“Are there…two elderly women in your car?” he asks quizzically.
I groan. “It’s my mom and her best friend. They insisted on coming along to make sure you weren’t secretly an axe murderer.”
“Right.” Henry pauses, then grins sheepishly. “Well then, um…would they like to join us?”
“You bet your sweet bippy we would!” Dot yells from the car. “Can we bring Mr. Butters too?”
Apparently she’s had the back seat passenger window of my old Honda rolled down to eavesdrop this whole time and I didn’t notice. She and Mom scramble from the car with surprising speed, Mr. Butters at their heels. Henry steps forward as they come up onto the porch and extends his hand.
“Good morning, ladies. I’m Henry,” he says, clearing his throat.
“Oh, we know who you are,” Dot tells him knowingly. She pats him on the shoulder and breezes past him into the house. Mom clasps Henry’s hand, leaning on her cane.
“Hello, Henry. I’m Gwen, Emmie’s mother.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Gwen.” He smiles and I see Mom melt. “Thank you for the fudge. Very thoughtful of you.” He sounds sincere, and he appears to be taking our unexpected visit in stride. He leans down and scratches Mr. Butters under the chin. “Hello again, old chap.”
Mr. Butters wags his stub of a tail.
“I’ve never seen a dog in a top hat before,” Henry observes in a slightly baffled tone, straightening.
“It’s…a whole thing,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Don’t get me started.”
“Can I help you into the house?” Henry asks Mom, offering her his arm. She tucks her cane under her other arm and happily accepts. Mr. Butters trots along behind them.
I follow them inside. I’m trying to act calm although my heart is hammering in my throat. This. Is. Happening!!! I’m having tea with the man I’ve been hopelessly pining over for years. I pinch myself, right in the tender part of my inner arm by my elbow, just to be sure I’m not dreaming.
The inside of the beach cottage is spare and quaint. White shiplap walls and worn pine floors. The décor is nautical and beachy—an old sea chest against one wall, a fluffy white couch with a sand-colored throw. There are few signs of life. A pair of brogues by the door, a canvas jacket and scarf on a hook on the wall. Henry is neat and tidy, I notice. He leaves little trace of himself.
“I like a tidy man,” Dot announces to no one. “You know you can trust a man who knows how to pick up after himself.”
We follow Henry into the back of the house where an open-concept kitchen / dining area offers a stunning view of the bay. I lag behind a second and send a quick, covert, elated text to Dani, who is covering a day shift today.
HAVING TEA WITH HENRY AT HIS HOUSE!!!
Despite the fact that she’s on duty, she texts back instantly.
GO GET ’EM, TIGER!
I find Mom and Dot seated at the table in the dining area and Henry at the sink in the compact but functional kitchen, filling an electric kettle with water. The back of the house is all windows looking out at the bay, and a pair of sliding glass doors leads out onto a big deck that juts out over the water. At high tide the house must feel like it’s floating, like you’re on a houseboat. One door is open to the sea breeze, and Mr. Butters wanders outside onto the deck. He likes to watch for seals.
Henry putters around, switching the kettle on and getting mugs out of the cabinet.
“How do you like your tea?” he asks us. “Milk, sugar?”
“Plain for me,” Dot tells him.
Mom, the only one of us who actually likes tea, takes hers with milk and sugar. Henry takes his with a splash of milk. I’m not a tea drinker, so I ask him for both milk and sugar. Maybe it will make the taste of tea a little more palatable.
“Shall we take our tea on the deck? It’s a fine morning,” Henry offers, handing around the mugs when the tea is ready. I gaze into mine, wishing it was a hometown honey latte from Byrdie’s, but oh well. I suppose if Henry and I are meant to be, I’d better get used to tea.
“Sure,” I agree.
Mom and Dot don’t follow us. Dot asks to use the bathroom and Mom demurs and opts to move to an armchair in the living room to drink her tea.
“Easier on my hips,” she tells us. “You two go ahead.”
I follow Henry out onto the deck. We lean over the deck railing and gaze out across Liberty Bay. Mr. Butters parks himself beside us, enjoying the sunshine, tongue lolling as he smiles out at the view. The sunlight on the water sparkles like diamonds, and there’s a fresh breeze. I inhale deeply. I never tire of it, the briny smell of the bay—seaweed and salt water and something a little sweet. I missed it all those years I lived in Europe.
