Chapter 8
Which is how I find myself standing on the doorstep of Henry Summers’s rented beach cottage at eight a.m. two days later.
I’m sporting freshly trimmed bangs and a new lilac-colored lace bra (with just a little bit of push-up).
I’m also holding our biggest sampler box of fudge.
I knock timidly, heart pounding in my throat.
What if he’s still asleep? Is he going to think it’s creepy that I’m on his doorstep?
Probably. This suddenly seems like a terrible idea.
Is it too late to back out and leave? I glance toward the car where Dot and Mom are giving me a big thumbs-up. They insisted on coming along.
“To make sure he’s not a perv,” in Dot’s words.
I think they secretly want in on the action though.
They’re hopeless romantics, and I suspect they want to see Henry in the flesh for themselves.
I finally gave in to their constant badgering and said they could come if they promised to stay in the car and not cause trouble.
They solemnly promised, but I’m not sure I entirely trust them.
Mr. Butters is sitting in the back seat with Dot, grinning happily and panting.
He seems to be thoroughly enjoying the adventure.
I smooth my hands down my cute summer dress, a sprigged spring-green cotton with ruffled pockets.
“Hello?” Henry opens the door, looking confused and adorably rumpled in a soft navy T-shirt and a pair of worn jeans. Too late to change my mind now! I take a fortifying breath and paste on a smile.
“Good morning,” I say cheerfully.
Henry’s hair is mussed and he’s wearing round tortoiseshell glasses and a hint of a five-o’clock shadow. He looks delicious. “Oh.” He peers at me and recognition lights his eyes. “Emmie, is it?” He glances around, puzzled. “Can I help you?”
I think he actually means “How did you find me?”
“It’s a small town,” I say by way of explanation. “And to the best of my knowledge, you’re the only British guy in Poulsbo. I swear I’m not a crazy psycho stalker. I just came to bring you this.” I shove the box of fudge at him. “Welcome to Poulsbo.”
Ugh, smooth, Emmie, real smooth. I’m rusty at this flirting thing, and it’s obvious. “The fudge is from my mom,” I explain. “She’s a big fan of Savor.”
Which is true. I don’t tell him I am too.
I swallow nervously and purposefully don’t glance behind me where I am absolutely sure Mom and Dot are glued to the windows of the car, watching us.
My palms are sweating. Henry makes me feel fluttery and nervous, like I just swallowed an entire kaleidoscope of butterflies.
“Ah, how thoughtful.” Henry smiles as though I’ve cleared up the mystery for him. “That’s very kind of her. Please thank her for me.” He takes the box of fudge.
We stand there awkwardly for a moment. He musses his hair with one hand. I hesitate. I don’t want to leave, but I’m not sure where to go from here. It’s been a long time since I liked a guy this much, and I’m super nervous.
“How’s the writing going?” I ask him.
He winces. “Not that well, actually.” A pause, then he confesses.
“Truth be told, your delicious caramel got me through revising one whole chapter. Now I’m stuck again though, I’m afraid.
Maybe this fudge will do the trick.” He quirks a brow in an adorably self-deprecating way, then pauses a beat and looks at me.
“Actually, would you like to come in for a cup of tea? I was just about to put the kettle on.”
I hesitate, thinking of Dot and Mom sitting in the car, but I know they’d insist I accept. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to spend time with Henry. “Sure, a cup of tea would be great.”
I don’t like tea, but I like the thought of Henry Summers brewing a cup for me. I glance back at the car just in time to see Dot and Mom waving cheerfully. Henry spots them too and frowns in a bemused way.
“Are there…two elderly women in your car?” he asks quizzically.
I groan. “It’s my mom and her best friend. They insisted on coming along to make sure you weren’t secretly an axe murderer.”
“Right.” Henry pauses, then grins sheepishly. “Well then, um…would they like to join us?”
“You bet your sweet bippy we would!” Dot yells from the car. “Can we bring Mr. Butters too?”
Apparently she’s had the back seat passenger window of my old Honda rolled down to eavesdrop this whole time and I didn’t notice. She and Mom scramble from the car with surprising speed, Mr. Butters at their heels. Henry steps forward as they come up onto the porch and extends his hand.
“Good morning, ladies. I’m Henry,” he says, clearing his throat.
“Oh, we know who you are,” Dot tells him knowingly. She pats him on the shoulder and breezes past him into the house. Mom clasps Henry’s hand, leaning on her cane.
