More Than Words Can Say (24 page)

Brandon snorted. “That figures,” he said.

“What does?” Chelsea asked.

“You being able to instantly attract men of
any
age,” he answered.

As Chelsea laughed a bit, her thoughts returned to earlier that day, while Brandon had been freshening up at his cottage. She had called Allistaire Reynolds to request that he arrange for the direct deposit of her checks and for her mail to be forwarded. When Chelsea told him that it was delivered by boat, he had laughed.

Antiques hound that he was, when she eagerly described the wonderful old Chris-Craft she had inherited, she distinctly heard him gasp. Then his lawyerly instincts took over, and he asked her if it was registered and insured. To her mild chagrin, she said that she didn’t know. No matter, Allistaire said. Just send him the paperwork that Jacques had given her, and he would take of it.

After buying Chelsea’s art supplies and storing them in Brandon’s Jeep, they ventured onward. Soon Brandon stopped before a picturesque café.

“So this is it?” Chelsea asked. “It’s cute!”

“Yes,” Brandon answered. “It certainly is.”

When Chelsea had first visited Beauregard’s, she was struck by how many of the customers were men. But as she and Brandon entered the Blue Rooster, it became equally clear that the ladies of Serendipity had claimed this place as their own special province. The café was nearly full of women, most of them eagerly chatting away as they picked at their lunches. Chelsea had vacationed in France several years ago, and she had loved it there. To her delight, the Blue Rooster seemed a near-perfect replica of a Parisian café, and it still looked exactly as Brooke had described in her journal.

Brandon shepherded Chelsea to one of the empty booths, where they got comfortable. As she set her purse down beside her, Chelsea smiled broadly.

“This place is absolutely charming!” she said. “It looks like something that belongs on the Left Bank! I would have never guessed . . . How long has it been here?”

“Since the early twenties,” Brandon answered. “Like Beauregard’s, this too is a family business, but older. Because Quebec lies just across the Saint Lawrence River, there’s a lot of French influence around here. The Blue Rooster is still owned by Emily Rousseau, although I don’t know for how much longer.”

“Why?” Chelsea asked.

“Well,” Brandon explained, “Emily’s story is a bit like Jenny’s. Her father, Henri, owned this place first, and on his death she inherited it. Emily lives in the upstairs apartment. She must be at least eighty by now, and bless her heart, she still works here every day. She was an only child, and her husband’s gone. Sadly, they were childless. Emily loves this place so much that I highly doubt she will ever sell, even though she’s the last of the line. Once she’s gone, God only knows what will happen to it.”

Then Brandon looked around the Blue Rooster wistfully, like it was some sort of treasure to be protected and preserved.

“I’m wise enough to know that nothing lasts forever, Chelsea,” he said. “Even so, it’d be a crying shame if somebody turned this wonderful spot into a damn Starbucks . . .”

“I would hate to see that, too,” Chelsea answered.

Just then a young waitress carrying two glasses of ice water approached their booth. “Hi, Brandon,” she said pleasantly. “Who’s your friend?”

Brandon gestured toward the waitress. “Missy Tomlinson,” he answered, “I’d like you to meet Chelsea Enright. She’s from Syracuse and spending her summer out at Lake Evergreen.”

After putting down the glasses, Missy held out one hand and Chelsea shook it. “Pleased to meetcha,” she said. “So, do you guys know what you’d like for lunch? We have a great special today.”

“What is it?” Chelsea asked.

“Truman’s Tomato Sandwiches,” Missy answered. “They’re really good.”

Chelsea immediately felt a tingle run up her spine.
Truman’s Tomato Sandwiches . . . ?

The name had made an impact on Brandon, as well. He looked over at Chelsea and said, “How does that sound to you?”

Chelsea finally snapped out of her reverie and nodded. “That sounds great,” she answered.

“Okay, then,” Brandon said to Missy. “We’ll have two of those, and a couple of iced teas. Oh, and would you also bring us some of Emily’s deep-fried pickle slices?”

“Good choices,” Missy replied. After replacing her pencil over one ear, she began wending her way back toward the kitchen.

Her mouth slightly agape, Chelsea stared blankly at Brandon.

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “And the truth is, I never made the connection until just now. Legend has it that Emily started serving them here sometime during World War II. It’s always been her little secret where the recipe came from. Anyway, they became so popular that they’ve stayed on the menu ever since.

