Page 42 of Forgotten Path
She bumped open the ajar door with her hip and entered the room carrying a large tray. He leaped to his feet and cleared a spot on the desk.
“That’s quite a cuppa,” he said with a smile.
He’d been expecting a mug of herbal tea, but Mrs. Wolfe had gone all out. The tray was weighted down with a ceramic teapot, two delicate teacups balanced on matching saucers, a bowl of sugar cubes, a dish of lemon slices, and an array of muffins, scones, and breads.
He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. The B&B owner had greeted his request for a cup of tea with unbridled glee. Mrs. Wolfe’s mother, British by birth, had relocated to the Forgotten Coast in 1946 with her new husband, a native Floridian whom she’d met during the war. The couple had lived their entire married life in Oyster Point, raising their family in the very same historic Queen Anne mansion that Mrs. Wolfe now occupied. Although she’d never visited her mother’s homeland, Mrs. Wolfe had inherited her mother’s love of tea and readily confessed to Bodhi that the lack of a decent teashop was one of Oyster Point’s greatest disappointments.
She ducked her head sheepishly and gestured at the tray with a laugh. “I’ve been known to go overboard when I have a guest with a taste for tea.”
“It looks wonderful. Thank you.”
She twisted her hands. “Now, Steffi told me you don’t consume animal products. If that’s the case, you’ll want to avoid the pastries. But the dark chocolate muffins don’t have any dairy or eggs at all. That’s a variation of my mother’s wacky cake recipe.”
“Wacky cake?”
“Some folks call it war cake, but that’s not a very festive name for a cake, now, is it? The story goes that when rationing was in full force, eggs, milk, and butter were in short supply. And if you were lucky enough to get them, you certainly wouldn’t waste them on something as frivolous as a chocolate cake. The secret to a good wacky cake is white vinegar and a nice vegetable oil. Although I use olive oil. Doc says—said—it’s much healthier.” Her smile faded as she remembered why Bodhi was in town.
“Well, Doc was right about that. I can’t wait to taste one. Can I pour you a cup of tea, as well?” He waved his hand at the pair of teacups.
Her gaze shifted to the pile of papers on the desk. “No, thank you, dear. I thought I might join you, but I see you’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Really, Mrs. Wolfe, I’d love the company.”
“Nonsense,” she trilled. “I’ll fix myself a cup and take it into the library with me. I’m almost finished with my Agatha Christie book. Well, and maybe one of these scones.”
He turned over one of the cups, filled it with the steaming hot tea, and plucked a slice of lemon from the tray. Next, he selected a muffin and placed it on the saucer’s edge. After carefully moving the entire assembly from the tray to the desk, he lifted the tray and smiled at his hostess.
“Tell you what, I’ll carry this into the library for you to enjoy while you devour your Hercule Poirot.”
“Miss Marple.”
“Even better. Lead the way.”
He followed her into the hallway lit by wall sconces and past the elegant curved staircase. She stopped at a set of pocket doors. An ornate pattern had been carved into the border of the solid wood doors. He admired them before she opened the doors to reveal a gracious library. Two walls were filled with floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves. Large windows and a cushioned window bench took up the front wall. He imagined generations of children perched on the padded bench, knees pulled up to their chins, balancing a book on their thighs. Mrs. Wolfe led him to a comfortable-looking chair positioned in front of a fireplace with a colorful patterned tile surround and hearth. She gestured toward a glass-topped table beside the chair, and he gently lowered the tray to the table.
“This looks like the perfect cozy reading nook.”
“It is. Since Mr. Wolfe died, I spend most evenings in here with one of my English countryside mysteries. Thank you for carrying in the tray, young man.” She smiled warmly.
“It’s my pleasure,” he assured her. “This room, and the whole home, is gorgeous. The architecture is breathtaking.”
“I’d be delighted to give you the full tour tomorrow if you like.”
“I’d love that. I’m not sure I’ll have much free time, though. I need to head to Panama City in the morning for an aut—a meeting.”
She eyed him shrewdly from behind her glasses. “Autopsy. You can say it, Dr. King. I’m aware that Doc Ashland has passed, you know.”
He nodded. “Of course. It seemed indelicate to say.” Then he gestured at the book tucked into a basket on the floor beside the chair. “But, I suppose that’s silly. After all, Dame Christie has a fairly robust body count in her books.
Mrs. Wolfe tittered for a second, and then she turned serious. “True, but this is real life. And there’s something you need to keep in mind while you’re here. Don’t be deceived by appearances:nobodyin Oyster Point is delicate. Fragile things—or people—don’t survive in this environment. We’re a scrappy and self-reliant lot. We have to be.”
With that, she plumped the pillow behind her back, picked up her book, and began to read.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
Up before the sun, Bodhi meditated, completed a swift morning yoga flow, and showered. The sky was still a pale purple when he returned to the desk and studied the notes he’d made as he’d worked through Joel’s patient charts the night before. With a handful of exceptions, nobody who sought care at the clinic was healthy.
On the one hand, this shouldn’t surprise him. The residents of Oyster Point may not be frail, as Mrs. Wolfe had warned, but they were also unlikely to squander one of the thirty-six days a year that Joel was in town on annual checkups and well-child visits. Preventative care was out of reach for the Forgotten Coast. On the other hand, the array of chronic and acute conditions that Joel treatedwassurprising. The ailments seemed to fall primarily within one of four broad categories: respiratory problems, especially asthma; skin conditions; cognitive and memory issues; and a statistically improbable number of lung cancer cases.
