by Nina Lane
He takes another sip. “Only a tea connoisseur would know such details.”
“Do you like it?”
“Sure, but I can’t tell anything about a distinctive flavor.”
“That’s because you haven’t had a chance to compare different kinds of tea. I’ll brew a few varieties next week and see if you can tell the difference.”
“A tea tasting?” He looks dubious.
I grin at him. “Think you can handle it?”
“Sure.” He tilts his head back and drains the cup. “Sounds like a par-tea.”
I laugh, another burst of amusement that surprises me as much as the sudden lightness filling my chest. When was the last time I laughed spontaneously, without thought or worry?
Flynn’s gaze is on me, and while he doesn’t join in the laugh, a genuine warmth infuses his eyes.
“I’ll plan it for next week.” I rise to collect our tea things. “But I’ll tea you here tomorrow?”
He takes his cup to the sink. “I’ll be here, cu—”
His voice cuts off abruptly. He shoves his hands into his pockets and clears his throat.
“Uh, I’ll be here.” He ducks his head and leaves the kitchen.
I gaze at the closed door. I know instinctively what he was about to say. He was about to call me cu-tea.
I turn to the sink, unable to stop smiling.
To my distinct pleasure, Flynn shows up for tea the rest of the week. I even start making him a cup before he arrives in the kitchen, knowing he’ll be there right at two. And he is.
We exchange a few words about the type of tea and where it’s from (Chinese oolong from the Guangdong province, Assam tea from India), but since I don’t want to scare him away, I avoid interrogating him about his likes and dislikes.
Poke a bear too many times with a stick, and he’ll growl and lumber out of the cave. If he doesn’t bite you first.
Like Ghost, I should take a gentler approach to keep Flynn coming back to the kitchen.
Though our morning interactions remain the same, I start to anticipate my weird little teatime with the lighthouse keeper. I’m aware of him more than ever—his lips closing around the rim of the cup, the worn leather watch strap fastened around his wrist, the corded muscles of his arms—but tranquility surrounds our unspoken break in the day. A peace in our togetherness.
It’s an unexpected relief after having spent so much time in the past year fighting for myself. Arguing. Talking. God, the endless talking.
Answering questions. Giving statements. Delivering lectures in the burn of student judgment and barely suppressed laughter. Trying to explain my side of the story to everyone—my friends, the departmental chairperson, the university board, my lawyer, the police, my mother. It had been like talking to wall after wall.
Impenetrable though he is, Flynn isn’t like a wall. He’s a locked door. No wonder shutting doors is his preferred way of exiting a room. But maybe he’s like all other doors and can be opened with one twist of the right key.
On Friday, I bring my crossword puzzle book along with my tea accessories. Flynn arrives, distracting me momentarily by taking off his gray hoodie and tossing it over the back of his chair. He’s wearing a dark green Henley with the buttons unfastened, revealing the strong column of his throat and a tempting V of skin leading down to…
A few drops of boiling water hit my hand. “Ow.”
“What happened?” Flynn is at my side in an instant, closing his fingers around my wrist.
A tremble courses through my body, my pulse ratcheting up.
“Nothing.” Trying to regain my composure, I set the kettle down with a rueful grimace. “Just burned myself a little.”
“Put some cold water on it.” He guides me to the sink and puts my hand under the cold water. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, really.”
But I will quite happily stand here for an hour with you holding my wrist and our bodies almost touching, and did I mention how much I love the warm, squishy feeling you elicit every time I’m close to you?
“Doesn’t look bad.” Flynn studies my hand, his eyebrows drawn together. “Keep your hand under the water. I’ll pour the tea.”
He releases me to pick up the kettle. “Uh, how do I pour it?”
With a smile, I direct him through warming the teapot, adding the right amount of tea, and setting it to steep. After he pours two cups, we sit at the table and settle into our now-usual silence.
