While the baristas made our drinks, Celia pulled out her phone. “I finally got pictures from the agent I’ve been in contact with,” she said, flipping through before holding the phone out to me. “This is the property that I told you about, the vintage one. It’s in Hyde Park. I guess that’s a good neighborhood for small, idiosyncratic businesses.”
“That might be us,” I said with a straight face, taking the phone. “Unless we started serving coffee.”
“You should serve coffee,” Margot said, planting her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her hands. “Coffee is yummy.”
“When did you drink coffee?” I asked, amazed.
She shrugged. “Harper’s house. I liked it.”
“You’re allowed to like it,” Celia said.
“I don’t think so, no,” I retorted just as the barista called out my black tea latte. Margot’s cocoa and Celia’s americano came up next, and I carried them all back to the table.
“Come look at the rest of the pictures,” Celia said, passing me her phone. “I think they’re perfect.”
Scrolling through, I had to agree. It was a vintage house, one story, with a front porch that we could use for outdoor seating. The inside had old wood floors, like the ones we’d had in San Francisco, and a long bar. “It looks good. Did the agent say what it used to be used for?”
Celia took a sip of her drink. “I think he said ‘hipster tacos.’ ”
“Fair enough. And it’s still available?”
“It is. I thought we could go take a look the day after we arrive.”
I handed the phone back to Celia. “Let’s do it. Do we have backups though?”
Celia tapped at her phone again. “We do, which is smart, because apparently it’s a tight market right now. Not a lot of new things are coming up.”
I looked through the other options. They weren’t as flat-out charming but could be serviceable. “What’s the foot traffic like in these areas?”
“The first is best, apparently, but the downtown one is good. Not sure about the last.”
Foot traffic was essential for us. Aside from the die-hard tea enthusiasts who used search engines to find us, most of our customers were lured in with charm and pastries. Some were pre-existing tea drinkers; others we turned to the dark side.
“I think they look good,” I said. “The sooner we get into something new, the better.”
“Agreed.” Celia tucked her phone away, and we sat and enjoyed our drinks and the feeling of not being cooped up in a vehicle.
I drove the last leg of the trip, and by then we were all feeling rough around the edges and deeply, desperately tired.
For the last hour, I’d been driving through a steady stream of Texas rain. Texas rain, I had figured out within minutes, did not mess around. Celia had finally fallen asleep, and not even the rain’s racket could rouse her. Margot had been watching YouTube videos on her phone ever since we’d returned to cell service.
At least I-35 was straight and flat. Trying to negotiate such weather in the San Francisco hills would have ended all of us.
Just straight. Straight ahead, I told myself. We were still in the hinterlands, only a few miles out of town near Buda, and soon enough we’d be…well, I’d never been to our cousin Ian’s home, but I liked to think we’d at least be snug and dry.
We’d be fine.
The sudden bang startled me almost as much as the way the truck lurched and then shimmied across the road.
Margot shrieked. Celia sat up with a start. “What happened?”
I clutched the steering wheel hard, not daring to take my eyes off the road, “I don’t know yet,” I said, guiding the truck to the shoulder. I didn’t know, but I had my suspicions.
I climbed out of the truck without my rain jacket, and the rain instantly soaked through my hair and clothes. But I hardly noticed, because what I saw was so much worse.
Margot stayed inside, but Celia followed and together we surveyed the damage. The canopy, with its rusted clamps, had detached and must have struck the hitch in its descent. Now, the trailer lolled against the shoulder twenty feet away, and the fallen canopy lay in the middle of the road.
“No!” I shouted, my words drowned out by the heavy downpour. “No, no, no! How are we going to fix that?” I turned to look at my plants; two of the planters had tipped and all of them were being pelted with heavy rain. “My plants!”
Through the closure and the moving, I’d held it together. But right now, with the darkness and the rain and my plants under water siege, I felt tears of panic escape my eyes and mix with the rain.
