the mad and terrified look in her eyes, I shiver and know something very bad has happened. Something that money can’t fix.
As it turns out, I’m half-right.
Chapter Two
I finish brewing two citrus green teas for an older couple with a baby in one of those strange new strollers, when the door flies open and my sister enters her shop, Steeped. I almost don’t recognize her. From my view behind the counter, Natasha’s blood-red pashmina flutters behind her like a demon’s wings. Natasha’s trips to Tennessee to visit her ex-boyfriend, Emmett, never turn out well for any of us, but this expression frozen on her face, this level of anguish, is new.
The door swings shut with a sweet little tinkle as the silver bell dances on its string. So an entrance fit for slamming doors and a gong of doom makes do with the calm, Zen-like atmosphere of the shop. Natasha spares a quick glance around, her pale eyes taking in the merchandise on the shelves, the sweptfloors, the inviting groupings of chairs and small tables. For all her drama and unpredictability, Natasha is a fine and responsible business owner. But she’s off her game. As she comes toward me, she brushes by the couple heading out with their drinks. They give her a funny look and exchange glances the way you do when you pass a crazy person; then they hurry out of the shop as if to get their baby away from danger. I gaze after them, wishing I could follow.
Natasha lifts the partition and steps behind the counter, the air around her oddly dark and heavy. Natasha is often intense, charming when it suits her, horrid when it doesn’t. But whatever her mood is, it usually makes sense. This doesn’t. There’s something unreadable in her face. As she steps near me, I wrinkle my nose. Even the way she smells is off.
“Tasha,” I say. “You okay?”
She ignores the question.
“Shop’s been good?” she asks, her voice oddly raspy and subdued. She’s been gone nearly two weeks, the longest she’s been away since she opened the store almost five years ago.
“Yeah.” I nod cautiously. “Pretty typical.” When Natasha makes an impatient little motion for me to go on, I add, “There’s a knitting group that wants to host their monthly meetings here. Thursday evenings. I said it was probably fine, but that I’d check with you.”
She has a manager for the shop, a creep named John Parker, but she likes me to keep an eye on it while she’s gone. I don’t let Natasha pay me, though she’s offered more than once. I like feeling like the shop is my second home, and you can’t clock inand out for pay in your second home. You can, however, help yourself to tea and blueberry scones.
Natasha’s annual buying trips usually finish with a visit to her ex in Tennessee, an old high school boyfriend and the only guy she’s ever been in love with. After they broke up, she lent him the money to open his tattoo shop. Anyone else and it would be sweet, friendship after romance. Cynically, I saw it as less of a generous gesture than an iron-proof way to force him to answer to her. She wasn’t visiting Emmett because her feelings mellowed into friendship. She went there for the same reason she lent him money in the first place, because she’s never given up on getting him back.
As she makes her way around the counter, I expect her to brew up a pot of gunpowder tea and then go over the books, or review inventory, see what’s running low and needs reordering. After she’s gone, foul mood or no, she always wants to know every last detail of what she missed while she was gone.
Instead, she says, “Thanks, Leni,” and then keeps going, through the beaded curtain to her small office in the back. Before I can ask how her trip was and figure out what’s wrong, she shuts the door behind her with a firm click.
The air-conditioning kicks on and a cool breeze blows across my neck, making me squirm.
Half an hour later the office door’s still closed. I press my ear against
As it turns out, I’m half-right.
Chapter Two
I finish brewing two citrus green teas for an older couple with a baby in one of those strange new strollers, when the door flies open and my sister enters her shop, Steeped. I almost don’t recognize her. From my view behind the counter, Natasha’s blood-red pashmina flutters behind her like a demon’s wings. Natasha’s trips to Tennessee to visit her ex-boyfriend, Emmett, never turn out well for any of us, but this expression frozen on her face, this level of anguish, is new.
The door swings shut with a sweet little tinkle as the silver bell dances on its string. So an entrance fit for slamming doors and a gong of doom makes do with the calm, Zen-like atmosphere of the shop. Natasha spares a quick glance around, her pale eyes taking in the merchandise on the shelves, the sweptfloors, the inviting groupings of chairs and small tables. For all her drama and unpredictability, Natasha is a fine and responsible business owner. But she’s off her game. As she comes toward me, she brushes by the couple heading out with their drinks. They give her a funny look and exchange glances the way you do when you pass a crazy person; then they hurry out of the shop as if to get their baby away from danger. I gaze after them, wishing I could follow.
Natasha lifts the partition and steps behind the counter, the air around her oddly dark and heavy. Natasha is often intense, charming when it suits her, horrid when it doesn’t. But whatever her mood is, it usually makes sense. This doesn’t. There’s something unreadable in her face. As she steps near me, I wrinkle my nose. Even the way she smells is off.
“Tasha,” I say. “You okay?”
She ignores the question.
“Shop’s been good?” she asks, her voice oddly raspy and subdued. She’s been gone nearly two weeks, the longest she’s been away since she opened the store almost five years ago.
“Yeah.” I nod cautiously. “Pretty typical.” When Natasha makes an impatient little motion for me to go on, I add, “There’s a knitting group that wants to host their monthly meetings here. Thursday evenings. I said it was probably fine, but that I’d check with you.”
She has a manager for the shop, a creep named John Parker, but she likes me to keep an eye on it while she’s gone. I don’t let Natasha pay me, though she’s offered more than once. I like feeling like the shop is my second home, and you can’t clock inand out for pay in your second home. You can, however, help yourself to tea and blueberry scones.
Natasha’s annual buying trips usually finish with a visit to her ex in Tennessee, an old high school boyfriend and the only guy she’s ever been in love with. After they broke up, she lent him the money to open his tattoo shop. Anyone else and it would be sweet, friendship after romance. Cynically, I saw it as less of a generous gesture than an iron-proof way to force him to answer to her. She wasn’t visiting Emmett because her feelings mellowed into friendship. She went there for the same reason she lent him money in the first place, because she’s never given up on getting him back.
As she makes her way around the counter, I expect her to brew up a pot of gunpowder tea and then go over the books, or review inventory, see what’s running low and needs reordering. After she’s gone, foul mood or no, she always wants to know every last detail of what she missed while she was gone.
Instead, she says, “Thanks, Leni,” and then keeps going, through the beaded curtain to her small office in the back. Before I can ask how her trip was and figure out what’s wrong, she shuts the door behind her with a firm click.
The air-conditioning kicks on and a cool breeze blows across my neck, making me squirm.
Half an hour later the office door’s still closed. I press my ear against
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