Death and a Dog

“It’s caffeine free,” Tom called back, over the whoosh of a faucet and the banging of cupboard doors. “And has a slight laxative effect if you drink too much.”

Lacey laughed. “Thanks for the heads-up,” she called.

Her words were met by the clink and clatter of chinaware, and the bubble of the kettle boiling.

Then Tom reappeared holding a tea tray. Plates, cups, saucers, a sugar bowl, and a china teapot were on it.

He placed the tray down between them. Like all of Tom’s crockery, the items were completely mismatched, their only linking theme being Britain, as if he’d sourced each one from a different patriotic old lady’s yard sale. Lacey’s cup had a photograph of the late Princess Diana on it. Her plate had a passage from Beatrix Potter written in delicate cursive beside a watercolor image of the iconic Aylesbury duck, Jemima Puddleduck, in her bonnet and shawl. The teapot was in the shape of a gaudily decorated Indian elephant, with the words Piccadilly Circus printed on its bright red and gold saddle. Its trunk, naturally, made the spout.

As the tea brewed in the pot, Tom used silver tongs to select some croissants from the counter display, which he placed on pretty floral plates. He slid Lacey’s toward her, followed by a pot of her favorite apricot jam. Then he poured them both a mug of the now brewed tea, sat in his stool, held up the mug, and said, “Cheers.”

With a smile, Lacey clinked hers against his. “Cheers.”

As they sipped in unison, Lacey had a sudden flash of déjà vu. Not a real one, like when you’re certain you’ve lived this exact moment before, but the déjà vu that comes from repetition, from routine, from doing the same thing day in day out. It felt like they had done this before, because they had; yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. As busy shop owners, Lacey and Tom often put in overtime and worked seven-day weeks. It had come so naturally, the routine, the rhythm. But it was more than that. Tom had automatically given her her favorite toasted almond croissant with apricot jam. He didn’t even need to ask what she wanted.

It should have pleased Lacey, but instead, it perturbed her. Because that’s exactly how things had been with David to begin with. Learning each other’s orders. Doing little favors for one another. Small moments of routine and rhythm that made her feel like they were puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together. She’d been young and foolish and had made the mistake of thinking it would always feel that way. But it had just been the honeymoon period. It wore off a year or two down the line, and by that point, she was already stuck in marriage.

Was that all this relationship was with Tom? A honeymoon period that would eventually wear off?

“What are you thinking?” Tom asked, his voice intruding on her anxious rumination.

Lacey almost spat out her tea. “Nothing.”

Tom raised a single eyebrow. “Nothing? The chicory has had such little impact on you all thoughts have vacated your mind?”

“Oh, about the chicory!” she exclaimed, blushing.

Tom looked even more amused. “Yes. What else would I be asking?”

Lacey clumsily placed the Diana cup back on the saucer, making a loud clatter. “It’s nice. Licorice-y. Eight out of ten.”

Tom whistled. “Wow. High praise. But not quite enough to dethrone the Assam.”

“It will take an exceptional tea to dethrone the Assam.”

Her momentary panic that Tom had mind-reading abilities subsided, and Lacey turned her attention to the breakfast, savoring the flavors of homemade apricot jam combined with toasted almonds and yummy buttery pastry. But even the tasty food couldn’t keep her mind from wandering to the conversation with David. It had been the first time she’d heard his voice since he’d stormed out of their old Upper East Side apartment with the parting declaration, “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer!” and something about hearing his voice again reminded her that less than a month ago she’d been a relatively happily married woman, with a stable job and an income and family nearby in the city she’d lived her whole life. Without even knowing she was doing it, she’d blocked out her past life in New York City with a solid wall in her mind. It was a coping strategy she’d developed as a child to cope with the grief of her father’s sudden disappearance. Evidently, hearing David’s voice had shaken the foundations of that wall.

“We should go on a vacation,” Tom suddenly said.

Once again, Lacey almost spit out her food, but Tom couldn’t have noticed, because he kept speaking.

“When I’m back from my focaccia course, we should go on a stay-cation. We’ve both been working so hard, we deserve it. We can go to my hometown in Devon, and I’ll show you all the places I loved as a child.”