A white Toyota Tundra honked as it passed, but rather than speeding forward, it pulled over to the shoulder, several feet away from the truck. A tall male stranger emerged from the cab and strode toward us. He called out, and I shook my head as his words disappeared in the wind and rain.
Without waiting for an answer, he walked straight toward the canopy and pulled it from the freeway to the safety of the shoulder. He released it before approaching us.
My breath caught as I took him in.
He was even taller than I’d thought. He wore jeans, a plaid shirt, and a Stetson that sent raindrops flying. The face beneath the hat? Not an ordinary face. It was the kind of face usually spotted on stages and screens.
He was beautiful, he was here, and he wanted to help.
“I’m Sean,” he said, striding close enough for me to hear. “Sean Willis. Where are you headed?”
Celia introduced us, explaining that we were on our way to our cousin’s when the canopy had given way.
“I can hook your trailer up to my truck, no problem,” he said.
I cast a worried glance at my camellia plants. It was one thing for them to be rained on. It was another thing for them to be rained on at freeway speeds.
Sean read my gaze and nodded at the plants. “Those were under the canopy?”
“They were. They’re…they’re a bit delicate.”
He nodded, no trace of condescension in the gesture. “I’ve got a tarp; I’ll see what I can do. We’ll have to come back for the canopy.”
The tarp came first, whether by accident or because of a sensitivity to my plants, I didn’t know. But we tied it on, and then he backed his truck up to secure it to the trailer.
Once both vehicles had been settled—Sean’s glossy white truck hitched to our shabby moving trailer, my elderly truck topped with a cerulean blue tarp—Sean tossed me his truck keys.
“That tarp is going to give it extra wind resistance. You take my truck; I’ll follow you.”
I stared down at the keys and then back at him, this man I’d just met with the most extraordinary blue eyes.
It wasn’t fair. Because he looked really, really good, and I knew that between the stress and the rain, I looked somewhere between half-crazy and three-quarters drowned.
“My sister’s in the back of ours; I’ll have to get her. You trust me with your truck?” I asked, squinting up at him.
He winked. “You trust me with yours?”
Thinking about the truck’s touchy clutch and the ignition that required a mix of affection and persistence to start, I raised an eyebrow. “That’s a good point,” I said, nodding toward my vehicle. “You may not be able to handle it.”
“I’m not worried,” he said dryly.
I wrangled Margot and her backpack out of the backseat, explaining in as few words as possible about the plants and the truck and the guy who was loaning us his truck to get the rest of the way to Austin.
Sean waved at her as she climbed in, and her eyes widened as she took in his face. “I know,” I told her as she climbed into the back of the cab. “He’s very pretty.”
Celia gave him Cousin Ian’s address, and our strange caravan was ready, with Sean in our truck and the three of us in his. I started the ignition, enjoying the quick response and subtle growl of the engine. And then I checked the rearview mirror, waiting on Sean.
“Spying on him?” Celi
a asked.
“Waiting to see if he can start the truck,” I answered, but by the time I finished speaking, the vehicle had already begun to creep forward. I sighed. “I guess he really is that handy.”
Celia cut a glance at me. “He seems very helpful.”
“Really hot, you mean,” Margot offered.
I pulled out onto the road, my face flushed and my heart beating fast in my chest. “What was that?” I asked, stealing another glance in the rearview mirror. “I feel like I hardly got a decent look at him, but—”
“Feeling better about the prospect of Texas, are you?” Celia asked.
“Did you see how he moved the canopy? Like it was nothing.” I shook my head. “And this truck? Drives like a dream.”
Celia called ahead to Cousin Ian to let them know where we were, and more importantly that we now had an extra vehicle in our party.
“I reached the housekeeper,” she said. “She promised to pass on the message.”
“Did you try his cell number?”
“That was his cell number.”
My eyes widened. “Fair enough.” I checked the rearview mirror again. I couldn’t make out Sean’s face, but the truck was still there, the air whipping the tarp over my plants.
