Unlocking the door of Lettice Keswick's Kitchen, the café-shop, I went inside and was instantly greeted by the delicious smells of apples and cinnamon.
Switching on the light, I stood in the doorway for a second, admiring the café. Painted white, with dark beams floating above, it had a new floor of terra-cotta tile, so much easier to keep clean, we had discovered, and bright red-and-white checked curtains at the few small windows. It was fresh, cheerful, and inviting, with many green plants everywhere and metal shelving filled with our specialties.
Walking forward, I let my eyes roam over some of the shelves stocked to the hilt with jars and bottles of the Lettice items. Marvelous jams and jellies-apple and ginger, rhubarb and orange, plum and apple, apricot, blackberry and apple, pear and raspberry. There were jars of mincemeat, lemon curd, chutneys, pickled onions, red cabbage, beets, and walnuts, and piccalilli, a mustard pickle which was a favorite of mine and which originally hailed from Yorkshire.
Also, we carried a small selection of pastas, wild rice, and couscous, imported English biscuits, and French chocolates. And Nora's pasta sauces, recent additions.
She had turned out to be something of a miracle in the kitchen, and had found her true vocation. Aside from the pasta sauces, mostly with a tomato base, she made all of the other Lettice products in our own café kitchen. I was very proud of her and of her cooking.
The Lettice Keswick line had caught on quickly, become a huge success here in the shop and in the catalogue. The latter, which Sarah and I had started seventeen months ago, had been another big hit, so much so we were both still reeling.
Only last week I had had to hire three new employees to work in the packing and dispatching department; Eric had taken on two new waiters for the café, since I had just promoted him. He had become the manager of the shops and the café and was now in charge of the twelve other people who worked at Indian Meadows.
Pushing open the kitchen door, I glanced inside. Everything shone brightly in the early-morning sunlight; I nodded to myself, went on upstairs, gave the cookware and tabletop shop a cursory glance, and headed back to the main floor.
Once outside again, I paid a visit to the Indian Meadows Boutique, unlocked the door, looked inside quickly, and then progressed to the Kilgram Chase Gallery.
Although I loved all of my shops and all of my products, in a funny sort of way this little gallery was my favorite. Perhaps this was because it was reminiscent of Yorkshire and Andrew's childhood home. In any case, it had been well patronized so far, and it was hard for me to keep the merchandise in stock. Everything was sold before I could turn around to order more.
The gallery's biggest hit, though, had been and still was Lettice Keswick's Journal, published under my Kilgram Chase Press imprint last summer. In the year it had been out, it had sold almost thirty-five thousand copies in the gallery and through the catalogue. Sarah told me that her friends in publishing in New York were quite astounded, although they were admiring of the book and found it fascinating. Apparently so did everyone else.
Once more, I gave the gallery only a cursory glance and, closing the door behind me, made my way back to the house. Things down here were in good order; at seven Anna would be floating around, at nine Eric and Nora would arrive, and by nine-thirty the rest of the workers would be here.
As I walked up the hill, I told myself yet again how lucky I had been with the business. Every different project had worked well here. Each of the shops was a success; all of our products were popular; the catalogue just grew and grew; and the café was a runaway success with locals and strangers alike. Whenever I mentioned the word lucky to Sarah, she would guffaw loudly. "If you call working twelve to fourteen hours a day, seven days a week for over two years lucky, then yes, you have been," she would exclaim. "Mal, you've made Indian Meadows the success it is because you've worked nonstop around the clock, and because you have tremendous business sense. You're one of the smartest retailers I've ever met."
Of course she was right in certain ways. I had poured all of my energy and drive into Indian Meadows, and I had been highly focused. Tunnel vision had turned out to be a handy asset to have.
But despite all of the hard work, not only on my part, but on the part of the entire staff, I still believed in the element of luck. Everyone needed a bit of it, whatever the business or artistic venture.
When I got back to the house, I stopped at one of the white lilac trees and broke off a small branch. I carried it into the kitchen. I filled an old jam jar with water, tore off stems of the lilac, and arranged them in the jar, then I carried the jar outside.
I made for the huge maple tree near my studio, where I had buried my family's ashes on August 19, 1989. Kneeling down, I removed the jar of drooping flowers from within the small circle of stones I had arranged three years ago and replaced it with the jar of lilacs.
I knelt there for a moment, staring down at the flat paving stone made of granite, which I had placed there in October of that same year.
Engraved upon its dark surface were their names.
Andrew, Lissa, and Jamie Keswick. And Trixy Keswick, their beloved pet. And underneath was the date of their murders, December 11, 1988, and below the date were those beautiful words of Rupert Brooke's, which my father had recited to me the morning I had laid them to rest:
"There shall be in that rich earth a richer dust concealed."
"Happy birthday, Mal," Nora said, coming into the kitchen.
"Thanks, Nora," I answered, swinging around.
She came forward, gave me a quick hug, and then stepped away.
Eric, who was behind her, said, "Happy birthday, Mal," and thrust a big bunch of flowers at me. "We thought you'd like these, your favorites."
"Thank you so much, it's so sweet of you both." I took them from him, hugged him, and lowered my face to smell the white lilac, tulips, narcissi, and daffodils wrapped in cellophane paper and tied with a big yellow bow. "They're beautiful. I'll put them in water."
"No, I'll do that!" Nora exclaimed, taking them from me before I could protest and marching over to the sink.
Turning to Eric, I said, "Would you like a cup of coffee?"
He shook his head. "No, thanks, though. I should get down to the café, I'm running a bit late this morning."
"Yes, you'd better do that," I shot back. "Otherwise the boss might be mad at you."
He grinned, saluted, and hurried out.
Nora stood at the sink, arranging the flowers.
I sat down at the kitchen table and took a sip of my second cup of coffee.
Nora said, "I see you mother's car is out front. Did she stay over last night?"
"Yes, she did. She wanted to be here for my birthday today. Sarah took Mr. Nelson back to the city."
"I'm glad they were all here yesterday for lunch… it was nice, wasn't it?"
"Yes, thanks to you and all the lovely things you made."
"Oh, I didn't do much, Mal," she murmured. "Anyway, it was my pleasure."
"I thought I'd bring my mother down to the café at about twelve-thirty today, Nora. After lunch she's got to drive back to New York."
"Can I make you something special?"
I shook my head. "My mother loves your Cobb salad, and so do I. Why don't we have that?"
"No problem." She pushed the last spray of lilac into the vase she had found on the draining board, swung her head, and asked, "Where do you want me to put these?"