“Damn,” Brandon added. “The cottage, the journal, the photos . . . and then I bring you here, where something on the menu seems so suggestive of your late grandmother. Do you suppose . . . ?”

Chelsea shook her head. “I’ve been doing so much supposing lately that I don’t know
what
to think anymore. But it does seem too great a coincidence, especially since we now know that Emily and Brooke knew one another. Do you think that I could meet Emily?”

Brandon give her a wink. “You bet,” he answered.

Missy soon returned, bearing a tray with three plates and two glasses of iced tea. The sandwiches were made with dense French bread, thick mayonnaise, and huge heirloom tomato slices. As Missy put them down, she smiled. Finally, she also served a small dishful of seasoned, deep-fried pickle slices.

Chelsea gestured toward her sandwich. “I hear that these are really good,” she said to Missy. “Can you tell me how they’re made?”

Missy shook her head adamantly. “I wouldn’t, even if I could,” she answered. “Everybody asks! But the only person who knows is Emily, and she’s not talking. To keep the secret safe, she still makes every one of those sandwiches herself.”

“Could you please tell her that I’m here?” Brandon asked. “I’d like to introduce her to Chelsea.”

“Sure,” Missy answered. “I’ll let her know.”

As Missy walked away, Chelsea took a bite of her sandwich to find that it was the intriguingly flavored mayonnaise that made it so special. As a final touch, Emily had carefully trimmed off the bread crusts.

“So what’s the verdict?” Brandon asked Chelsea in between bites.

Just as Chelsea was about to answer, she saw an elderly woman approaching. She walked with unusual steadiness for one so old. Like Brooke, she had remained rather tall and slim in her twilight years. Her short hair was snow white, her eyes were blue, and her face was deeply etched with both the weight of her life experiences and the natural passage of her years. Along the way, she stopped at several tables to greet her regulars. When Emily finally reached their booth she smiled first at Chelsea, then at Brandon. Her manner seemed comforting, Chelsea thought, much like Brooke’s had been.

“Hello, handsome,” she said to Brandon, her voice revealing the slightest hint of a French accent. “May I sit down beside you,
mon cher
?”

Brandon immediately slid to one side. “Of course,” he said.

Emily sat down and patted his hand. “So how have you been?” she asked.

“I’m fine, Emily, and you?” he answered.

“Oh, I’m all right,” Emily answered with a casual gesture of one hand. Then she gave Chelsea a sly wink. “For a woman who’s lived so long, that is!”

Chelsea smiled and held out one hand. “I’m Chelsea Enright,” she said. “I’m a new friend of Brandon’s.”

Emily shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Chelsea Enright,” she said. “I gather that you’ve never visited the Blue Rooster before today?”

“No,” Chelsea answered, “but I love it.”

“It’s been in the Rousseau family for many decades,” Emily said as she looked around lovingly. “My father built it with his own two hands. Sadly, I am the last of us.”

As Chelsea searched the old woman’s face, she tried imagining Emily as a far younger woman, much the way Brooke had appeared in those old black-and-white photos back at her cottage. Like Brooke, Chelsea concluded, Emily had been attractive in her day.

“So tell me,” Chelsea said, “do you ever give out the recipe for these wonderful sandwiches? I’d love to have it.”

Emily smiled, then shook her head. “
Non,
” she answered. “It was confided to me long ago by a dear friend who invented it. If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me that, I’d be a wealthy woman! Anyway, I promised her that I would never divulge it.”

“I see . . . ,” Chelsea said. “She must have been a very good cook.”

“The best,” Emily answered. “And because I’m French,” she added with a smile, “that is a real compliment.”

“So in lieu of getting the recipe, may I ask you something else?” Chelsea inquired.

“
Bien sûr,
” Emily answered. “Any friend of Brandon’s is a friend of mine.”

“Your friend’s name was Brooke Bartlett, right?” Chelsea asked quietly.

A look of astonishment conquered Emily’s face. “Why, yes . . . ,” she said softly. “Yes, it was. But how did you know that?”

“Because I’m her granddaughter,” Chelsea answered.

“Oh, my goodness . . . ,” Emily whispered. “Can it be . . . ?”

Awestruck, Emily stared quizzically at Chelsea for a time. At last she smiled and nodded slightly.