I open the crossword book to a puzzle I’ve been working on and pick up a pencil. I feel Flynn studying the puzzle from the other side of the table.
“A witch doctor might be in one.” I read the clue and tap my pencil on the grid. “Five letters, ends with an E.”
“Trance.”
“Accessory on a chain, using the N. Monocle.” I write in the word. “Go pirating, six letters.”
“Maraud.”
We keep going. Auk, stamina, Brecht, allegory. Though it doesn’t qualify as a conversation, the activity diminishes the wall between us a bit more. As we figure out clues, I tuck away the little things I learn about Flynn. The man knows a lot, especially about history, sports, and literature, but he’s not up on pop culture, TV shows, or musicals.
“Pirates of Penzance, for example, eight letters.” I write the word for ten across. “Operetta.”
“What’s an operetta?”
“A short opera, usually with a kind of funny theme.” I glance at him. “You’ve never seen Pirates of Penzance?”
“No, but I know that pirates maraud.” He gives me a smug look.
“Good point. Have you seen any Gilbert and Sullivan? The Mikado? HMS Pinafore?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What about Rodgers and Hammerstein?”
He slowly shakes his head. “No idea.”
“They wrote The Sound of Music. When I was in middle school, we put on a stage production of it. I played one of the von Trapp children. Brigitta. My best friend Margie was Maria von Trapp, and we were always getting in trouble for giggling during rehearsals.”
His eyes crinkle with amusement. “You ever had ambitions for Broadway?”
“Nah, I wasn’t good enough.” A bittersweet memory washes over me. “Uncle Max flew out to see the show, though. He gave me a bouquet of flowers afterward and asked me to autograph his program. I tried out for another show the following year but my mother wouldn’t let me do it.”
“Why not?”
“She wanted me to focus on my grades rather than stuff like theater.” I shrug and close the crossword puzzle book. “Were you ever in a school play?”
He doesn’t respond, but his body goes oddly still. He stares out the window at the grasslands. Regret hits me. I have the sudden sense I said something wrong.
“I was…” His throat works with a swallow. “I was in Peter Pan once. Two of us played the father… can’t remember his name… and Captain Hook. We exchanged roles.”
It’s the most personal thing he’s ever told me. The revelation rolls through me like a polished jewel. I have a sudden image of him as a tow-headed boy, brandishing a hook and a sword while darting around a cafeteria stage.
The picture brings up all the other things that go along with a school play—family, friends, teachers, a hometown. Surely he had all that, once upon a time. Didn’t we all, to varying degrees of happiness?
A shutter descends over his expression, as if he’s sorry he said anything. He scrapes his chair away from the table and stands. “Thanks for the tea.”
And the door closes.
I rise to bring our tea things to the sink. His sweatshirt is crumpled on the floor behind his chair. I bend to pick it up, inhaling the scents of sea salt and fresh air clinging to the soft cotton.
When I hang the shirt over the chair again, my fingers brush against a bump in the front pocket. The size of…
I reach in and pull out the Darjeeling-scented, clay tea pet. For a moment, I look at the laughing pig, which had just be
en nestled deep inside Flynn’s pocket. Kept there like a treasure.
I press my lips to the little pig and tuck it back into the pocket.
As I turn to wash the dishes, a vibration echoes in my blood, the striking of a chord. Like music starting.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I’ve been thinking,” Juliette says over the phone.
So what else is new? I stare up at what looks like a growing water stain on the kitchen ceiling of Ramshackle Manor. There are a thousand other things I’d rather be doing on a Friday evening than talking to Juliette.
“What have you been thinking about, Mother?”
She tsks with impatience. I’d been fourteen, about to be shipped off to boarding school, when Juliette told me to start calling her Juliette instead of Mom. As usual, I’d done as she’d asked. Another sorry attempt to earn her approval.
“You need to go abroad,” she says.
“What?”
