The Tea Chest

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  But we’d reached the end. We’d have to wait until we went back to the historical society tomorrow.

  “This was real,” I said.

  Ethan nodded, his mouth in a grim line.

  “I mean, I know history is real, but reading this, thinking of what they all went through . . . it makes it more to me.”

  “You ever think how we’re not so very different than those who’ve come before us?” he asked. “Yeah, we have social media and more technology, but humanity . . . it really doesn’t change. It’s scary, but Noah, the drinking . . . I can relate. It’s how I used to block out pain.”

  I nodded, knew exactly what he meant. I felt a bond with Emma. We’d both broken away from family circumstances to serve our country. We both often felt caught in the middle, perhaps sure on the surface but filled with doubt underneath it all. And though I didn’t like to admit it, we both searched for ourselves in the security of our country.

  I wondered how Noah and Emma would handle their hard times ahead.

  “Hay, you ever think about leaving?”

  “Leaving?”

  “Your ship. Or the training you’re preparing so hard for.”

  I felt my defenses rise. “Leave the Navy?”

  He shook his head, laughed. “I know you wouldn’t think of that. I mean, get a desk job or something in Boston. For the Navy.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “A desk job? Really, Ethan? Do you know me at all?”

  He shrugged. “Wouldn’t have to be behind a desk. Just something that would keep you in Boston.”

  I forced down the emotion bubbling in my throat.

  No.

  This was why I should have never come back home.

  Home.

  That was my problem. This place wasn’t my home. My home was on the Bainbridge or at a training base in California, or a desert in the Middle East. Home was where the military told me to serve.

  If only I didn’t feel the pull of this place. I hadn’t expected to feel this force, this sense of the unfinished—not just between me and Ethan, but between me and the chest, me and Medford, me and Lena.

  I’d come to seal this part of my life shut, and instead, it had burst open.

  I dragged in a breath, closed my eyes. “Ethan . . .”

  He tapped a finger on the table. “What?” Tap, tap, tap. “I mean, you wouldn’t miss me, even a little?” Tap, tap. “I think I would miss you a lot.”

  He raised his gaze to mine, his vulnerable words dancing over the table that separated us.

  Was it reading of Noah and Emma’s journey that had made him sentimental? Was it memories of high school? Or was it this . . . us . . . now?

  He cleared his throat. “You ever think of us, Hay? Of starting over again, seeing where it might all lead?”

  His words threatened to undo me. And I needed to view them as just that—a threat. One to be taken out and destroyed. Eliminated, so that my position could be secure.

  I could never be loyal to Ethan. I’d decided on my future already, and it didn’t include him. It certainly didn’t include Massachusetts. I was free to make my own decisions. And this was what I’d chosen.

  I will not fail.

  “We’re different people than we were six years ago,” I whispered. “But I still have a dream, just like I did back then. And just like then, I plan to see it through. Please don’t ask me to do differently—you know what my answer will be.”

  He slumped over, looked at the ground, gave a small, humorless laugh. “A smarter man would have given up on you long ago.”

  Couldn’t argue with that.

  Without warning, he left his seat. My heart felt like a bull pummeling my chest, looking for escape. He crouched down, grabbed my hands, looked at me with those beautiful, intense eyes. “What do you feel, Hay? Right now. What do you feel—how do you feel—about me?”

  I felt my defenses rising at the pressure to admit things I wasn’t sure of, at the pressure to take my focus off all that was important to me. I rolled my eyes. “Civilian guys.”

  “What? Because I’m being honest? Because I’m not hiding behind some tough-guy act or behind a six-pack of beer to tell you what’s on my heart? Does that mean I’m weak? You think I’m weak because I can own up to my feelings, face possible rejection?”

  No. No, of course not. If anything, he was the strongest man I knew. I saw that now. Appreciated that. Longed for it. But rearranging my life goals? For a guy? I’d promised myself I would always and forever look out for me first, and while that might sound selfish, it was also self-preservation. No one else was going to do it for me.