“He’s still following, I take it?” Celia asked. “He hasn’t turned in the opposite direction with your tea plants?”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.” I cautiously changed lanes. “And I could overtake him in this truck if need be.”
Celia wedged her elbow against the door and rested her head against her hand. “I’ve heard Texan men are still chivalrous.” She cast me a glance. “It’ll be interesting to see how this one shakes out.”
5
I shouldn’t think even millionaires could eat anything nicer than new bread and real butter and honey for tea.
—DODIE SMITH
Jane
The lights of the house blazed as we drove down the very long, very circular driveway up the hill from Barton Creek. Without knowing what exactly to do or where to go, I pulled the truck and trailer in front of the house.
“Ohh!” Margot exclaimed as she took it in. “That’s the biggest house I’ve ever seen!”
“I feel we ought to go looking for the servant’s entrance,” I said as I slid the gearshift into park. I removed the keys and patted the dash. “You’re a good rig,” I told the truck as I unbuckled my seat belt.
“It has been nice,” Celia said, looking around. “The rain’s stopped too. Things are looking up.”
Sean pulled my own truck along a short distance away.
I climbed down from the tall seat in time to see a giant of a man open the front door and step outside.
“Welcome!” he crowed, his long arms outstretched. “Welcome, welcome to Austin. I’m Ian—I know it’s been a long time.” He pointed to Margot. “You were this high when we met. Come on inside. We were just fixin’ to eat dessert.”
“Dessert?” Margot chirped, clambering quickly from the truck.
We exchanged hugs awkwardly, at least I did. Celia’s the sort of person capable of being reunited with a relation we’d met once, in the nineties, and handling it with an easy grace.
Naturally, I let her go first.
“This is my wife, Mariah,” Ian said. “And my mother-in-law, Nina.”
Mariah nodded toward Sean’s truck. “Very nice,” she said.
I gave it a rueful glance. “It is. It’s not mine; it’s Mr. Willis’s,” I said, finding myself unable to call him by his first name in front of my relatives.
“Mr. Willis was kind enough to loan us his truck,” Celia elaborated. “Jane’s truck is the one with the tarp.”
“Tarp,” Mariah repeated woodenly.
“To protect my tea plants,” I added, though I didn’t imagine it would make any difference. Mariah, I supposed, had visions of rusted cars covered in bright blue tarps behind her eyes and the sound of neighborhood sighs in her ears.
I shot a glance at Celia. Mariah probably would have also preferred if we’d entered around the back. At least we’d met her halfway, arriving under cover of darkness.
“What an adventure you’ve had,” said Nina, and I could tell from her tone she meant it. “Rescued on the road by a stranger…”
At that moment, Mr. Sean Willis ambled toward the group and tipped his hat. “Evening, folks,” he said before introducing himself.
Ian shook his hand heartily. Mariah stopped frowning at the tarp, her features settling into a more welcome expression.
Nina fanned herself.
“Come in!” Ian insisted, having never released Sean’s hand. “There’s dessert on, and my housekeeper makes a cup of coffee that will warm you straight through.”
“Not tonight,” he said. “I need to get back. I’m staying with my aunt,” he continued, “less than a mile from here.”
I turned to him in surprise. “Are you really?”
He grinned at me. “Hello, neighbor.”
“Huh.”
His eyes twinkled. Literally—they were twinkling away, and I couldn’t string two words together.
Ian led us all to the casita, which stood about two hundred feet from the house itself. He rode with Sean in Sean’s truck while I drove behind, happy to be reunited with my plants.
The casita wasn’t charming, not exactly. It had been built sometime in the nineties; the materials were not shabby but dated. Tile, oak, striped wallpaper with a sunflower border along the ceiling.
I hated it on sight.
Its saving grace was a good view of the grounds and a patio with a brazier. “Plant what you like wherever you like,” Ian told us as Sean untied the tarp. “Make it your own; we’re very glad you’re here. Your mother was a good woman.” His eyes grew misty. “My favorite cousin, always kind, easy to talk to. And your father…” He paused. “Your father had a dog I liked.”
