The Healing by Frances Pergamo Page B

liking? If not, I also have English breakfast or Darjeeling.”
    â€œThe Earl Grey sounds wonderful,” Karen replied, looking around.
    The kitchen was not at all how she imagined it. There were no modern appliances or expensive cherry cabinets. There were no granite countertops or aesthetically pleasing conveniences that might have been featured in home improvement magazines. It was all very old-fashioned. The stove looked like something from the 1930s. In the middle of the black-and-white-tiled floor, where a kitchen designer would have placed an island with electrical outlets and a wrought-iron pot rack suspended from the ceiling, was a roll-away butcher block table that looked like it dated back to colonial times. The wall tiles were the standard early twentieth century white rectangles, slightly yellowed with age, and the sink was the old porcelain type on legs.
    Something about the old kitchen was so appealing, so inviting. It felt like a place of refuge, where things were simple and undemanding. Karen realized she would have been happy to sit all afternoon at the table by the large picture window overlooking the bay. She had stepped into another era, when having a cup of tea with a neighbor was a good remedy for stress.
    â€œKaren, would you like to use the washroom and put some water on your face?” Grace’s voice intruded ever so gently on her thoughts.
    Karen snapped to attention, realizing that her preoccupation with her surroundings might have been rude. “Oh, I’m sorry. Sure. That would be nice.”
    â€œIt’s at the end of the kitchen on the left,” Grace told her. “I’ll pour the tea.”
    The small bathroom was more like a closet that had been fitted with a toilet and a sink, similar in size and style to the downstairs bathroom in Karen’s house. She surmised the idea of a half bath off the kitchen was probably a popular commodity during the early part of the twentieth century. At the time, it must have been considered a practical addition to any modern home.
    Unfortunately, there was a tiny mirror over the sink, and Karen made the mistake of looking at it. “Holy—” she said, cutting off the expletive that was about to roll off her tongue. Bloodshot sunken eyes gazed back at her from a face that was flushed and sagging. To make matters worse, she saw that she had not even combed her hair that morning, and it hung from her head in stringy disarray.
    Turning on the faucet, Karen cupped her hands under the cold running water and dipped her overheated face into the small pool. She almost moaned with relief. After cooling herself a few more times, she dried off with the little towel that hung beside the sink.
    When she emerged, Grace was setting a plate of shortbread cookies on the table. “I hope that helped,” she said softly.
    â€œIt sure did,” Karen replied. She wondered why Grace cared so much about a woman crying at the beach—enough that she was compelled to invite a total stranger into her home.
    â€œCome and sit down,” Grace offered, pulling out the chair with the best view for her guest.
    Karen sat and took a quick survey of all that was in front of her. It was only tea and cookies, but it was being served on fine English china. The spoons gleamed on linen napkins. “This is so nice of you.”
    â€œDon’t mention it,” Grace said.
    Karen looked out the window. She couldn’t suppress an amazed chuckle. “You have no idea how weird this is for me,” she confessed. “I have to tell you, I’ve admired this house since I was a young girl. To be invited in like this is just, well, such a treat.”
    â€œI’ll have to give you a tour,” Grace said while putting sugar in her tea.
    Karen did the same. “That would be great.”
    â€œSo you’ve lived in Southold all your life?” Grace asked, taking a sip.
    â€œNo, I only moved here a few months ago,”