“I knew that she had a granddaughter,” Emily said. “And although it has been such a long time since I’ve seen Brooke, I can recognize something of her in you. Especially around the eyes . . . And also like Brooke, you are very pretty.”

“Thank you,” Chelsea answered.

Then Chelsea realized something, and her heart lurched a bit.
Emily doesn’t know,
she thought.
And I’m the one who must tell her . . .

Chelsea reached out and touched the old woman’s hand. “I’m sorry to have to say this, Emily,” Chelsea said, “but Gram passed away recently.”

Emily’s eyes widened with shock. Soon after, her wrinkled mouth moved but no words escaped her lips. Then she burst into tears and instinctively covered her face with her palms. Chelsea took up one of the spare napkins lying on the table and handed it to her. As Emily dried her eyes, she did her best to compose herself.

“
Mon Dieu . . . mon Dieu . . . ,
” she whispered. At last she found the strength to gaze back into Chelsea’s eyes. “How did Brooke die?” she asked. “Was she ill?”

Chelsea shook her head. “She died peacefully in her sleep,” she answered. “A stroke, probably.”

Emily sniffed a little, then dabbed at her eyes some more. “I am glad that she didn’t suffer,” she said. “But I can’t believe that she is gone. She still meant a great deal to me.”

“And to all of us, as well,” Chelsea said.

“Of course,” Emily answered. “But how did you know that it was Brooke’s recipe?”

Chelsea recounted how she came to be at Lake Evergreen and how she had also inherited Brooke’s recipe book. When she finished, Emily nodded.

“I still remember that recipe book,” she said. “Brooke and her mother, Gwendolyn, used to come into the café occasionally, where we became great friends. And I oftentimes visited the cottage. One rainy afternoon Brooke was making us lunch, and she hit on the idea of the sandwich. After naming it, she very graciously let me have the recipe for my use here at the café. In days gone by, I traveled to Syracuse from time to time to visit her, but then Father Time caught up with me and made it difficult.”

Pausing for a moment, Emily secured Missy’s attention and requested a cup of mint tea. Missy quickly nodded, then headed back toward the kitchen.

“But after her car accident, Brooke never returned here,” Emily added. “I of course knew that she had become confined to a wheelchair. Even so, her never revisiting Lake Evergreen always seemed odd to me. With help, she could have certainly returned to her beloved cottage and also here, to my little café,” she said, her voice cracking a bit. “And when you consider both how much she loved it up here and our ongoing friendship, her continued refusal to return seems even stranger. After I stopped going to see her, we corresponded and talked on the phone from time to time, but it wasn’t the same as being face-to-face. Now she’s gone, and along with her went my last chance to say good-bye . . .”

“I’m sorry,” Chelsea replied. “We couldn’t understand why she never returned here, either. She was equally adamant about keeping the cottage, which in itself is also very strange, because my mother and father have absolutely no interest in it. Whenever we tried asking Brooke about it, a wistful look came over her face. Because the subject always seemed to upset her so much, we eventually stopped asking. But I know for a fact that Brooke still loved her cottage, even though she never saw it again. For my mother and father, it has become little more than a distant memory. Then I inherited it, and I’ve come to understand how wonderful it is.”

Missy soon appeared with Emily’s tea. After taking a welcome sip, the old woman sighed.

“In France, we have a saying,” she said as she stared sadly at her teacup.
“Plutôt que terminer deux amis, la mort de l’un a une façon de se joindre à eux pour toujours.”

“What does that mean?” Chelsea asked.

“ ‘Rather than parting two old friends, the death of one has a way of joining them forever,’ ” Emily answered.

Silence reigned as the three of them sat quietly for a time. Soon, a question occurred to Chelsea. She knew that Emily was still upset, and because of that, she almost left it unsaid. But she very much wondered if Emily could shed any light on something for her, so she finally decided to ask.

“May I inquire about something else?” Chelsea said.

“Of course,” Emily answered.

“You also knew a man named Gregory Butler, right?” Chelsea asked.

“
Mais oui,
” she answered. “I knew him well, in fact. Greg and Brooke were dear friends. That’s how he and I got acquainted. His cottage stood next to hers. Up until his death a few years ago, he still came in for lunch from time to time. In fact, seeing you and Brandon here together is almost like going back in time and sitting once again across from Brooke and Greg.”