“You’re looking for a big place, or little?”
“Little, but with enough kitchen for Jane. She needs space to be creative.”
“What about you?”
She smiled. “I like the people. I’m fine as long as we have customers.”
“I hope you find something soon.”
“Thanks,” she said, a smile spreading across her face as if the thought of that hope made her happier. “Me too. I feel like if we got back to life as it used to be—or something closer to it—things might go back to normal.”
I smiled and said something in agreement before seeing her inside. But as I walked away, I questioned the possibility of it.
16
The proper, wise balancing of one’s whole life may depend upon the feasibility of a cup of tea at an unusual hour.
—ARNOLD BENNETT
Jane
The traces of the dream clung as morning light filtered through my eyelids. Macarons. Chamomile and honey-flavored macarons. They came to me in a dream, the way some inspirations snuck in.
I woke and reached for the tiny notepad I kept on the windowsill beside my bed. Times like this, I missed having an actual nightstand. Using the windowsill felt like being back at summer camp. It was fine in the short term, but at a certain point I felt that perhaps I’d aged out of the summer-camp and bunk-bed lifestyle.
Chamomile honey macaron, orange blossom center?
I squinted at my writing. If I could read it even ten minutes from now, I’d be a very lucky woman.
Speaking of being lucky, I checked my phone and found a morning text from Sean.
He was amazing. Without a doubt, amazing.
These days, I spent very little time at home. Didn’t want to, not really. Cooking at the guesthouse wasn’t ideal; the oven ran hot, the stove only had two burners. And the dishwasher—which I was grateful for—was only half size, so if I were to do any large-scale work, I’d find myself washing the larger cookware in the bathtub.
But Sean’s place?
Huge kitchen, Carrara marble countertops, oak cabinetry. It was comfortably worn-in. A real-estate agent might have advised an update, but I thought the scarred and stained counters and cabinetry gave the space character.
Sean’s aunt was traveling again. I hadn’t met her yet; she’d come and gone the weekend after I’d visited, this time on a trip to northern Italy. The way Sean had described her, I’d envisioned an older, more white-haired version of the woman whose portrait graced the mantelpiece, an elegant creature standing next to a dignified, mustachioed man.
But the way she traveled, I figured I had to have gotten it at least a little wrong.
Sean cared for the estate in her absence, tending to the lawn, planting bulbs, trimming back trees and hedges while they were dormant. While he worked outside, I filled orders and tested recipes, coming up with new scone mixes to offer our customers, dreaming up new tea blends. Periodically, Chad would e-mail a restaurant space, and Celia and I would discuss over text if it was worth driving by. More often than not, the answer was a disappointing no.
But at the end of the day, Sean and I would drive to the post office together, and I’d send out the day’s orders.
It was cozy and unexpectedly domestic, and I loved it.
Today, a tinge of anxiety curled in my stomach as I got ready for the day. For the first time, Sean was taking me to a concert. I’d met a couple of his band mates in passing, but tonight was the first night I’d be presented at an event as the girlfriend.
That wasn’t for hours yet though. Sean and I had plans for the day, me puttering around his kitchen while he practiced. He kissed me when I arrived and quickly took the stand mixer from my arms.
“I don’t mind carrying it,” I told him, smiling.
“I mind you carrying it,” he said, setting it onto the kitchen counter.
I knew better than to argue. I set up my workstation and went to work cracking eggs, weighing out almond flour, and milling dried chamomile buds into a fine powder.
Sean perched on the barstool with his guitar, playing riffs and experimenting with different interpretations of songs, sometimes playing the same chorus over and over until he decided just how he wanted to do the instrumentation, where to put the pauses, where to build.
There were a few covers, reinterpreted takes on David Bowie and Aerosmith. But most of his songs were originals, ones he’d written by himself or with his friend Todd. They were good. When they played South by Southwest, I had no doubts they’d be a smash.
Soon enough, I piped out the macarons and placed them in the oven.
“Are you bringing those tonight?” he asked, plucking out a chord to accent his words. “For the band?”
I shrugged. “Hadn’t thought about it. Would they even like them?”
“They’re sweet, aren’t they?”
“Well, sure, but if all they want is something sweet, they can go out and buy a doughnut. These are special.”
“Don’t you make food for people?”
“Yeah. People who like macarons. And things with tea in them.”
He laughed. “So I can’t have any?”
“You can,” I said. “If you ask nicely. And have a documented history of liking macarons.”
“I’m not sure about the documentation, but”—Sean gave a slow smile as he leaned closer—“what if I go straight to asking nicely?”
“Do you know how easy it is to ruin macarons? You’ll have to make it really nice.”
He closed the distance in the space of a heartbeat, likely less, his body pressing against mine, his lips persuasive.
“You don’t even like chamomile tea,” I murmured.
“Chamomile?” He took an instant step back, eyes crinkled at the corners. “Never mind.”
“Very funny.” I tugged him back, pressing a kiss to his lips, feeling the thrill of getting to touch him, to be near him.
“How did it work in San Francisco? With you baking for the customers? Did you give them a quiz before deciding if they could order?”