“Get out of the States,” she clarifies. “Your poor reputation may precede you, but institutions in other countries might be a bit more willing to forgive your stupidity. More likely, they don’t know about it. So take a low-level job in a Budapest museum or something, give your CV some much-needed cache. An international position will at least be somewhat more impressive than you rattling around small-town Maine.”
I roll my eyes. “And what makes you think I can afford to move to Budapest?”
“Your career is what,” she snaps. “For God’s sake, Eve. I put myself through medical school with scholarships, work, and minimal loans. Don’t tell me you can’t move for the sake of your pathetic career.”
I won’t tell you that. I won’t tell you anything else either. Not about Max’s collection or the lighthouse or Flynn. I have new secrets now, ones I can keep to myself.
“I’ll think about it,” I say instead, ending the call before she can start another rant.
I toss the phone on the kitchen table. Not for the first time, I wonder if I’d have cut her off long ago if she weren’t the only person I have in the world. For a long time, I’d also had Uncle Max, the buffer to Juliette’s harshness, but she’d still been my mother. The one who’d dictated everything I did—schools, lessons, travel. I hadn’t known life without her until I was on my own at eighteen. Even then, she’d cast a long shadow. One I still haven’t escaped.
Wanting to get out of the house, I drive to the Castille Art Museum, which closes at six. Miriam, the education coordinator, is staffing the front desk. She looks up with a smile that wavers when she realizes who just walked in.
Though I’m tempted to be frosty, an attitude won’t get me anywhere. And it isn’t as if I don’t understand why she backed off her initial inquiries into hiring me. Scarlet letter A and all.
“Hello, Miriam.” I stop at the desk. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you for a job.”
She forces her smile wider. “I’m really sorry, Eve. I didn’t intend to lead you on like that.”
“It’s okay, I get it. I’m here because I wanted to find out if your offer of looking through the museum’s storage and archives still stands.”
“Yes, of course.” She rises to her feet and puts a Back in 10 Min sign on the desk. “Come with me. Are you doing specific research, or do you just want to look around?”
“A little of both.”
I follow her down a rickety staircase to a concrete-walled basement. Wooden shelves fill the room, stacked with boxes, trays, and photograph storage cabinets. An adjoining room lined with books is marked with a Library sign.
“Just sign the ledger when you come and go.” Miriam indicates an open book on a table. “You’re welcome to have a look at anything or check out books from the library. I’m sorry, I need to get back to the front desk but I’ll be upstairs if you have any questions.”
“Great, thank you.”
She heads back upstairs, leaving me alone in the quiet of the basement. I familiarize myself with the collection—the historic artifacts of Castille’s past, the drawings, paintings, and sculptures by artists significant to the area. I examine the archives and check the computer for any holdings related to Maria Wood or fairy tales in general, but aside from a local artist’s illustrations for Cinderella, there’s nothing.
Then I look up information on the King family. There are a number of archival photographs and portraits dating back to the beginning of the nineteenth century. A storage box contains dozens of old photographs of William and Allegra King—on their wedding day, attending state functions, outside their home, at town events. William looks familiar, likely because I see his resemblance to his son. There are photos of Jeremy too, as a toddler and a young gap-toothed boy smiling at the camera. Castille’s first family.
I study a formal photo of Allegra, resplendent in a silk gown. Pale skin, dark lipstick, coiffed hair. Has she been happy with William King? Does she know Max loved her until the day he died? Even through her marriage, did she love him in return?
After leaving the museum, I drive to Bird Lane, hoping for some clue as to which house belongs to the Kings. As it turns out, there’s only one house on Bird Lane, a Federal-style brick mansion set at the end of a long, curving drive and surrounded by manicured lawns. Floodlights illuminate the house in the evening darkness.
I park at the foot of the steps and eye the imposing façade. I don’t know what I expect to say to her.
