Free Close Encounter with a Crumpet by Fleeta Cunningham Page A

glass of tart cider was at hand.
    “I did intend to see a mate of mine, but he and his wife had a bit of a surprise.” He mimicked rocking a baby. “Seems the little nipper didn’t like the day the doctor picked and chose to move his arrival up a couple of weeks. Wanted to share the royal celebration, I’m thinking. At any rate, I wound up all on my own for the day.”
    Tickled by his breezy explanation, Gill’s dark mood lightened, and she smiled. “Sorry your plans got changed.”
    “Not as much as yours, it appears.” He raised his pint. “Didn’t I hear you saying this Trooping of the Colors and all the flags and bands were the whole reason you made the trip across the pond?”
    Gill felt her lower lip quiver as disappointment welled up again. She took a quick swallow of cider. “Oh, just one of those things that happen, I guess. I’ve seen more of England than I ever thought I would. I have to be grateful for that.” She hoped her casual air covered her frustration.
    Simon’s level blue eyes widened a little, but he politely didn’t dispute her claim to gratitude. “How is it that a pretty young thing like yourself would be tagging along with a clutch of gossiping grannies anyway? Seems to me you’d be more inclined to take a turn about the West End or spend an afternoon at Harrods.”
    The bowl of hearty soup steamed with enticing flavor. Gill dipped her bread into it, considering her answer. “I never expected to be with the tour. My aunt is the altar guild director at the church at home. She booked the trip, but then she had a car accident and couldn’t come. It was too late for her to get her fare back, so she arranged to transfer the reservation to me.” Gill glanced through the window at the historic square beyond, the site of her most recent shattered hopes. “I was so excited about coming to England that I really didn’t ask too many questions. When I saw we’d be in London on the Queen’s birthday, the rest of the trip didn’t matter.” She saw the twinkle in Simon’s glance before he hid behind the pint glass in his hand.
    “Didn’t sign on for quite so many churches and such, did you? Or the cold shoulder your traveling companions offered?”
    “Not exactly.” Gill thought with longing of bypassed castles, palaces, and historic landmarks, then redirected the conversation. “Do you know where that expression ‘cold shoulder’ came from?”
    “Never thought about it.” He lowered the level in his pint by half. “Don’t tell me you do?”
    “I do, actually. It comes from the old custom of hospitality. If a host wanted a guest to feel welcomed, he offered a hot dinner. If the guest was less welcome, the host showed it by making a dinner from the leftovers of the day before, probably a shoulder of mutton, thereby giving the unwanted visitor the ‘cold shoulder.’ ”
    Simon chuckled. “And how would you be knowing that bit of trivia?”
    “Words are my job, more or less. I’m the librarian for a rather snooty private boys’ school back home.” She felt a surge of familiar affection for her absent students. “Most of the pupils are under fourteen. From time to time I broaden their education by connecting their latest slang or put-down to its historical origin. Most of their linguistic license isn’t nearly as original or shocking as they think.”
    “Librarian, are you? University and all that, I suppose.”
    “All that,” Gill agreed. “It takes everything I ever learned to keep up with the kids. Most of the time I enjoy it, but sub-teen boys are as unpredictable as wild horses and harder to handle than a speeding Ferrari.” A wry grin tugged a corner of his mouth. It made him look almost as young and impish as one of her students. “Yes, you’re thinking I could have found less stressful ways to make a living, but you see, this one offered eight weeks off in the summer, and a Christmas break. Though I admit the boys make me earn every minute of free