“If only I’d thought of that,” I said, ruefully. “No, Celia and I were a team. She gave me some ideas—I’d do a daily scone, a daily tartlet, a daily macaron, that sort of thing. But I could change up the flavors. And if we had a particular hit—we could barely keep the toffee-nut chai scones in the case—she’d help me keep up with the demand. To this day, I can bake them with my eyes closed.”
“Would you bake some for me?”
“Do you have toffee?”
His eyes shifted across the kitchen. “I have sugar and butter. You could make it.”
“I’m not making toffee to break and put into scones,” I retorted dryly. “Not today.”
“There’s a grocery store down the way.”
“I thought you had music to practice.”
“I do. I think I’m hungry.”
I rolled my eyes and pressed a kiss to his chin. “Eat some lunch, then.”
After time and soul searching, I agreed to take a small Tupperware of the macarons to share with Sean’s band mates. I did want to make a good impression, after all. And the macarons had turned out really well. So well that someone else ought to eat them.
It was a little bit of an “If you make the perfect macaron but no one else tastes it, did it really happen?” sort of situation.
Going to music clubs wasn’t my scene in San Francisco. I’d been too busy in the kitchen of Valencia Street Tea. So I dressed for the day in jeans and a black top and simply lined my eyes with extra eyeliner before we left.
Sean’s band was playing at the Lucky Lounge, a long, narrow place with the stage at the far end. There was a giant yellow light—thing? I couldn’t tell what it was, not from my vantage point. It looked like a benevolent, branded moon shining from behind the performers on the stage.
Sean disappeared into the back. I found a barstool, ordered a ginger ale with a twist of lime, and told the bartender to keep them coming. He thought I was hilar
ious but obliged and accepted a macaron from the Tupperware.
“That is good,” he declared. “Your next drink is on the house.”
“Thanks,” I said, glad to have my own suspicions confirmed.
“You should be selling ’em.”
I nodded. “That’s the plan. My sister and I will be opening a tea shop. These will be on the menu, I think.”
“Tea shop,” he said, nodding in consideration as he pulled a pint for another customer. “I’d go to a tea shop for that.”
A glimmer of hope curled in my chest, that we’d have willing customers in Austin. “I’ll let you know when we open.”
He refilled my glass, but the conversation ended when the band began to play. They launched into the first song, a cover to get the crowd going. And it worked—the crowd sang along. After that came a catchy original with an easy, infectious hook, followed by a song with angrier overtones and a driving downbeat.
They worked through their ten-song set efficiently, Sean pausing to introduce the band. They closed with another cover, then unplugged and dismantled with record speed. Made me think of That Thing You Do and Tom Hanks’s character’s advice to run while the crowd still liked them.
Sean came and found me moments later, after the manager cranked up Radiohead over the speakers. I hollered and wrapped my hands around his torso, damp from sweat and sound. “You were amazing!”
He bent low to give me a possessive, celebratory kiss before slinging a sweaty arm around my shoulders. “Guys, you remember Jane,” he told the guys behind him, guys my eyes only just became able to focus on.
I nodded a hello, and they nodded in return, the ones closest to me proffering hands. I asked if they were hungry, holding out the macarons.
The guys nearest me each took one, politely, then nibbled at them like they might detonate.
I tried not to feel the pang of rejection; after all, Sean had encouraged me to bring them. I could very well have taken them back to Celia and Margot. Nina probably would have polished off a plate of them without blinking.
Oh well. Maybe homemade pretzels next time? I didn’t know. The music-club scene clearly wasn’t my world. I knew my way around a concert hall, but this?
One of the men drank his pint in one go.
Nope. Not my world.
I reached to snap the lid back onto the storage container.
“I’ll take another,” the bartender said. “If you’re offering.”
“Sure,” I called back, over the music.
The bartender grinned, saluting me with the cookie before downing it in a single bite.
At least somebody liked them.
Sean and I returned to the guesthouse late, after swinging back by his home to pick up the kitchen equipment I’d left behind. He groaned, carrying it out. “This mixer is so heavy,” he complained. “Are you sure you don’t want to leave it here? There’s room in the kitchen—for you and the mixer.”
“I don’t want Celia to worry,” I said, recalling the argument we’d had the previous week. “If you’re too tired, I can call a rideshare.”
“Of course you don’t need to call for a car,” he said, pressing a kiss to my temple. “I’m happy to drive you.”
We drove to the house. Almost all the lights on the property were extinguished for the night. “Thanks for coming tonight,” Sean said as he walked me to the door. “Means a lot to me.”
“You were great,” I said truthfully. “I had a good time.”
The second statement was, perhaps, a hair less truthful.
I caught a movement from the corner of my eye. There, by the pool. A figure in the dark.
For a moment, I wondered if there was an intruder on the property. But as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I noticed that one of the intruder’s legs didn’t meet the ground. A split second later, I heard a splash.
Sean turned his head in the direction of the pool. “What was that?”
“Something must have fallen into the pool,” I hedged. “Like a bird,” I added. “We used to get ducks in our water feature, in California.”
“Huh.” He leaned in for a good-night kiss, which distracted me until he pulled away. “See you tomorrow?”
