Part One
Chapter One: On the Effects of Drinking Tea in a Bar when Everyone Else is Having Champagne
Richard Poole didn't know how he'd done it, but he'd done it.
They, he and his team, were in Catherine's bar, as they generally were after working hours, and he and Camille had been discussing his shortcomings, as they might do at any time of day, and he'd said something like "If we're going to argue like this every time we work together, we may as well be married!"
And she'd said "I agree."
And then she'd stood up from their table and faced the ramshackle collection of patrons crowding the bar, as they generally were, and shouted "Tout le monde, attention, s'il vous plaît?"
The lot of them went silent instantly, of course. When Camille Bordey spoke, people listened, Poole thought, and picked up his tea mug.
"Detective Inspector Poole has asked me to become his wife, and I have accepted," she announced, just like that, only with a brilliant smile.
The patrons erupted into cheers. Poole nearly choked on his tea.
"W-wh-what –?" was all he got out.
He'd been knocked sideways or he might have been able to put up a better defense, especially when, within a minute, Catherine had come bustling over to their table with a three-ring binder full of helpful lists: consultants, florists, little artsy craft places, specialty printers, halls to rent . . .
"Now, wait a minute!" Poole coughed, not yet having completely disposed of his mouthful of tea. But it was too late for protests. Catherine was already back at the bar and on the landline, expanding the guest list off-island. Juliet was hugging Camille and giggling while Dwayne was pounding on Poole's left shoulder. Fidel was on the right one. "Congratulations, Chief!" they both crowed, grinning as if this wasn't the very craziest thing that had ever happened to him.
"Th-thank you, I –" Poole broke off the ingrained manners and grasped desperately at a shred of reality in the form of Camille's hand, gently waving the boys off him. She then draped her arm over his shoulders and as she leaned in, he caught the hand, twisted himself up from his chair and out from under the arm and sputtered into her ear, "Can I – private – a moment?"
"Of course, my darling," she cooed, and led him to the nearest corner of the room, smiling and nodding acceptance of felicitations as she went. He hardly noticed when they got there that she had placed him with his back to the wall.
"Now, look," he began, as she took a position between him and the carousing room, very close. "If I was going to propose marriage, I wouldn't do it like that!"
"No?" Camille asked, all innocence, as her hands seemed to find something fascinating about his suit lapels.
"No, of course not! I'd hardly –!"
"How would you do it then, cher?"
"I'm not –!" He stopped, not sure what 'cher' was, exactly. "I'd, well, I'd, um, I'd look for a private place, where, you know, you wouldn't be embarrassed, where you'd be able to think about it," where you'd be able to say No is what he meant here, but he was getting into expository mode now, "and I'd, I'd probably have a ring, or –"
"A ring? What kind of ring?" Camille demanded, moving in closer.
"Urk. Well, um, it doesn't have to be a ring." Poole felt his battered shoulders meet Catherine's woodwork, such as it was, as Catherine's daughter came to rest against him. "Traditionally, it is a ring, as that's most easily displayed, but it could be a, a bracelet, or a pendant, or – well, any small token –"
"Like a handkerchief?" Her fingertips touched the fresh one peeking out of the breast pocket of his jacket, one of the ones with a neat RP in white thread in a corner.
"Well, I suppose, yes, it could be, but that's rather –"
"Would you go down on one knee?" The idea seemed to enchant her.
"Yes, I'd, well, that is, it would be somewhat . . . but –"
"And I would say 'Yes'," Camille told him, her eyes glowing into his and her breath very close to his lips. "And, then what?"
"W-w-well, um, in my family I'd – I'd give you cheese."
Things in their little corner of the bar became very still, suddenly. "Cheese?" she asked, in a very small voice.
Poole swallowed nervously, hoping and praying he wouldn't start to bluster. "It's, it's a Welsh thing. My mum is – look, it, never mind, since I never – said –"
But Camille had withdrawn slightly, her head bowed, face hidden under a fall of glorious dark hair, star-sprinkled under the fairy lights of the bar. "I – I can't believe . . ." she whispered, her low voice breaking on the words, "I can't – you, you're taking it back, now . . ."
"I'm not! How could I take it back if I never – Camille!" Her hands had left his suit lapels to cover her face, and the tiny sound of a choked sob seemed to prick his soul like a dart. "Look, I – it's –" He pulled frantically at the handkerchief in his pocket and waved it like a flag in front of her. Anything to stop her crying!
Miraculously, one slim hand was already groping out toward him. He caught it and pressed the cloth into it, almost in panic, still trying to sputter denials, explanations, apologies. "Camille, I – look, it'd be a lot of cheese; that is, if you said – um, goat, maybe? Tysilio, or ffetys, Pant-ys-Gawn . . . Camille?"
She had the handkerchief, and she wrapped it around the fingers of her left hand as she threw up her head, smiling beatifically, not a tear in sight. "Thank you," she murmured. "It's lovely. I'll treasure it until there is a ring, something a little more permanent? Maman!" Glowing with happiness, she twirled back toward the bar. "The champagne? We must celebrate!"
"And we must plan!" Catherine answered, arranging a handful of Veuve Clicquot Brut bottles on display at the bar. Meanwhile several cases of California André cans were being dismantled by Dwayne, with Fidel handing out or pitching the contents to any corner of the bar who was calling for them. Commissioner Patterson, leaning elegantly on the bar itself with a half-empty flute in his hand, lifted it to Poole with a genial smirk.
Some kind soul, Poole never did find out who, gently slid a chair under him as his legs gave out. It seemed he was getting married.