Steeped in Suspicion

by Eryn Scott

  I stepped aside. When Carl was inside, I closed the door against the chilly wind snapping through the flag on my porch. Carl sank into a chair right next to a picture window and stared out at the waves in silence for a beat before turning his dark brown eyes on me.

  “Saw your mom left this morning.” His voice was rough, like he hadn’t spoken to anyone in a while.

  “Yeah,” I said, unable to keep the sadness I felt from coating every sound.

  “But you’re staying?” His eyes were bright with interest.

  My heart sank. He was only here to see if I was sticking around, probably to try talking me out of reopening the tea shop. I studied my fingers, finding my nail beds easier to inspect than his face. “I am.”

  “Good. I’m glad.”

  Nails forgotten, my attention moved to him, studying for signs of sarcasm. “What?”

  His mouth peeled into a grin. “I am.” He chuckled.

  I leaned closer to him. “And you know that means I’ll reopen the tea shop, right?”

  “I do.”

  Gesturing behind him, I pointed to the driveway. “And customers will come up and down the easement throughout the day.”

  He nodded then held up a hand to stop me. “I’ve been thinking ever since we had our talk that night in my kitchen. I was angry with your grandma. It was never about the tea shop. But if you can forgive her, I think maybe I can too. Or maybe the better lesson here is that I won’t ever understand other people's relationships, and it’s none of my darn business.”

  I swallowed as I took in his words. I hated that it had taken Grandma’s death to make Carl realize he could forgive her. Then again, I was in the same glass boat, so I couldn’t throw rocks … or fish, or whatever one throws on a boat.

  A smiled edged its way onto my face, into my heart. “You’re sure you’re okay with it, then?”

  “I’m sure.” His bright expression faded, replaced by a stern focus. “On one condition though.”

  I raised my eyebrows, ready to hear it.

  “You bring back the Fisherman’s blend your grandma used to make. She stopped to spite me when we started fighting, but it was my favorite tea ever.”

  “Uh, sure …” I said. “I mean, I’ll have to check through her recipes and see if she still has it, but I’m sure we can figure something out.” The surprise that the solution could be as simple as that made me feel giddily dizzy.

  Just then the doorbell jangled, and a pair of clogged feet clomped their way into the tearoom. I beamed. Leaving that door unlocked had, in fact, earned me a Daphne visit. I wondered for a second if she had a sixth sense for when it was left unlocked.

  “Hi, doll,” she said. “I saw your momma heading out earlier and thought you might want some company.” She stopped short as she noticed Carl. “Oh! Hi, Carl.” Her hand flew to her chest, and her mouth hung open. “I didn’t realize you already had company.”

  I stood to retrieve another chair. Scooting it toward the table Carl occupied, I said, “Come join us. I was about to make some tea.”

  Daphne hesitated for a beat but then took her place next to Carl. As I rounded the tea bar to start the kettle boiling, I couldn’t help but smile at my new neighbors.

  Things would be okay. I wasn’t alone.

  The problem was, my days with Asher had shown me that not being alone wasn’t enough anymore. I longed for my friend, for our conversations, for our time reading together, for the way he would place his hand over mine in support even though he knew I couldn’t feel it.

  He taught me to open up, to let people in again. I knew I wouldn’t be here having tea with Daphne and Carl without Asher’s influence in my life. And with all the uncertainty surrounding him in my mind, that was one lovely thing to be sure of: I was a better person for having met him.

  28

  It took me three days to move out of my apartment in Portland and into Grandma’s house—sorry, my house. I was still getting used to that.

  Regardless of visits from Daphne and Carl, missing Asher ate at me like a disease. So I opened the tea shop, officially, that next Wednesday.

  Now that the news of my grandmother’s murder and the attempt on my life had circulated through Pebble Cove, I was even more of a celebrity in town than I had been before. And now that they’d learned I was staying, any whispers of that city girl were quelled and replaced by talk of how great it was to have more young blood in the place. Which was much creepier than I’d hoped for in a greeting, but one I still accepted.

  The teahouse’s grand reopening was a blur, one I can only pick out flashes from. A smile here, a laugh there, many mugs of steaming tea, people sitting around reading, chatting, and filling my heart with hope. I only mixed up three orders, crashed the new computer system I’d bought twice, and burnt myself once—well, only one of my burns will scar, let’s say that.