“I’ll text you,” I answered. “Good night.”
“Good night, Jane.” He lifted a hand in a wave.
I reached for the casita door, looking over my shoulder—first at Sean’s departing truck, second at the Vandermeides’ swimming pool.
Did Callum often swim at night? I knew instinctively that it wouldn’t be too cold for him, not really. But somehow just as instinctively, I’d decided to hide it from Sean.
Why was that?
In the chill night air, I could hear rhythmic splashes. Swimming.
Callum was fine. His night swims were his own business.
And still…
I stepped inside my house to put the kettle on.
17
Texas is a great state. It’s the “Old Man River” of states. No matter who runs it, or what happens to it politically, it just keeps rolling along!
—WILL ROGERS
Callum
One more lap.
One more.
One more.
One. More.
My arms slashed at the water as I fought to wash away the traces of the nightmare. My muscles burned as my arms fought to maintain a straight line, even as my body wanted to veer to the left.
This nightmare had the distinction of being new. The explosion itself remained the same, with a vicious twist—compliments of my mind. It was bad enough remembering the explosion, seeing Reggie’s face but being too far to help. In the newest version of the dream?
I saw Jane.
I saw her sisters too and Ian with his family. They were there, and I saw them be torn apart.
I woke up with my heart beating hard in my chest, skin slick with sweat. I didn’t even have to think about whether or not to go for a swim. There was no way I’d be sleeping for the rest of the night.
Since I started swimming again, I’d worked my way up to five straight laps across the pool. Tonight? I’d lost count. I simply swam until I was tired enough for the nightmare’s horrific images to lose their grip.
In my mind, I could hear my instructors shouting at me, pushing me forward, yelling insults. Finally, I reached the end for the umpteenth time, grasped the rails and launched myself out.
I just made it to one of Mariah’s nearby hedges before vomiting. My head swam and my vision narrowed, and I used all of my reserves to stay upright. Minutes passed; I didn't know how many. I concentrated on my breathing and waited for the world to stop spinning.
So when I saw a figure approach, a figure that looked like Jane, I thought my mind might be playing a trick on me. I squeezed my eyes shut in hopes that it might be; the last thing I wanted was Jane Woodward watching me lose dinner and dessert. I’d have to remember to take a pitcher of water out here before anyone rose, to drown out the evidence.
“I brought some tea for you,” came a cautious voice, and I knew then it wasn’t a figment of my imagination.
“Thanks,” I croaked.
“I think you pushed yourself too hard, there. In the pool.”
“Probably.”
“I brought you my sleep blend. Chamomile, valerian root, bit of orange peel.” She thrust the mug into my field of vision. “Rinse your mouth out, if you like.”
I straightened carefully, using a trimmed topiary for balance. I took the travel mug without meeting her eyes, sipped, swished, and spat. After a deep breath, I took a sip and swallowed it that time.
It tasted…good. Soothing.
Another sip; I felt its warmth deep inside.
“Do you need anything?” she asked. “Did you bring a towel?”
“I— Yeah. I’m sorry.” I felt my face flush with deep embarrassment. Here I was, balanced against Ian’s landscaping, my scarred stump covered only by the dark of night. My towel and prosthetic waited on the patio chaise, seven
feet away. To get it myself, I’d have to do the Amputee Hop in front of Jane. My cheeks and pride burned at the thought.
“My towel,” I said, pointing. “And…my prosthetic, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” she said, returning a second later with both items. “You’ve got to be freezing.”
I took the prosthetic first, using practiced motions to fit it over my stump. The towel, I wrapped around myself more for modesty than for warmth. “I don’t register cold, not like I used to. You work as many missions as I have, cold becomes less of a problem.”
“I could ask,” she said. “But I don’t imagine you could tell me much.”
“Not much.” I took another gulp of tea. “This is good.”
“Is your cane outside? Do you need me to get that too?”
“No, it’s okay. It’s upstairs. I’m trying to use it less.” Though tonight, I wished I had it. But I could make it inside, where I could use the walls for stability.
“Okay.” She crossed her arms and looked away. “I was just getting home,” she said, “and saw you were out. Thought you might need a cup of something.”
“It’s really good. Your blend?”
“My blend. It’s one of the mixes I sell online.”
I took another drink. “I normally don’t drink tea,” I said. “Other than sweet tea.”
“That’s not tea,” she said dryly. “Not really.”
“This is good,” I said again, taking another swig. “You’ve got it online? I’ll have to order some.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll make up an eight-ounce bag for you tomorrow. You get the neighbor discount.” She looked at the pool and then back at me. “So…do you swim out here often? At night?”
“Most nights,” I admitted.
“Concerned about skin damage?”
I chuckled, the sensation both unfamiliar and welcome. “I don’t sleep well. Not since I got back.”
“I see.”
In the moment to come, I expected her to say something about having a tea for that, or a pill, or some sort of fix. Instead, she shrugged.
“It’s a good thing you don’t get cold,” she said. And that was all. “I should probably go. It’s late. Went to see Sean’s band tonight.”
Jane of Austin Page 14