Ferrari.” A wry grin tugged a corner of his mouth. It made him look almost as young and impish as one of her students. “Yes, you’re thinking I could have found less stressful ways to make a living, but you see, this one offered eight weeks off in the summer, and a Christmas break. Though I admit the boys make me earn every minute of free time.”

  Simon leaned back in his chair and finished his pint. “Sure to be a man in your life to make your time away from the boys worthwhile.”

  Pushing her empty bowl away, Gill shook her head. “No, no man, not now. Not for six years and a little more.” She shifted the wet straw hat to the other side of the table. “Afghanistan.”

  “Like that, is it? Your husband?”

  She heard a softer note in his tone and hastened to explain. “No, we weren’t married. Planned to be, as soon as he came home. But he didn’t come, not in the way we’d expected. A military escort and a flag, but not Gary himself.”

  “Sorry for your loss.”

  The words were commonplace, but Gill was certain he meant them. “Thank you, but you didn’t know, and I mustn’t complain. I had more in my year with him than a lot of women ever have. And my life is pretty good.” She looked up at the television mounted on the wall, what little of it wasn’t blocked by the crowd around the bar. “It appears the festivities are over, and the sun may be trying to come out. Perhaps I can get back to the hotel and change into something dry. I think the group is planning to meet for tea in the dining room later in the afternoon. I should join them, I suppose.” She reached for her bag and hat, preparing to end what had turned out to be a very pleasant chance meeting.

  Simon caught her hand in mid reach. “And why ever would you be doin’ that? From what I’ve seen from the front of the coach, they wouldn’t be handing out a warm welcome, would they now? Some of that leftover mutton you were talking about, more like.”

  A small sigh escaped before Gill could stop it. “More cold shoulder, you mean? No, the ladies and I don’t seem to share a lot of warm moments. I think they’ve been traveling together, making tours and visits over here, for several years. They know each other well, and oh, I think they see me as a bit of an upstart.”

  He laughed aloud and a devilish dimple appeared at the corner of his mouth. “Upstart, are you? And how do they arrive at that?”

  Disregarding his amusement, Gill gave him a serious answer. “They’re wealthy, retired, and mostly live in a style I can’t begin to match. Their children and grandchildren attended the school where I work. Two of the ladies have husbands who serve on the Board of Trustees. In some way that makes me, in their minds, an employee. I’m trying to stay in their good graces.”

  “Don’t see you as the sort to curry favor.”

  His words held a sting, but she wondered if they had an element of truth. “I don’t think of it that way, but maybe I am.”

  Simon planted both elbows on the table and challenged her. “Then change things. Ditch the old birds for the afternoon. Come out with me.”

  “With you? Where?”

  Simon grinned and, finding his amusement contagious, she found herself smiling back.

  “Well, first of all, I’d say, to a shop over in Mayfair where you can find a dry bit or two to wear.” His sharp glance made her more conscious of her loose sweater and damp skirt. “Something suitable for spending a Saturday with a man who’d like to show you the city isn’t limited to cold churches and tea with the vicar.”

  Somehow, with Simon’s urging, Gill found herself in the maze of shops that lined the streets of the Mayfair district. She couldn’t bring herself to return to the hotel where her travel companions would delight in comparing notes on the Queen’s parade, and where she’d become an unwilling audience for the older women, reminding her of all she’d missed. Simon’s appraisal of her blue skirt and sagging sweater convinced her that a change was mandatory. And so, an hour after her unexpected encounter with the engaging coach driver, Gill enjoyed the guilty pleasure of comparing the merits of a wisp of a skirt to a slinky pair of skinny jeans.

  “The skirt is a flirty thing and would make a man look twice,” the voice behind her said.

  “Simon, I don’t need that kind of attention, not with the ladies watching every move I make. And I couldn’t wear something that short at home, not with students and their families nearby.” She put the tempting skirt aside.

  “Then it’s the jeans, is it? Not so quick to draw attention, but I’m thinking the last look will be a long one.”

  “That’s almost as bad. But at least they’ll be acceptable at home, maybe only when I’m tending the flowerbeds, but I can wear them again.” With the help of a pretty salesclerk, who seemed to take a greater interest in pleasing Simon than in assisting Gill, a suitable outfit came together.

  After changing in the dressing room, Gill gave another glance at the reflection in the mirror. She couldn’t help feeling a certain satisfaction in what she saw. Tight jeans, far tighter than she’d ever worn at home, made her long legs elegant and graceful. The coral sweater, styled to be loose and floaty, gave a warm contrast to her short dark hair and brought out the light gold flecks in her brown eyes. Bloused over a cream camisole by a wide leather belt, the sheer sweater looked dressy and smart. A new bag, large and in the same bold coral color, would carry everything.

  Her hair had dried, but the unruly curls she normally kept under rigid control sprang up in a nimbus cloud about her face. Nothing she could do with the hair right now, she knew. Only serious application of condit
ioner, blow dryer, and hair spray would put the riot of curls in order.

  “Now isn’t that a girl a man would be proud to show off to his mates?” Simon stood back as she returned from changing, an appreciative gleam in his eyes. “Found these while you were in the back. Thought they’d look good with the sweater.” He held out a pair of silk flowers, button mums that matched the coral of her new top and bag. “Your hair, all curly like that, would look grand with these in it.”

  Gill fastened the blooms in her hair and tilted her head, trying to judge the effect in the tiny hand mirror. She’d seen a number of young women in London wearing artificial flowers in their hair and thought it charming, but she’d never considered doing so herself. “Do they look all right?”

  “Like you should be wearing them every day.” Simon took the shopping bag that held her damp sweater and skirt and gestured toward the door. “Let’s go out and let London take a look at you. You’ll want to tell your friends you saw something more than a bit of the parade on the telly. What do you want to see first?”

  Gill didn’t know where to start. Her “must-see” list was long, far too long to fit into a single afternoon. “Oh, Big Ben and the Thames. Trafalgar Square and St. Paul’s. Waterloo Bridge and the Tower of London. The Victoria and Albert Museum. And, and—I don’t know. All of it. Everything.”

  Simon laughed, put an arm around her, and turned her toward a red double-decker bus with an open top. “All right, Miss Wants-It-All. Let’s try for the big picture and work down to specifics.” As the bus door slid open, he stepped in and held out a hand to her. “Well, come on, then. We haven’t much time, and this magic carpet won’t wait.”

  Gill caught his grasp and took the long step up to stand beside him. He flicked a two-fingered salute to the driver and led Gill up the narrow stairwell to the top deck. It was almost empty; only two other people filled a bench at the far end.

  “You just get on, no fare to pay or ticket to buy?”

  Simon pressed a thin card into her hand. “I got this while you were shopping. It’s a transportation pass and good on busses and the tube. You can use it while you’re here, go about and never pay a fare.”