  “It’s not weak to let someone see your heart, Hay. I . . . I’ve been hurt, too. It scares me to make myself vulnerable again, you know? It’s a risk—I know that better than anyone. It can all be gone in a second. But I’m willing to take that risk. With you.”

  My breath came fast, and though I told myself to, I could not break his gaze. “I don’t know if I can get past my fear,” I whispered.

  “What’s here?” He put my hand to his chest, where his own heart beat strong and steady. “What do you feel when I tell you that I think I’m still in love with you?”

  I closed my eyes, let his words sink in. I felt . . . hope. And fear. And heights of elation I’d never known. No matter how I tried to keep him at arm’s length, he’d pushed through my walls—not with muscle or brawn but with gentleness and tenacity and patience and honesty.

  Who would have thought?

  “I feel . . .” Would I regret my next words come morning? “I feel like I want you to kiss me.”

  His gaze dropped to my mouth. He stood, pulled me up alongside him, and ran his thumb along my cheekbone. He lowered his lips to mine, and as I tasted him, my world seemed to fall away.

  He loved me.

  I felt it in his kiss, gentle yet ardent and hungry. His mouth moved over mine and it grew deeper, more intimate. My head swirled. This was different from our previous kiss, when I’d thought of him as a nice distraction, a pleasant fling. This was a kiss from a man who loved me.

  Had he ever told me that, even in high school?

  Had anyone ever told me that? Certainly Lena had never outright said it, though I assumed she must in an obligated, mother sort of way. Uncle Joe loved me, of course, but he never made himself vulnerable enough to say it. But this . . . this was different. In the midst of the kiss, anything seemed possible.

  And at the same time, everything was threatened.

  Silly, really, to fall in a mushy puddle at the feet of the first person to tell me such things. Yet that’s exactly what I was doing. I felt it happening fast and sure, felt myself valued and worthy.

  Was I also in love with Ethan, or was it the idea of having such immense worth in someone’s eyes?

  The thought of it all washed over me in a dizzying wave and I ended the kiss, though I wasn’t sure why. Because now I would have to look into his eyes, speak words I wasn’t eloquent enough to say.

  He put my hands against his chest, his heart thrumming.

  I’d read a Newsweek piece explaining that one reason members of Special Forces units seemed to succeed under intense pressure was their “metronomic heartbeat”—a heartbeat with almost no variability between beats, which wasn’t something most people could claim as normal. I’d often wondered if I possessed such a quality. But here, now, with my hand over Ethan’s heart, I knew neither of us had a metronomic heartbeat. Rather our hearts, in this moment, were alive and feeling and filled with emotion. Vulnerable.

  I could not be vulnerable.

  “Hayley?”

  “I—I can’t do what you’re asking me to do.” I pressed my lips together. “I’m sorry.”

  A sad smile tilted the corners of his mouth. I knew he wanted me to tell him I loved him, that we would find a way to make us work, find a way to start over. But I wasn’t a rush-into-it type of girl. I wasn’t a feeling girl. I was a think-and-plan kind of girl. A be-cautious-with-my-heart kind of g
irl. And being a SEAL was my dream. Ethan would either get in the way or get hurt. I’d been disloyal to him once. I would not make the same mistake again.

  He lifted my knuckles to his mouth, touched them with a kiss, causing my skin to tingle. “I get it. I guess I knew your answer, but I had to ask.” He released my hands, looked at the floor for a moment before gathering his laptop. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow to meet Gerald. About nine okay?”

  I nodded, still dwelling on all he’d said.

  My gaze fell on the tea chest, at the farthest end of the table. “You know, in all the excitement of discovering Emma’s writings, we almost forgot that we discovered what we’ve been looking for all along.”

  He tilted his head to the side.

  “The story behind Noah’s oath. We have it now. No matter what the Tea Party museum authenticates after we hand all this over, we know the truth. And we have an entire handful of men who no one knew participated in the Tea Party, including Noah.”