I nodded. “You’re very kind,” I told him.
“You’re Rebecca’s daughters; you’ll always have a home here.” He put his hands on his hips and turned to Sean. “You must come back. Join us for dinner tomorrow? Or Friday? Anytime. It’s the least I can do,” Ian insisted. “Rescuing my cousins. And you’re a neighbor after all.”
Sean’s gaze twinkled at me before returning to Ian. “Yes, sir. I’ll come for dinner Friday.”
Celia shot me a wide-eyed look. I didn’t respond, on account of having a severe case of the heart flutters.
Satisfied, Ian gave him instructions on a back lane to the main road, and we thanked him heartily before he drove away.
“Good man, that one,” he said. “And he has a good hat. You can tell a lot about a man by the hat he wears.”
I could only nod.
Celia and I begged off dessert, much to Margot’s chagrin, citing extreme exhaustion and residual dampness. But Ian could only be dissuaded so far, and we found ourselves agreeing to brunch the following morning.
Ian helped us carry our bags in, taking them upstairs as if they weighed nothing. The guesthouse was smaller than our apartment in San Francisco, dispelling the notion that everything might truly be larger in Texas. There wasn’t a bedroom as much as there was a bedroom loft.
“Umm…,” Margot said as she took in the sleeping situation.
I wanted to chime in with her, but being one of the grown-ups, I made up my mind not to utter any of the snarky comments that had immediately sprung to mind.
The bedroom featured a twin-sized bunk bed on one side and a queen-sized bed with another twin bed lofted above it.
“I’ll fight you for the top bunk, Margot,” I told her, knowing she’d likely want the lower bunk anyway.
I sighed on the inside. Twenty-six-years-old and sleeping on a rickety-looking bunk bed. I hadn’t slept in a bunk bed since summer camp. But my sacrifice was rewarded by a slightly less sullen Margot, who clambered up to the loft and tossed her backpack onto the lower bunk. “I can take the bottom one,” she said, sounding at peace.
Crisis averted.
The loft hung over the sitting room and looked out over the kitchenette. Thankfully, the bathroom featured a large enough counter that we had a fighting chance at fitting our various toiletry items on it, if we were judicious about space.
“Mariah doesn’t use this place,” Ian said, surveying the space with his hands on his hips. “But it’s clean and the A/C will go to near subarctic in minutes. There’s wood outside if you’d like a fire, and,” he continued conspiratorially, “marshmallows in the cabinet that I hid from the wife. Now, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call the house.” He pointed at the corded telephone that hung on the wall next to the refrigerator. “Pilar will have it for you in a jiffy.”
We thanked him and waved good-bye; Celia sank into a chair and took everything in.
“It’ll do,” she said, looking at me.
“Until we find a place of our own, I suppose.”
Celia laughed under her breath, and I narrowed my eyes. “What?”
“We’ve just driven across country, and I can tell you’re itching to get back to your teas.”
“I’m Mary Lennox, I guess—just give me a bit of earth for a garden.” I sat down next to her and wrapped my arms around my knees. “I wonder if there’s a piano at the big house that Mariah would let me play.” I looked up at Margot, still perched at the edge of the loft. “Do you think that rail will do for a bar?”
Margot shoved against it experimentally before taking it and stretching her leg out into a grand battement. “It’ll do.”
“Maybe you need to make Mariah a cup of tea,” Celia suggested, “in exchange for using the piano.”
“Mmm…chamomile for calm, lemon balm for clarity. Just a touch of honey.”
“There you go.” She yawned. “I don’t think I need any chamomile to sleep, not tonight.”
“You take the big bed,” I told her as we climbed the stairs. “I’ll take the bunk above Margot.”
“Are you sure?”
I gave a small grunt. “Just take the bed before I change my mind.”
Jane of Austin Page 5