Scones and Sensibility (8 page)

“Sit, Miss Madassa,” he demanded, to which I promptly sat. But no amount of Googling (such an undignified term) made my opinion of the computer change. I still much preferred the delicious clacking and clicking of the typewriter, or the scratching and scritching of my calligraphy pen.

That is why I highly disapproved of Mr. Fisk’s use of time on his laptop and was appalled when Fran gave me some very unfortunate news the following morning.

It was quite early, the sun just kissing the horizon with its first rays, and I was in our kitchen preparing three croissants for two very special young ladies and one special young man, though I was unsure of who exactly one of those young ladies and the young man would be. Still, it was much better to be prepared.

My deliveries would commence in a little over an hour, so I was basking in the joys that baking early in the morning provides for the soul.

I was kneading the dough by hand, much preferring that method to the electric mixer upon the countertop, when I saw Fran’s face appear outside the window. She rapped fervently upon the glass, and I came to her at once and opened the door.

“Dearest Fran, whatever is the matter?” Indeed, though my friend was not of a lazy constitution I knew that most days of summer she was not up much before ten o’clock.

“Me and my dad talked until really late last night.” She gasped for breath as she said these words, having, most likely, run all the way here. “And I need to tell you something.”

“Indeed you do, dearest friend.”

“I think … I think he found someone.”

At these words the dough in my hands grew quite heavy and I almost dropped it to the ground. “What?! But how in the world did he find … This is most alarming. But say no more. Indeed, this is not something to discuss here in the kitchen, but rather in the Haven of Heaven.” I took the dough back to the counter. “I must finish these croissants and will meet you there in less than half an hour.”

Fran departed to Haven of Heaven, a grove of maple trees in the small parklet of town that I had endowed with that name, while I pressed forth with the croissants with an agitated heart.

But how could he have found a young woman already? And how so without aid? Indeed, he rarely left
his office or his home. I found the information quite hard to believe and solaced my soul with thoughts that Fran must be mistaken or must have misunderstood her father. Perhaps Mr. Fisk was indeed contemplating a canine companion?

Surely there was an explanation.

Upon placing the croissants aside to rise, I filled a small basket with pastries and a pitcher of homemade orange juice for my meeting with Fran. Then I rushed into the bakery.

“Dearest Clementine,” I said. “I must be off at once. There are croissants rising, but I will not be long.”

In reply to my plea she merely huffed, and though I think she was forming a haughty reply, I was not able to linger, and left the bakery at once.

Fran sat beneath the Old One, the tree we always met under and which indeed grew tall and appeared quite wise; hence the name.

I set the basket upon the ground, but could contain my questions no longer. “So please, dear Fran, tell me all.”

“Well, there isn’t too much to say, other than I think he’s already found someone,” she said.

The green leaves above us acted as a shady shelter and haven against the rising sun. I unloaded the hamper
I had provided, and we nibbled and sipped upon the breakfast.

I smoothed my lavender dress and unfolded and refolded my handkerchief in an attempt to remain calm. “And why do you think this, dearest Fran? What were his exact words?”

“Well, last night he came into my room.” She took a rather long gulp of the orange juice. “He said he’s been chatting with her every day for about a month and that he wanted to get to know her a little better now. He wanted me to know and to see what I thought.” She looked at me, her anxiety over the situation showing in the way she twisted and turned the napkin on her lap.

“So this was not about him wanting a dog?”

Fran shook her head. “Definitely not.”

But this could not be!

A twinge of sadness twisted my throat. I could not lie and say that I wasn’t looking forward to uniting my best friend’s father with his forever match. To be a part of the reason two lovers were together was such a romantic thought that I often was lost in the rapturous imaginings.

Then the thought of
how
he had met her struck my mind. As previously mentioned, Mr. Fisk did not often leave his office, nor even his house. “Well, maybe he
has
met someone,” I said, proceeding cautiously. After all, she hadn’t given me any of the details. “Please, did he say anything else?”

Fran sighed. “I swear, Polly, he had the goofiest smile on his face the entire time. At first I was happy, thinking that maybe he’d really found someone after all. But … but then he told me the worst part.”

“Worst part? Oh gosh, what is it?” Anxiety was now overtaking me. I composed myself. “Continue, dearest Fran. What is this lady like, if indeed she is a lady?”

“Well, her name is Lovetolaugh.”

“Lovetolaugh? What kind of a proper name is that? Surely you meant Miss Lovetolaugh? I can’t say it is a much better improvement, but I feel it rather absurd that her father or mother would name their beloved child a noun and a ‘to be’ verb. Are you quite sure that is her name?”

“Yes. And that’s not the worst part. He … he met her on the Internet.” Tears clung to Fran’s delicate lashes.

The phrase came out so fast that it took me a minute to realize just exactly what my very best friend had just said. When the meaning finally hit me, I was stunned into complete silence. The leaves blowing in
the gentle ocean breeze barely whispered a rustle, as if they too were in shock.

“Polly?”

“Well … Fran … this is just not …” Words. Where were they?

“I know. I’m really worried. What if … what if she takes him away from me, just like my mom?” Tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

Emotions tumbled inside me. “Fran,” I said, quiet and soft. I wrapped my arm around her and allowed her head to rest upon my shoulder. As a friend, I would comfort her in her hour of need, but I knew I must be honest with her also. “Fran, this is not good. I remember very well your mother’s unfortunate situation. This, my dearest friend, is the …” Words failed me. “The … exact opposite of love. We must act quickly.”