  He nodded, that sad smile again. “You’re absolutely right.”

  Why did he look so incredibly forlorn, then?

  I looked at the chest, the freezer bag tucked inside. “Maybe we should hand it over tomorrow. We’re done with it, right? We don’t need the chest or the oath to finish knowing what the story is.”

  “Whatever you think.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  He walked toward my door, then turned. “Hayley?”

  A strand of hair fell over his forehead and I resisted the urge to place it back where it belonged.

  “Don’t leave without saying good-bye this time, okay?”

  My heart crumbled in my chest.

  And then he was gone, the soft click of the door echoing behind him, the faint scent of someone’s burnt supper lingering from the hall.

  I put my hands over my face, the realization that he knew me better than I knew myself undoing me.

  I went to the bedroom, dug out my duffel bag, the one I used as a carry-on. I didn’t know how to deal with what Ethan offered. I didn’t know how to do vulnerable and real and feeling. And while I could blame Lena until the cows came home, when it came right down to it, it was my own shortcoming, my own deficiency.

  Quite simply, I didn’t know how to love.

  Ethan deserved better. He didn’t deserve me holding him back from finding real love. It had happened once before, with Allison. If I left, it would happen again.

  And I needed to leave. I would not—could not—sacrifice so much for a romantic fling. I’d done what I’d come to do in seeing Lena. Mission accomplished. I would not compromise being a SEAL for a few feel-good emotions. That’s not who I was. I must follow through with my plans.

  I will not fail.

  I took out my phone, booked a flight for early the next morning to San Diego, and packed the remainder of my things.

  I looked at the tea chest, lonely on my table. Ethan knew the code to the apartment. He would come in tomorrow after I didn’t answer the door. He would find the chest and make sure it got to the museum.

  I wondered about the rest of Emma’s story. For just a moment, I tried to talk myself out of leaving or at least putting it off for another day. But it would only prolong the inevitable.

  I searched for a piece of paper and found some computer sheets in the utility closet. I sat down, pen in hand.

  This time, I would not leave Ethan without a good-bye.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Hayley

  Ethan,

  I hate that you know me so well.

  Please realize I don’t take what you told me tonight lightly. Though I know I must leave—for both our sakes—I must tell you that I don’t think of you as weak.

  Ethan, in many ways, you are the strongest man I know.

  You will find someone worth your love. I know you will.

  I hope you find the rest of Noah and Emma’s story. I trust you will get the chest and the oath where they belong, and I look forward to seeing you on the news when you do.

  Thank you, Ethan. No regrets, okay?

  Hayley

  When I turned on my phone after landing in San Diego, a voice message notification popped up. As the plane taxied, I listened to the excited voice on the other end.

  “Hi, Hayley, it’s Jed. I have some news. Give me a call when you can. Bye.”

  I tried not to let the call affect me. I’d left all this behind, again. But I couldn’t ditch the niggling idea that Jed had found what I’d been hoping to find—that which I tried to cast off as unimportant but could not release.

  I’d spent the plane ride planning my last few days of training before BUD/S, reciting the SEAL code, trying to block out images of Ethan knocking on the door of my Revere apartment, of him finally entering, perhaps knowing what he’d find, of him seeing the empty apartment save for the tea chest, of him reading my note.

  No regrets, okay?

  It sounded so good at the time. So light and airy and Here’s looking at you, kiddish.

  Now, thinking about Ethan reading it, it fell flat—false and inauthentic.

  I’d left him again, managed to convince myself it was what was better for him. But really, I wondered if it wasn’t just better for me.

  And maybe not even better. Maybe only safer. That would explain why what I considered a strong decision had made me feel so awful and so very weak.

