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I shake my head and hand her a plate of toast spread with chunky almond butter and thick-cut vintage marmalade. “I’m planning to spend the day on the dinner. Shopping this morning, prep this afternoon, then the real cooking late in the day.” I pick up my cereal bowl and cup and move toward the table. “You can check with me in the hour or so before our guests arrive, but I can handle all the early prep. Are you going out to work?”
“No, I’ll just hole up in the library.”
The gigantic, bright red mug of Cress’ morning brew is already at her place at the kitchen table. She puts her plate down, then plops into the chair, pulling the coffee close and inhales.
“Pure bliss,” she exclaims. “Oh my God, Max. Not just a pretty face.” She inhales again. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Frozen in place, I can’t take my eyes off her. Her head is bent over the cup, some of her salt-and-pepper hair up in a bun, with the rest of the curls streaming down her shoulders. Last year, she only had a little gray. All the stress changed the balance and the silver now equals the brown. She was dismayed but I think it’s beautiful, so I’ve encouraged her to keep it natural.
Cress pushes up the sleeves of her hoodie. “What’s the world’s saddest cheese?”
“Are you telling a joke?” I put my palm against my chest.
“Uh.” She rubs a finger against her bottom lip. “Y-ye-yeah.”
The quavers are so cute. I lean forward and press a kiss to her temple. “ Well, let’s have the punchline then.”
She grimaces. “Blue cheese.” Her voice is low and so quiet it barely registers.
I let out a guffaw. “Good one.”
I’m the joke teller. Cress is the totally unappreciative audience. She’s turned tables and I want to encourage her.
Now that she’s over the hump, she stands back, feet planted, hand on hips. She purses her lips. “Thanks. Getting prepared for the Scottish joke festival.”
I love her feisty stance and lighthearted tone after her up-and-down moods during the last couple of weeks. “Dad will be pleased. Mum, not so much. I think she counts you as her ally in the fight against bad Grant jokes.”
“If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”
“I can expect more jokes, then?”
She giggles. “A veritable assault. I downloaded dozens from the internet.”
“Keep them short and memorize one at a time.” She smiles gamely at my advice.
At Christmas, my family assaulted Cress with puerile jokes, a Grant family specialty. Smirking at the thought and her plan for fighting back,
Her tongue darts out and dips into the steaming liquid to gauge whether she should chance a sip or a gulp. A minute shake of her head tells me that the coffee is still too hot.
She picks up a slice of bread and thickly slathers it with butter, topping it with a layer of marmalade. When she takes a bite, sheer lust floods into me. My hand and some of the milk slops onto the floor. Before I can put it down and fetch a cloth, pink tongues snake out from two furry faces. Dorothy and Thorfinn make quick work of the spilled milk. I mumble a curse under my breath. “I’ll mop later.”
“Um-hum.” Cress pops the last bite of toast into her mouth and washes it down with her coffee. “Is Jarvis moving in tonight?”
“I thought that would be easier. But I can tell him to wait until we’ve left for the airport tomorrow, if you’d rather.”
“It’s fine.” She brushes a stray curl out of her face. “I am so excited about the trip. Tell me about the RAF Club.”
An icicle forms down my back, heightening the fears that have haunted me for the last week. Fears about keeping things from her overlaid with fears for her safety. Until the packet of white powder showed up, we hadn’t received any new rumbles about Faez. No one from MI6 has contacted me. Metin’s source at the Company told her the police haven’t found him and there is no more chatter. It’s as if he’s disappeared from the face of the earth. I wish.
“Hmmm. RAF Club. It’s in Mayfair. Opened in 1918. Formal dress for the Cowdray Lounge and Dining Room.”
“Formal dress?”
“We can go informal for almost everything but formal, in your case, that means a dress, with appropriate shoes. Informal includes jeans, and trainers are fine. Other than the party, I think about everything will be informal.”
“And…”
“The decoration is beautiful, although you can guess the theme. Bedrooms are on the small side. I’m guessing that we will have the mini suites. Not as luxurious as the hotel I planned. Maybe we can work in a short London layover on our way back from Venice and spend a couple of days at the Milestone.”