“But—what do I do? I mean, he seems happy—really happy. And I’m—or at least I was—really happy too. It’s just been hard not having a—”

I held up my hand. “Say no more, my friend. I know your feelings as if they were my own.”

“But you—oh, never mind.” Fran sipped on her orange juice then spoke once more. “I’m excited, but
on the other hand, I don’t know this woman at all. And after my mom left—oh Polly, what should I do?” she asked again, leaning against the trunk of the Old One. Despair was written on her features and the orange juice splashed onto her leg where it was sure to leave a sticky spot on her skin.

“What should you do? Nothing.” I handed her a napkin, then embraced her. “I will take care of this unfortunate situation. I will find a woman who will capture your father’s heart and soul. This Internet connection will be forever broken when the bonds of true love are formed.”

“You think?”

“I am certain, dearest Fran. Now we know that he is indeed ready for love. In that we must rejoice. I will now look for his heart’s one true love.” I pulled out the small antique watch I kept in the pocket of my dress. Mama would be wondering why I had not started on the deliveries. I slipped my dainty feet inside my white sandals, the ones with the pretty pink rose on the side. I kissed her on the cheek, gathered up the hamper, and placed it in the basket of my bicycle, then climbed on. “Know, Fran, that my eyes are watchful. And do not lose heart, my dearest Fran. It will be all right. This dark day will pass. I shall not fail you!”

Upon arriving at my home, I found a cloud of smoke billowing from under the bakery door and the sound of Clementine’s laments from beyond.

I sighed with relief at the knowledge that, because of my deliveries, I would not be forced to mend whatever culinary disaster my sister had conjured up this morning.

Mama whisked into the kitchen, her cheeks a lovely shade of rosebud with an elegant dab of flour upon one side. “You got back just in time, Polly,” she said, handing me three bags. “But you better get moving.” And then she rushed back into the bakery mumbling something about “charred to a crisp” under her breath.

“Upon my word, Mama,” I called after her. “I am off.” And after wrapping up one of the croissants with a lovely paper doily, I set off for the elegant Miss Wiskerton.

Said lady was just flipping over to her other side when I leaned my bicycle against her white picket fence and stepped through the gate into her yard. She had exquisite taste in flowers, and I breathed deep the scent of gerbera, lilac, hydrangea, and roses.

“Polly Madassa? Is that you?” She lifted up her
large white sunglasses, then put them back down and readjusted her straw hat on her head. “You know the smoke from your house fills the entire neighborhood? Me and my Jack almost choked to death right in our beds.”

Jack the Nipper frantically tugged at the leash that held him fast to Miss Wiskerton’s chair. I was thankful for this restraint.

“Please accept my sincerest apologies, Miss Wiskerton. It seems that Clementine was once more baking this morning.”

“As I said before, she’s going to burn down the house if you’re not careful.”

I ignored the comment and stepped closer, though still far enough away from Jack that my dainty ankles were protected against his bite. His little lips curled up around his pointed teeth. I hoped Mr. Nightquist and Jack would become fast friends, though Jack was not known to be a kindred spirit with anyone. “I hope you are enjoying your book, Miss Wiskerton?” I asked.

“I am, thank you. And are you starting another Austen novel?”

I sighed. “I plan on reading
Emma
quite soon, but can’t seem to stop rereading
Pride and Prejudice
. Truly, each time I read it, it’s just as fresh and brimming
with romance as the first time I picked it up.”

Miss Wiskerton smiled. “Well, I have to say, it’s nice talking with someone about novels.”

“It is indeed,” I said, and then held out the doily-wrapped croissant. “And I am here on additional business as well. I’m here, Miss Wiskerton, on a delivery.”

“Delivery?” She sat up and took off her sunglasses. “I didn’t order anything from you all.”

“Oh, I know you didn’t order it, but I’m afraid someone ordered it for you. It was a man and he called early this morning and said specifically to hand-deliver this delicious pastry to one Miss Wiskerton, the Beauty of the Sea.”

Her interest was piqued and she smiled. “A man, you say? Are you certain?”

“Indeed, I am quite certain. He phoned just this morning and had me select the most plump and browned croissant in our bakery. I assure you he was most insistent upon the matter. Sounds just like something Mr. Darcy would do, doesn’t it?” I asked.

Her cheeks blushed in an elegant manner, and she attempted to hide a shy smile. “Yes, it is. Or Captain Wentworth … he’s from the book
Persuasion
. Well … did he tell you his name?”

I shook my head. “The man did not say. He only
hoped that you would accept this token of his great esteem for you and he would reveal himself if it was accepted with favor.” Indeed, though I did not enjoy causing her agitation, I thought it best to add a dash of romantic mystery to this first delivery.

And it seemed to have worked quite well. For Miss Wiskerton accepted the small wrapped pastry from my hands, her fingers trembling with anticipation. She removed the doily and placed a hand on her heart. “Oh, my. It is quite a beautiful-looking croissant, isn’t it?” she said.

“If I do say so myself, it is the most perfect one I have ever laid eyes upon.”

The lady lifted the pastry to her lips and nibbled the end. “Well, you may tell him thank you and that I accept this token of … what was it?”

“His esteem.”

“Ah yes,” she said. “Thank you very much, Polly.”

I performed an elegant curtsy. “You are most welcome, Miss Wiskerton, though I am only the bearer of these romantic tidings. Now, I will leave you to your morning. Good day.”

And then I departed her home for the rest of my deliveries, the sweet fragrance of blooming romance pushing me forward.