This quelled all but the most curious inquirers, and those few presumptuous gossips determined to have the details and impertinent enough to pursue them were met with even more gruffness. But all this mystery made it so that few felt at ease in the shop, and even fewer enjoyed their visits.

Captain Braddock sat down at his desk with a sigh, pushed the papers into a stack, and pulled out an old ledger book. He looked over the month’s sales. Most of the Harborside’s business came from the few consistent weekly orders now: the old hotel, a handful of restaurants up and down the coast, a small bed and breakfast outside of town—and Miss Harriet’s.

He sighed. Ironically, Miss Harriet’s represented the largest and most lucrative of his ongoing orders, which was why he had submitted (albeit grudgingly) to the degradation of supplying her with the much-despised bagged teas. That, and because it gave him a supply for tourists who came in looking for the familiar and caring nothing about quality or the shop’s heritage. The bagged teas had boosted sales considerably, but didn’t attract the kind of customers who appreciated the Harborside for what it truly had to offer.

Captain Braddock walked over to the old sea chest full of the boxes of bagged teas, ruefully wondering if that would be his only mark on the Harborside.

If so, he shuddered, whatever will the next generation bring in?

It had never occurred to him before what a strange thought that was to think. He knew that there were no prospects of a “next generation” to whom the Harborside could be handed down. There must be some distant relatives somewhere, of course; but he knew of none that bore the Braddock name, which was a vital qualification in the captain’s eyes.

He and his sister had been the very last of the Braddock line, so far as he knew; and neither had fulfilled their father’s hopes for a Harborside heir by bringing forth children of their own.

If only one of us had.

He sighed again and looked around him, remembering the days of his boyhood when three generations of Braddocks bustled about the shop. None of them would have imagined that in a few short decades, one lone Braddock would be standing there, wondering how he was going to keep the Harborside running for a generation of Braddocks that didn’t even exist.

Yet somehow, Captain Braddock felt sure that the Harborside would continue on, and that it would indeed be passed to some sort of a “next generation.” Who that might be, he did not know; but he could not conceive of the idea of the venerable shop closing or dying away, or passing out of the family after so many years.

Belief in the Harborside’s past, present, and future had been ingrained into his very being from childhood, and he could not imagine any different. He just had to keep the shop afloat until the time came to pass it on.

5 The “Dailies”

As Katherine settled into her work at Miss Harriet’s, she soon noticed that some customers came with almost clockwork regularity. Miss Harriet lovingly referred to these guests as “the Dailies,” for they came every day without fail. These faithful customers were greeted by name, their preferred seats reserved, and their usual orders made ready for their appointed time.

Each had such steady habits that if ever one of them failed to appear, it caused great concern. Miss Harriet would call, just to make sure they were all right, and had even been known to deliver their regular order to their homes, on occasion, if any of them were under the weather.

“Of course, I couldn’t go during business hours before now,” she explained one day, “because I had no one to mind the shop. But with you here, Katherine, it will be so much easier!”

Katherine loved Miss Harriet’s maternal care for each of her guests. She had never known anyone who took such great delight in serving others.

The first customer of the day was always Mr. Harold James. He was a middle-aged man with black hair, and a mischievous twinkle that flickered every now and then in his dark eyes. He always wore a tweed sportscoat and collared shirt, and topped them off with a smart tweed cap, which he removed immediately upon stepping through the door. He looked quite professional and carried a brown leather briefcase, which coordinated with his neatly-polished leather shoes.

“Quite a gentleman.” Miss Harriet had said, “Always so polite and well-dressed.”

Each morning, he arrived punctually, a few minutes after opening, with a polite “Good morning, ladies.” Then he would walk to his usual table, situated in the front corner of the shop, with his back to the wall and the window to his right.

“He prefers that seat,” Miss Harriet had quietly informed Katherine in the kitchen her first morning, “because he likes to watch downtown Harborhaven wake up and start to go about its daily business. But it’s quite a legitimate interest, you see, because Mr. James writes for the city’s newspaper.”

Katherine had peeked through the kitchen door with interest. “He seems distinguished enough. Do you get many journalists in the shop?”

“Just Mr. James.” Miss Harriet replied, then said with a wink “But he’s more distinguished than you might think. He’s the only one of his kind in Harborhaven.”

“You mean he’s the town’s only journalist?”

“Yes. The newspaper’s staff consists only of Mr. James, an editor, a secretary, and the man who runs the presses.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose it makes sense that a small town would have a small paper.”

“Yes, but Mr. James takes his job very seriously, nonetheless. He is, after all, a very serious man, though not without a sense of humor. And he’s very industrious. You’ll notice that his breakfast here each morning is always a working breakfast.”

Katherine watched Mr. James in the mornings to come, and soon she knew his routine as well as Miss Harriet did. He would seat himself by the window and move the floral arrangement out of the way. Then he would take from his leather briefcase the tools of his trade: his laptop, a fountain pen, and the small legal pad on which he took notes for his articles. Some days, books replaced the laptop, and Mr. James would pore diligently over their pages, making careful and copious notes on the legal pad.