Had Tom suggested this yesterday before her call with David, Lacey probably would’ve bitten his hand off at the offer. But suddenly the idea of making long-term plans with her new beau—even if it was only one week in the future—seemed to be jumping the gun. Of course, Tom had no reason not to be confident with his life. But Lacey herself had not been long divorced. She’d entered into his world of relative stability at a point when literally every bit of hers had become unmoored—from her job, to her home, to her country, and even her relationship status! She’d gone from babysitting her nephew, Frankie, while her sister, Naomi, went on yet another disastrous date, to shooing sheep off her front lawn; from being barked at by her boss, Saskia, in a New York City interior design firm, to antique-scouting trips in London’s Mayfair with her peculiar cardigan-clad neighbor and two sheep dogs in tow. It was a lot of change all in one go, and she wasn’t entirely sure where her head was at.

“I’ll have to see how busy I am with the store,” she replied noncommittally. “The auction is taking more work than I anticipated.”

“Sure,” Tom said, sounding in no way like he’d read between the lines. Picking up on subtleties and subtext was not one of Tom’s fortes, which was another thing she liked about him. He took everything she said on face value. Unlike her mom and sister, who’d needle and prod her and dissect every word she said, there was no guessing or second-guessing with Tom. What you saw was what you got.

Just then, the bell above the patisserie door tinkled, and Tom’s gaze flicked over Lacey’s shoulder. She watched his expression turn to a grimace before he returned his gaze to meet hers again.

“Great,” he muttered under his breath. “I’d been wondering when my turn would come for Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum to pay a visit. You’ll have to excuse me.”

He stood, and went round from the back of the counter.

Curious to see who could elicit such a visceral response from Tom—a man who was notoriously easygoing and personable—Lacey swiveled in her stool.

The customers who’d entered the patisserie were a man and woman, and they looked like they’d just walked off the set of Dallas. The man was in a powder blue suit with a cowboy hat. The woman—much younger, Lacey noted wryly, as seemed to be the preference of most middle-aged men—was in a fuchsia pink two-piece, bright enough to give Lacey a headache, and which clashed terribly with her Dolly Parton yellow hair.

“We’d like to try some samples,” the man barked. He was American, and his abruptness seemed so out of place in Tom’s quaint little patisserie.

Gosh, I hope I don’t sound like that to Tom, Lacey thought a little self-consciously.

“Of course,” Tom replied politely, the Britishness in his own tone seeming to have intensified in response. “What would you like to try? We have pastries and…”

“Ew, Buck, no,” the woman said to her husband, yanking on his arm to which she was clinging. “You know wheat makes me bloat. Ask him for something different.”

Lacey couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the odd pair. Was the wife incapable of asking her own questions?

“Got any chocolate?” the man she’d referred to as Buck asked. Or, more like demanded, since his tone was so boorish.

“I do,” Tom said, somehow keeping his cool in front of Loudmouth and his limpet of a wife.

He showed them over to the chocolate display and gestured with a hand. Buck grabbed one in his meaty fist and shoved it straight into his mouth.

Almost immediately, he spit it back out. The little gooey, half-chewed lump splattered onto the floor.

Chester, who’d been very quietly sitting at Lacey’s feet, suddenly sprang up and launched for it.

“Chester. No,” Lacey warned him in the firm, authoritative voice he knew full well he had to obey. “Poison.”

The English Shepherd looked at her, then mournfully back at the chocolate, before finally going back to his position at her feet with the expression of a scorned child.

“Ew, Buck, there’s a dog in here!” the blond woman wailed. “It’s so unhygienic.”

“Hygiene is the least of his troubles,” Buck scoffed, looking back at Tom, who was now wearing a slightly mortified expression. “Your chocolate tastes like garbage!”

“American chocolate and English chocolate are different,” Lacey said, feeling the need to jump in to Tom’s defense.

“You don’t say,” Buck replied. “It tastes like crap! And the queen eats this junk? She needs some proper American imports if you ask me.”

Somehow, Tom managed to remain calm, though Lacey was seething enough for the both of them.

The brute of a man and his simpering wretch of a wife swirled out of the store and Tom fetched a tissue to wipe up the spit out chocolate mess they’d left behind.

“They were so rude,” Lacey said incredulously, as Tom cleaned.

“They’re staying at Carol’s B’n’B,” he explained, looking up at her from his hands and knees as he circled the rag over the tiles. “She said they’re awful. The man, Buck, sends every single meal he orders back to the kitchen. After he’s eaten half of it, mind you. The wife keeps claiming the shampoos and soaps are giving her a rash, but whenever Carol supplies her with something new, the originals have mysteriously disappeared.” He stood up, shaking his head. “They’re making everyone’s life a misery.”