  As soon as I gathered my duffel bag and made my way down the Jetway, I found an out-of-the-way spot near a large window. Outside, the nose of a plane pointed at me. I had absolutely nowhere I needed to be. I still had three days before I needed to report to Coronado. I would use those days to continue my training, to mentally prepare myself for all that was ahead.

  I bit my lip a little too hard as I scrolled to Jed’s profile and hit the Call button. He picked up on the second ring.

  “Hayley, I’ve been waiting for your call. I have some exciting news.”

  I looked at my phone. Twelve o’clock. Three o’clock Eastern time. Had Ethan kept his appointment with Gerald?

  “I’m sorry. I ended up taking a flight out of Boston this morning.”

  “Oh? Are you coming back soon?”

  “I don’t think so. I have to report for duty in a few days.”

  “I was hoping to show you all the work I did on your family tree.” The disappointment in his voice was apparent, and once again I questioned my impulsive decision.

  “I’m so sorry, Jed.” He’d obviously worked hard. I’d been so eager to get away from Ethan and his words that I hadn’t thought how my actions might affect anyone else, including Jed.

  Briefly, I thought of Lena and her offer to go for ice cream. She’d been the one to abandon me, to not be the mother I needed. When I was eighteen, I used that as an excuse to believe it was okay to leave her. Now, realizing how disappointed she’d likely be to find me gone so quickly, I couldn’t help but feel low. Real low.

  “Well, I could tell you now, send you the information via e-mail. Does that work?”

  “Yes—yes, thank you. And tell me how much I owe you, too. I appreciate all the time you’ve taken on this.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. It’s my pleasure. Besides, after what I discovered, I can say we’re family.”

  His words sank in. All they meant, all they implied.

  Family.

  The word had certainly never given me warm fuzzies before, but when Jed said it, my mind raced to the tea chest, to Ethan, to a woman I barely knew and her small son, to the kind man on the other end of the phone who went through so much trouble to help me. To Uncle Joe bringing me out of Massachusetts for the first time to glimpse a beautiful bell that symbolized liberty. To Noah and Emma, their struggle and tussle with their own relationship, with their fight for the colonies’ freedom.

  “You mean . . .”

  “Yes. I was able to trace your great-grandfather, Bradford Ashworth, four generations back to Michael Ashworth, the Civil War veteran in the gene
alogy. To Michael Ashworth, Noah Winslow’s great-grandson.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it. I have the proof now. We’re so distantly related I suppose I can barely call us family, but we both can trace our heritage to Noah and Emma Winslow.”

  “That is so . . . amazing. I don’t know what to say.”

  That I had found the chest, that it had led us to the story of Noah and Emma, that I could claim them as part of my legacy . . . it was all too much to take in. I couldn’t wait to tell Uncle Joe.

  And Ethan.

  “I’ll e-mail you my findings and the official family tree. It’s all on ancestry.com now.”

  “Jed, I really don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Are you kidding me? This is the most fun I’ve had in months. Any luck finding anything more about Noah?”

  I filled him in on our discovery at the historical society. “Unfortunately, you’ll have to contact Ethan if you want to know the rest of the story. I can give you his number if you want.”

  “Okay, yeah. I think I would like to give him a call.”

  “I’ll text his number to you.”

  “Great. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Jed. What you’ve done . . . I really can’t thank you enough.”

  And I’d run away with barely a thought to him and all the work he poured into Noah and Emma’s story—in a way, my story.

  We said good-bye and I lowered the phone.

  A little girl skipped to the window before me, pressed her palms flat to the glass, turned to look at a tall woman with long brown hair, and pointed at the plane.

  I thought of Emma, distancing herself from Noah to protect him after Samuel’s blackmail. Then being set free, running away with Noah to Medford, away from her parents.

  Yet had she been running away? Or had she simply chosen a better life for herself? What qualified as running away? Was it the leaving without the good-bye? The sneaking away when no one expected? When someone made a decision to leave and shared their choice with the ones who cared for them, that wasn’t running away. The running away happened when one refused to face one’s problems, one’s feelings.