Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Sandra Harper is the author of the play, Magpie's Tea Room, which enjoyed a successful run in Los Angeles at The Ventura Court Theatre. She has written a cooking column, "The California Cook" for the newspaper, Skirt. A script reader for Pathe Studios and Springcreek Productions, she also wrote and produced fashion and rock videos for Elvis Costello, Chaka Khan and Vidal Sassoon, amonf others. Ms. Harper recieved her B.A. in Journalism from the University of Southern California and has completed a children's book, The Witches Club.

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High Tea

Pocket

Chapter One

Magpie's Tearoom was a lovely refuge from modern life.

Nestled between a travel bookstore and a vintage clothing boutique, it had survived Nouvelle Cuisine, Low Carbs, and Raw Food. Although there were few damp, drizzly days in Los Angeles, there was always a warm welcoming fire at Magpie's to suggest otherwise.

Pictures of sporting dogs and the bucolic English countryside hung on the rosy pink walls. A towering china hutch displayed dainty cups and saucers with storybook patterns like Tally Ho and Chelsea Gardens. Sometimes, while relaxing in one of the worn armchairs and sipping a cup of Earl Grey, a customer would tell Margaret that owning a tearoom like Magpie's must be the most wonderful job in the world.

Of course Margaret would smile graciously.

And then pour them more tea.

On this Thursday in February, it actually was raining and Margaret Moore was late. Stepping off the porch of her tidy cream-colored bungalow, she hurried across the soggy lawn and then slid behind the wheel of her old Volvo. Winding down to Fountain Avenue, she immediately discovered that traffic was jammed all the way to Crescent Heights. Remembering the days of the ten-minute commute, she groaned. Now it took at least forty minutes to get anywhere in the city.

Just before 3rd Street, she turned left into the alley and pulled into one of four spaces marked Tearoom. A satin-blue Prius was parked beside her.

Lilly's on time, she thought gratefully.

With the expertise of an Englishwoman, she unfurled her umbrella and reached the back door with nary a spot of water landing on her raincoat. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair hung perfectly in place.

Marching briskly into the kitchen, she stowed her purse and umbrella on a stainless steel baker's rack. Shrugging off her coat, she noticed dirty bowls littering the counter and a pan in the sink filled with something resembling amber crystals. Then she heard the rush of running water.

She knocked on the bathroom door. "Lilly?"

A rotund woman of fifty emerged, dabbing her wet face with paper towels. "Hope you don't mind. I crashed here last night," she said.

Margaret did mind but decided not to engage in what she knew would be a lengthy conversation about Lilly's domestic problems. "As long as you don't make a habit of it," was all she said.

Several aprons and a crisp white shirt hung on hooks next to the bathroom door. Margaret exchanged her coat for a black-and-white plaid apron that complemented her narrow black slacks and long-sleeved T-shirt.

Lilly squirted some gel into her palms and spiked up her short gray hair. "Deborah and I had a fight."

She's too young for you, thought Margaret, examining the pot of burned crystals in the sink.

"Just let that soak," said Lilly. "I thought a butterscotch pudding would make an interesting trifle, but the caramel seized."

Margaret's blue-gray eyes clouded. "How can I possibly go to England and leave the tearoom under your command?"

"You're going to England?" Lilly scrubbed at an egg stain on her soiled chef's jacket. "When did this happen?"

"Nothing's planned. But my mother's getting on, you know. She's almost eighty."

"I thought you hated your mother."

Margaret drew herself up. "Where did you get that idea? Just because we're not...overly fussy with one another. I have enormous respect for her."

Quickly turning her attention to the kitchen, she surveyed it with dismay. Although she employed a daily cleaning service, they never seemed to scrub the sink to her satisfaction. And Lilly was the messiest chef on earth. She never closed drawers or returned utensils to their proper hook on the overhead rack. Dishes were jammed willy-nilly on the open shelves below the counters and teacups were stacked precariously in the cabinets above. It wasn't as if this were a grand restaurant, either. They were a medium-sized tearoom with a dwindling inventory of china and flatware. It was sheer luck that the Health Department hadn't caught them in this condition and slapped them with a C rating.

Lilly seized a tray of buff-colored scones. "I made these last night to go with my insomnia," she beamed. "Peanut butter chocolate chip."

"Sounds like a hideous American candy bar."

"Oh, come on, Margaret, half the world loves peanut butter and chocolate. I think we could make a killing on these."

"Must I remind you that we are not here to make a killing. We are here to serve tradition."

Abandoning the kitchen, Margaret forged on with her morning routine. Why is it so difficult for Lilly to stick to the menu, she wondered, heading down the hallway towards the tearoom. It is simply crucial to have proper scones, layer cake, and egg salad at the ready. Customers depend upon it.

At the end of the hall was a door with a small brass sign inscribed "W.C." Inside the customer restroom, blue toile wallpaper and a pedestal sink gave the space a slightly Victorian air. She checked to be sure there was tissue, handtowels, and seat covers. Noticing a small puddle of water next to the toilet, she averted her eyes and hoped it was residue from last night's mopping and not a harbinger of ugly things to come.

From there, it was three quick steps to the tearoom. She crossed the floor to the two large windows that faced 3rd Street. Gently pulling back the chintz curtains, she tied them up with ruffled sashes and glanced out at the sweeping rain. I never really wanted to leave London, she thought. That had been Tony.

Shaken by this unexpected nostalgia, she set about putting her place in order. Neither trendy -- nor conservative -- there was an underlying elegance in the mismatched slipcovers and scuffed hardwood floors. Club chairs and ladder-backed chairs snuggled up to the tables -- all good pieces snatched at flea markets and garage sales, long before that sort of treasure hunt became a pastime for studio executives and hipsters. The choice spot in the house was the loveseat next to the fireplace. A paneled oak door on a wrought-iron base served as its tea table and a beveled mirror over the mantel captured the room in its face. All the old customers wanted this table and Margaret had honed her diplomatic skills on its availability.

As she straightened chairs and pinched dead petals off the roses in several vases, Lilly followed closely behind, not being the least bit helpful.

"We fought about this weekend. Deborah doesn't want to go away with me. She never wants to leave town!"

"She's new here. It's still exciting." Margaret glanced at her watch: ten-thirty, customers in an hour.

"She refuses to visit any more B&Bs. She hates eating breakfast with retired couples in matching jogging suits."

"Can you blame her?"

"No." Lilly stuck out her lower lip. "But don't most couples like to go away on romantic weekends?"

Margaret rearranged the tchotchkes on the gift shelves. "I have no idea what couples do -- I'm here on the weekend with groups of women. I can't recall the last time I saw a couple."

Next to the front door stood a pine writing desk with a phone, a reservation book, and an answering machine. Reaching out, Margaret pushed the blinking red message button.

"Hey, it's Lauren, I'm gonna be late. I got an audition at ten," said a careless, cigarette-sucking voice.

"I must stop hiring actresses," Margaret muttered.

"You've got to stick with the older ones that never work," said Lilly.

There was a sharp bang at the back door, followed by a gust of cool air and, finally, Clarissa Richardson. Beautiful and just a gasp from forty, she favored...