“Hello, Henry. I’m Gwen, Emmie’s mother.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Gwen.” He smiles and I see Mom melt. “Thank you for the fudge. Very thoughtful of you.” He sounds sincere, and he appears to be taking our unexpected visit in stride. He leans down and scratches Mr. Butters under the chin. “Hello again, old chap.”
Mr. Butters wags his stub of a tail.
“I’ve never seen a dog in a top hat before,” Henry observes in a slightly baffled tone, straightening.
“It’s…a whole thing,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Don’t get me started.”
“Can I help you into the house?” Henry asks Mom, offering her his arm. She tucks her cane under her other arm and happily accepts. Mr. Butters trots along behind them.
I follow them inside. I’m trying to act calm although my heart is hammering in my throat. This. Is. Happening!!! I’m having tea with the man I’ve been hopelessly pining over for years. I pinch myself, right in the tender part of my inner arm by my elbow, just to be sure I’m not dreaming.
The inside of the beach cottage is spare and quaint.
White shiplap walls and worn pine floors.
The décor is nautical and beachy—an old sea chest against one wall, a fluffy white couch with a sand-colored throw.
There are few signs of life. A pair of brogues by the door, a canvas jacket and scarf on a hook on the wall.
Henry is neat and tidy, I notice. He leaves little trace of himself.
“I like a tidy man,” Dot announces to no one. “You know you can trust a man who knows how to pick up after himself.”
We follow Henry into the back of the house where an open-concept kitchen / dining area offers a stunning view of the bay. I lag behind a second and send a quick, covert, elated text to Dani, who is covering a day shift today.
HAVING TEA WITH HENRY AT HIS HOUSE!!!
Despite the fact that she’s on duty, she texts back instantly.
GO GET ’EM, TIGER!
I find Mom and Dot seated at the table in the dining area and Henry at the sink in the compact but functional kitchen, filling an electric kettle with water.
The back of the house is all windows looking out at the bay, and a pair of sliding glass doors leads out onto a big deck that juts out over the water.
At high tide the house must feel like it’s floating, like you’re on a houseboat.
One door is open to the sea breeze, and Mr. Butters wanders outside onto the deck. He likes to watch for seals.
Henry putters around, switching the kettle on and getting mugs out of the cabinet.
“How do you like your tea?” he asks us. “Milk, sugar?”
“Plain for me,” Dot tells him.
Mom, the only one of us who actually likes tea, takes hers with milk and sugar. Henry takes his with a splash of milk. I’m not a tea drinker, so I ask him for both milk and sugar. Maybe it will make the taste of tea a little more palatable.
“Shall we take our tea on the deck? It’s a fine morning,” Henry offers, handing around the mugs when the tea is ready. I gaze into mine, wishing it was a hometown honey latte from Byrdie’s, but oh well. I suppose if Henry and I are meant to be, I’d better get used to tea.
“Sure,” I agree.
Mom and Dot don’t follow us. Dot asks to use the bathroom and Mom demurs and opts to move to an armchair in the living room to drink her tea.
“Easier on my hips,” she tells us. “You two go ahead.”
I follow Henry out onto the deck. We lean over the deck railing and gaze out across Liberty Bay.
Mr. Butters parks himself beside us, enjoying the sunshine, tongue lolling as he smiles out at the view.
The sunlight on the water sparkles like diamonds, and there’s a fresh breeze.
I inhale deeply. I never tire of it, the briny smell of the bay—seaweed and salt water and something a little sweet.
I missed it all those years I lived in Europe.
“This place is really quite remarkable,” Henry says with a note of wonder in his voice. “There was a seal out here earlier, bobbing about, and yesterday I saw a bald eagle catch a fish and fly away.”
“It’s magical here,” I agree. “Did you grow up by the water?” I’m curious to know more about him.
“Yes, I was raised on the coast of England in Cornwall,” Henry tells me, sipping his tea. “I never feel more at home than when I’m by the sea. I miss it when I’m landlocked.”
“I feel the same. When I’m away from the water, I’m homesick for it.
It feels like a longing nothing else can really satisfy.
At least I haven’t found anything that does yet.
” I take a tentative sip from my mug. It’s hot and sweet at first, with a bitter bite at the end. Nope, I still don’t care for tea.
Henry looks at me as though surprised to find we share this feeling. “Exactly,” he says. I wonder if he’s not used to being understood. I wonder if he leads a lonely life.
“Do you get to go home much?” I ask.
I’m trying to be casual, to have a normal conversation, but my pulse is fluttering with nerves.
I’m hyperaware of every word and movement—his and mine.
Everything feels heightened. I keep seeing flashes of the vision when I look at Henry.
Our entire interaction feels weighty with potential, with the future.