Other days, he would take out only the pen and notepad, leaving the flowers where they were. This alerted Miss Harriet that Mr. James would be conducting an interview that morning, and she would have Katherine lay another place setting at his table and hold his order until his guest had arrived. Mr. James often stayed at the little table in the corner for much of the morning, working diligently while he sipped his English Breakfast tea and ate his cheddar scone.

Curious to know what Mr. James found to write about in such a quiet town, Katherine began reading the daily paper; a thing she would never have thought to do otherwise. She discovered that Mr. James was, in fact, a talented writer.

He could pull his readers into any story, even something as mundane as the changing of bulbs in a streetlight, which he had managed to turn into an entertaining two-page spread. This was a valuable quality in the Harborhaven Gazette’s only journalist, since little of any import ever happened in Harborhaven. Without his expertise, the paper would certainly not have maintained its widespread popularity.

“Has Mr. James ever written about Miss Harriet’s?” Katherine asked her employer one day.

“No, Dearie, and I don’t suppose he could be expected to,” Miss Harriet replied casually.

Katherine frowned. “Why not?”

“For the simple reason that it would put him in a very awkward position.”

“It would?”

“Yes, it would. You see, if he were to write something favorable, he might be accused of bias, because he comes here so much. If he wrote something unfavorable, he would be sure to feel badly about it, and would be so bothered, he wouldn’t be able to enjoy his morning scones anymore. Either way, he’d be sure to find himself in a stew of some kind.”

“I never thought about that,” Katherine replied. “It must be difficult to be a journalist.”

Miss Harriet nodded. “Yes indeed, Dearie. I’m happy to stick to my tea shop.”

Each morning, when Mr. James had been at his table for about an hour, a tall elderly lady would walk laboriously in with a book under one arm and ask in politest tones if the table at the back were available. Of course, it always was available, for Miss Harriet had given strict instructions that the seats preferred by the “dailies” be reserved for them, no matter how busy the shop might get.

Like Mr. James, this quiet lady always dressed neatly. She usually wore a wool skirt and blazer, in well-pressed, unassuming earth tones. Whatever the weather, she would walk in wearing plain, sensible heels with a small brown hat perched carefully atop her short grey hair, which curved neatly around her face. She always reminded Katherine of a little brown bird.

“Poor dear,” Miss Harriet said quietly one day. “She’s probably been up for hours. Doesn’t sleep well, you see, and figures it’s better to get up very early than stay in bed tossing and turning. That’s why she comes in before most of the town is up and about. She hasn’t much to live on, you know, and this is the one little indulgence she allows herself. Perhaps it’s partly to make up for the trouble of having to wake up so early.”

Once she reached her table, the lady—whose name was Penelope Wright, although everyone simply called her Mrs. Penelope—cautiously perched on one of the chairs, holding herself as stiff and straight as the chair itself. She somehow managed to seem at ease in that unbending posture, though, as she quietly ordered “Just a cup of black tea and three plain scones with jam, please.” which she enjoyed with as much enthusiasm as her genteel nature would allow.

The scones Mrs. Penelope ordered each morning were quite different from the robust cheddar scone ordered by Mr. James. Miss Harriet’s plain scones were small, round, and very fluffy, while the cheddar scones were dense, large, and triangular. They were so dissimilar, Katherine wondered how both could be called scones.

Miss Harriet said that the two types of scones came from different regions, and that, while the fluffy scones were her favorite, the dense scones were more like what scones originally would have been. “I make both kinds, you see, so that I can have the kind I like but still feel I’m being true to the historical side of things. Besides, this way none of my customers are disappointed, whichever type of scone they like.”

And so, every morning Mr. James would have his biscuit-like cheddar triangle, Mrs. Penelope would have her three small fluffy rounds, and both would be equally satisfied.

Mr. James and Mrs. Penelope were not the only dailies, however. Round about mid-morning, as Mr. James worked away by the window and Mrs. Penelope sat engrossed in her book, Rosie would arrive. The self-appointed leader of the Luncheon Society disliked getting up early, but just like Mr. James, she wanted to see what people were up to first thing. Rosie’s motive, however, was far from the professional and business-like interest of Mr. James. She just had to know everything happening around town so she could inform everyone else. The first time Rosie met Katherine, she had unashamedly introduced herself as the town gossip.

“If there’s anything you want to know, I’m your gal. Not much escapes my notice around here, and there’s always a tale to tell. Why, only yesterday, the mayor tripped going up the steps of the courthouse on his way to a meeting and got a black eye, or at least, that’s what he said. I can’t help but wonder if he ran afoul of one of his constituents somewhere, but didn’t want to admit it. I’ve a nose for scandal, you see.”

“Does the mayor often have violent conflicts with his constituents?” Katherine asked, trying not to smile.