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A Marriage in Middlebury

By Anita Higman

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Charlotte Rose Hill always said that a good tearoom should be
a gathering place where customers were like family, troubles
melted like butter on hot scones, and homemade was a given.
Of course, it was also the place where the local grapevine got
its bloom. As well as its blush.
Charlotte yoo-hooed to her cook, “Remember, use a light
touch folding those capers into the chicken salad, Lil. Think of
them like lovers whose hearts you can’t bear to break.”
One of the younger waitresses, Eliza, pulled Charlotte to
the side and said in a blustery whisper, “Got two problems
already. Our jolly old elf, Mr. LaGrange, is hiding by the fireplace
again, and he’s packing a flask of something that he
keeps pouring into his tea. Man, you could fuel a flame with
that breath of his.”
“Yeah, he’s been spiking the tea with schnapps for years.”
Eliza’s facial muscles, which usually got a workout, went
deadpan. “You mean you knew about LaGrange and his
drinking?”
“Someday when I find the right words I’ll say something
to him. Hmm. It’s a good thing it’s springtime and there’s no
blaze in the fireplace. Otherwise he might blow himself up.
What’s the other problem?”
“Oh, it’s not a problem, but I saw a guy on the street earlier
when I set out the tearoom sign for today’s specials.”
“Yeah, well that happens a lot in Middlebury. You know,
men and women milling around, living their lives.”
“Cute. But this guy . . . well, he looks just like Jude Law.
Didn’t you say one time you had an old sweetheart that looked
a lot like him?”
Charlotte leaned against the doorframe to steady herself.
“Wow, you’ve gone as pale as those daisies on the tables,”
Eliza said. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Was it Sam? After all these years, could it be her
Sam?
“So you think it could be this mystery guy you refuse to
talk about? I want details.”
Charlotte gave Eliza’s cheek a pat. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
Eliza tugged on a loose thread on Charlotte’s sweater. “That’s
all the juice you’re going to give me? Hey, I’m the one who
spotted him.”
“And I appreciate it. Really. But we have guests.” Charlotte
grinned and then made her way over to one of her regulars, a
retired teacher named Edith Mosley. “How’s that tea?”
Edith’s iron gray eyes soften a little. “Hits the spot on a
nippy spring morning, but you can’t keep giving me free pots
of fancy tea. You’ll come to ruin if you’re not careful.”
“Whatever you say.” Charlotte let the comment wash over
her. Eliza knew the routine. She’d slip the money back into
Edith’s purse later, since she needed the money for her electric
bill. “How’s your daughter?”
Edith’s fingers tightened around the handle of the china
cup like knotted roots.
Charlotte could always tell a person’s frame of mind by the
way he or she held the teacup.
“Mmm. My daughter’s the same . . . fit as a fiddleback and
just as poisonous.” Edith chuckled.
“Oh?” Charlotte hoped Edith wouldn’t rehash the list of her
daughter’s insufficiencies. She had them memorized.
“My daughter and I strain for love like two asthmatics trying
to take in air.” Her laughter turned into a rattling cough. “I
guess we need one of those refresh buttons. Isn’t that what you
young people call it? Something we can push so we can wipe
away the past. Start over.” Edith took a long swig of her tea.
“Oh, that apricot ginger tea is good today.”
“Thanks,” Charlotte said. “We all need a refresh button,
Edith.” She reached into her apron pocket to feel the river
stone, something she’d kept from her past. It was a reminder of
the smooth things in life that brought delight and in the hard
things—those potentially sanctifying moments that tumbled
off the rough edges and turned humans into real people. Poor
Edith was being tumbled.

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