Read Online On Deadly Tides (A Wendover House Mystery Book 3) by Melanie Jackson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Melanie Jackson
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succulent smells.
My ears were caressed with the soft incantation of Italian love songs, and a lot of my weariness and frustration fell away.
“Just what the doctor ordered?” Bryson asked, helping me out of my coat.
“Exactly.” My smile felt natural this time.
He hung his own coat and hat on the brass tree by the door.
Bryson was known and liked there and we were given a table by the window. Perhaps they had mistaken me for a date. Or maybe they recognized me. Certainly I was aware of the barely hidden scrutiny of the other patrons as we took our seats.
There was a stone fireplace on one wall but also forced-air heating. The currents made the candles in their wine-bottle candelabra flicker in a way that was rather more alarming than romantic. Unable to stop myself, I adjusted them away from the curtains. Then, since they obstructed my view of Bryson, I blew them out and stuck the waxy bottle on the windowsill.
Bryson chuckled and pulled off his gloves. His knuckles were scratched and I could see that he had acquired a few blisters on his palms that were almost healed, but still looked sore.
“I may want to gaze into your eyes at some point—like after the antipasto—and the candles were in the way,” I explained, opening my napkin and not commenting on the state of his hands.
“If we must wait until after the antipasto then I can see that we have a food emergency,” he said and nodded at a slim, teenage boy standing near the kitchen. He hurried toward us with menus.
There was no objection from me. I was feeling famished and would rather eat than talk.
“And let the games begin,” I muttered, taking a menu. “Recommendations?”
“I like the chicken piccata.”
“Yes, but appetizers first. There aren’t any laws on the books about letting pigs in restaurants, are there? Because I am afraid things could get ugly if someone tried to turn me out before the tiramisu.”
Bryson laughed again. Whatever his earlier mood had been, he seemed relaxed now.
“Not a one. Shall we begin with an antipasto platter, and a feta salad?”
“Yes. And bruschetta, please.”
“Good. And two glasses of Burgundy. Manny, make it so,” he said to the boy who nodded and hurried for the kitchen.
“Had a good day?” Bryson asked and I thought I knew why he had been looking grim earlier.
“Mostly. I did notice an odd thing though.”
“What is that?”
“It didn’t strike me until I was on the way back, but….” I tried to think of a way to express my suspicion about our islands without sounding like a mystic. “I went south. I haven’t toured the mainland before. It seemed a bit different from the islands. Maybe a little less flourishing.”
Bryson nodded.
“The last place I visited, it seemed blighted. Depressed. And colder. Much colder. It wasn’t just that things were shabby, but the people seemed … unhappy. Not neighborly.”
Bryson nodded.
“Ah. Well, our islands are blessed, warm. Fishing is terrible everywhere else it seems, but so far we haven’t been hurt by the shortages that are affecting fisherman up and down the seaboard.”
The way he said blessed made it seem like more than a casual phrase. And I think he was also talking about the fact that we lived in a pineapple belt. One that couldn’t be explained by ocean currents but which kept pollution away and fish breeding nearby.
“We are fortunate then to be living here.”
“Fortunate. Yes, we are, and most of us are aware of it.”
Food began to appear and I traded in small talk for eating.
“Tess, do you want the chicken piccata?” Bryson asked when Manny reappeared and I nodded, my mouth too full to answer.
When the appetizers were cleared away and I couldn’t avoid talking by stuffing my face, Bryson resumed social convention and inaugurated another conversation. It felt a lot like the last conversation and I realized we weren’t done discussing my trip yet.
“How far south did you get?”
“ Derrymoor ,” I
My ears were caressed with the soft incantation of Italian love songs, and a lot of my weariness and frustration fell away.
“Just what the doctor ordered?” Bryson asked, helping me out of my coat.
“Exactly.” My smile felt natural this time.
He hung his own coat and hat on the brass tree by the door.
Bryson was known and liked there and we were given a table by the window. Perhaps they had mistaken me for a date. Or maybe they recognized me. Certainly I was aware of the barely hidden scrutiny of the other patrons as we took our seats.
There was a stone fireplace on one wall but also forced-air heating. The currents made the candles in their wine-bottle candelabra flicker in a way that was rather more alarming than romantic. Unable to stop myself, I adjusted them away from the curtains. Then, since they obstructed my view of Bryson, I blew them out and stuck the waxy bottle on the windowsill.
Bryson chuckled and pulled off his gloves. His knuckles were scratched and I could see that he had acquired a few blisters on his palms that were almost healed, but still looked sore.
“I may want to gaze into your eyes at some point—like after the antipasto—and the candles were in the way,” I explained, opening my napkin and not commenting on the state of his hands.
“If we must wait until after the antipasto then I can see that we have a food emergency,” he said and nodded at a slim, teenage boy standing near the kitchen. He hurried toward us with menus.
There was no objection from me. I was feeling famished and would rather eat than talk.
“And let the games begin,” I muttered, taking a menu. “Recommendations?”
“I like the chicken piccata.”
“Yes, but appetizers first. There aren’t any laws on the books about letting pigs in restaurants, are there? Because I am afraid things could get ugly if someone tried to turn me out before the tiramisu.”
Bryson laughed again. Whatever his earlier mood had been, he seemed relaxed now.
“Not a one. Shall we begin with an antipasto platter, and a feta salad?”
“Yes. And bruschetta, please.”
“Good. And two glasses of Burgundy. Manny, make it so,” he said to the boy who nodded and hurried for the kitchen.
“Had a good day?” Bryson asked and I thought I knew why he had been looking grim earlier.
“Mostly. I did notice an odd thing though.”
“What is that?”
“It didn’t strike me until I was on the way back, but….” I tried to think of a way to express my suspicion about our islands without sounding like a mystic. “I went south. I haven’t toured the mainland before. It seemed a bit different from the islands. Maybe a little less flourishing.”
Bryson nodded.
“The last place I visited, it seemed blighted. Depressed. And colder. Much colder. It wasn’t just that things were shabby, but the people seemed … unhappy. Not neighborly.”
Bryson nodded.
“Ah. Well, our islands are blessed, warm. Fishing is terrible everywhere else it seems, but so far we haven’t been hurt by the shortages that are affecting fisherman up and down the seaboard.”
The way he said blessed made it seem like more than a casual phrase. And I think he was also talking about the fact that we lived in a pineapple belt. One that couldn’t be explained by ocean currents but which kept pollution away and fish breeding nearby.
“We are fortunate then to be living here.”
“Fortunate. Yes, we are, and most of us are aware of it.”
Food began to appear and I traded in small talk for eating.
“Tess, do you want the chicken piccata?” Bryson asked when Manny reappeared and I nodded, my mouth too full to answer.
When the appetizers were cleared away and I couldn’t avoid talking by stuffing my face, Bryson resumed social convention and inaugurated another conversation. It felt a lot like the last conversation and I realized we weren’t done discussing my trip yet.
“How far south did you get?”
“ Derrymoor ,” I
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