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Mable smiles. “They were better off.”
The ladies at the counter nod. The one closest to me says, “It was the best thing that could have happened to those babies.”
“What happened?” I ask while gripping my cup in both hands. It’s some of the best coffee I’ve ever had.
Leaning forward, she offers her hand. “I’m Dorothy, and this is Liz, and Patty. We’ve lived in this town all our lives. Mable too.”
I shake her hand. “It’s nice to meet all of you.”
“If you’re planning to write some scandal about those poor boys, we’re not interested. We’ll run you right out of town.” She narrows her eyes.
The other ladies nod.
Mable goes about making a fresh pot of coffee. “We’re protective of our own. You understand.”
“Of course.” I don’t know what they’re talking about. And with no idea if the story might be happy or terrible, I can’t say much more. “I have no plans to embellish a story or misrepresent anyone if that’s what you’re asking.”
Mable leans close to the pass-through from the kitchen, where two men are standing near a stove. “Do you want food?”
I shake my head. “I’m having brunch with Mr. Becket.”
Four pairs of eyes go wide. Mable recovers first. “And that will be a treat. Oliver isn’t much for company. You must have made quite an impression.”
“I don’t know about that. He was pleasant, if cryptic, and he offered to feed me and show me the house if I came back.”
They all look at each other as if I’ve said something remarkable. Dorothy leans in as if she’s going to tell me a secret. “Oliver Becket is a very private man. In their way, all six of the boys are… Oh, what’s the word?”
“Reserved?” Liz offers.
“Reclusive?” Patty says.
“No, that’s not quite right.” Dorothy scratches her head.
Mable shrugs. “They’re monsters.”
“That’s it!” Dorothy smiles wide.
“Monsters?” The man I met yesterday was certainly different, but he hardly seemed monstrous. I’ve met terrible men, who fit that description, but Oliver Becket wasn’t one of them. “What do you mean? I spent a few minutes with him. He didn’t yell or try to harm me. He was charming.”
Patty fixes her blond bun and tucks a strand with gray roots into it. “Don’t misunderstand, dear. We like Oliver quite a lot. He’s a good man.”
“All six turned out so well.” Mable nods and freshens my coffee.
“How can he be a monster and a good man?” A little frustration slips into the question.
Mable looks from the ladies to me. They all appear conflicted. Mable says, “That’s Oliver’s story to tell.”
“You might ask him about Wentworth Pettigrew.” Liz gets a dreamy look on her round face.
In fact, all four look as if they’re a million miles away, thinking of a shirtless cabana boy.
“He did mention that was the man who owned the house.” I pull a notepad from my bag and write the name.
They start to chatter amongst themselves as if I’m not there. They all lament having not been to a brunch at Scrim Hall, and it’s been many years since any of them were up there at all.
I listen and learn that the “Brothers of Scrim Hall” sponsored the fresh paint and new flooring in the diner.
After thirty minutes, it becomes obvious that I’ll get no more information from them. I pay for my coffee and leave.