Gripping my handbag, I climb the steps and press the doorbell. Chimes echo from inside. The door opens to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man in a gray suit and tie. In his mid-fifties, he has a thatch of graying hair and a neatly trimmed beard. It’s the man I’d first encountered at the bookstore.
He studies me gravely and says, “Miss, you’re interrupting my reading of Sophocles’ Metamorphosis.”
“Sir, I believe you mean Ovid’s Metamorphosis.”
He frowns. “So you’re here to show me up in my own home, huh?”
I blink with surprise as it occurs to me this must be the legendary William King. I hadn’t recognized him in the museum photos; both his beard and the intervening years have changed his appearance.
“Er… actually, I didn’t realize who you are.”
“Then you must not be from around here.” He polishes his fingernails on his lapel. “I’m somewhat famous.”
“Do people also know you have a somewhat dubious grasp of classic literature?”
“No, and don’t you dare tell them.” He inclines his head in a slight bow. “William King. What can I do for you?”
“Pleasure to meet you. I was wondering if I could see Allegra King.”
A shadow falls across his face, aging him a good ten years. “My wife doesn’t take visitors any longer.”
“Ever?”
“Not since she took ill. Maybe even before that.” His mouth twists with regret, as if he’s remembering a time when Allegra had scores of visitors. “Is there something I can help you with, Miss…?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Eve.” I extend my hand. “Eve Perrin.”
“Eve.” His bushy eyebrows lift as he engulfs my hand in his. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you. You’re the young woman who’s dating my son.”
I smile weakly. “We had dinner once.”
“Jeremy is quite taken with you.” He regards me with more scrutiny. “Your uncle was a longtime resident of Castille, I believe?”
“Yes. Max Dearborne. He was a literature professor at Ford’s.” I swallow a rising sorrow. “Unfortunately, he passed away over a year ago.”
“Oh.” He frowns, as if processing that revelation. “I’m terribly sorry. Is his passing the reason you moved here?”
“Sort of.” It doesn’t sound like he’s heard about my sordid past yet, not that he won’t eventually. “I’m living in his house on Sparrow Lane. I’m also doing some research about a nineteenth-century artist who went by the name Maria Wood. I’d heard that Mrs. King collects Victorian art. I was hoping to find out if she knows anything about this
particular artist.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t help you there.” William steps back and closes the door halfway. “All the art and fancy stuff was my wife’s domain, and she sold her collection years ago.”
“Can I please leave my contact information for her?” I fish in my purse for a pen, catching sight of a door opening at the far end of the foyer.
“I’m sorry, Miss Perrin.” William’s voice firms, and he gives me a curt nod that’s a sudden contrast to his earlier pleasantness. “My wife is unavailable, but thank you for stopping by.”
Just as he closes the door, I glance past him. A slim, dark-haired woman with an air of fragility stands in the doorway at the end of the foyer. I glimpse her navy dress and silk scarf, and then, in that brief instant, our gazes lock.
The front door shuts. Though she was twenty feet away, and the whole interaction happened in less than a second, I swear I saw something in her eyes. Recognition.
Does she know who I am? Has she heard the rumors, or does she know me because of Max?
I walk slowly back to my car, struck by the sense that Allegra King is her own mystery.
“Eve?”
I turn. Jeremy King is coming around the side of the house, his blond hair shining in the floodlights. Consternation rises in me, as if I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
“What are you doing here?” He stops in front of me, his eyebrows drawn together quizzically.
A few mental gymnastics assure me I can tell him the truth without giving anything away about Flynn.
“I wanted to know if I could see your mother,” I explain. “I’m doing some art history research, and I thought I could talk to her about a nineteenth-century artist. But your father said she doesn’t take visitors.”
“No, not since she came back from the hospital.” Jeremy shakes his head sorrowfully. “Long before that, even. She stopped wanting to see people when her heart condition was diagnosed. I think she fell into a depression.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“That’s all right.” He puts his hands into the pockets of his khaki trousers. “So what artist are you researching?”