  At the end of the day, I was about to sit down to my own cup of tea. Standing behind the bar, I ran my eyes over the different teas Grandma had in stock. I’d found a stack of her recipes in a desk drawer but was sure there had to be more around.

  I made myself a quick note to contact her suppliers and inform them I’d taken over. In the meantime, I needed to become better versed in the tea we had carried. A few customers had asked questions today that I wasn’t sure how to answer, and I didn’t want that to happen again if I could help it.

  “Let’s see,” I said aloud as I searched through the options. “How about you, matcha powder?” It was the thing that puzzled me most on the shelves.

  I plucked the bag from the shelf under the bar where Grandma kept bags to sell, leaving pretty mason jars for display on the wall behind the bar. Flipping the bag over, I read the description on the back.

  “Oh,” I said as I scanned the text. “You’re just green tea leaves crushed into a powder. ‘It is special in two aspects of farming and processing: the green-tea plants for matcha are shade grown for three to four weeks before harvest, and they remove the stems and veins during processing,’” I read from the bag. “‘Best served as a latte with warm milk and a hint of sugar or honey.’”

  Pressing my lips forward, I said, “Let’s give this a try.”

  I took the bag into the kitchen and warmed some milk, adding a little sugar while it heated in a saucepan. When it was hot enough, I added the recommended scoops of the green powder, whisking until it had dissolved into the milk. Pouring the mixture into a mug, I returned the bag to the tearoom. The mug was still hot to the touch, so I set it on the bar as I squatted to replace the bag onto the shelf.

  “What in the world is that green concoction you’re consuming?” a man asked, making me jump.

  Oh gosh, I left the front door unlocked after business hours. Again. I worried for a moment … until I recognized the voice. Happiness coiled up inside me.

  “It’s matcha.” I pulled myself up, standing behind the counter, and my eyes met icy blue ones I’d gotten to know so well.

  Asher stood in front of the bar as solid as he was the first day we met.

  “You’re back!” I squealed and ran around, stopping short before I reached him. Wrinkling my nose, I realized I wanted to try hugging him, even if I knew it wouldn’t work.

  I lunged forward, arms wide. My eyes closed in anticipation, and I brought my arms together, hoping with all my might I would feel him.

  But my arms closed in on themselves and the only body I felt was my own. I peeled open one eye at a time then turned around.

  Asher was chuckling at me. “It was a nice gesture.”

  “You couldn’t feel a thing?” I asked, forehead wrinkled.

  He squinted. “Will it make you feel better if I say yes?”

  I laughed. “Maybe.”

  “Then, yes. Now tell me about this green liquid you’re about to consume. Please don’t tell me you’re so bereft without me that you’ve decided to end it all with a mug of poison.” He glared over at the offending cup. “Or pond scum.” His mouth dipped into a disgusted frow
n.

  “It’s called matcha,” I scoffed. “And it’s very high in antioxidants and caffeine.”

  I grabbed my mug, testing the sides to see if it was cool enough to drink. Determining that it was, I put the mug to my lips and took a small sip. My eyes widened.

  Sure there was an earthy, leafy flavor, but the creaminess of the milk balanced with the sweetness of the sugar made it coat my mouth like a dessert.

  “Okay, I’m guessing by your face that it’s good.” Asher folded his arms over his chest.

  “So good. I’m going to make everyone try this tomorrow.”

  Asher’s face lit up. “So you opened the place,” he said, surveying the dirty mugs I had yet to clean up after the last rush of the day.

  I nodded, smiling.

  “And you’re staying?”

  I nodded bigger, smiled bigger.

  Asher’s face pulled into grin wider than the lineup of locals had been long that morning at my grand reopening.

  But my smile fell. “Ash, I’m so sorry about the other day, when I was supposed to research about how you—”

  He held up a hand, stopping me. “It’s in the past now. Please, don’t worry about it. I shouldn’t have gotten so worked up about nothing. You’ll research when you have time. I trust you.”

  I clasped my mug tighter and took another sip of the matcha latte. I wanted to come clean about what I’d found out about him but not in the first few minutes after he came back. Plus maybe I could find out more, check the source to make sure it was true before telling him.

  “I like that,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

  I pointed to my mug. “The matcha?” I asked, wondering how he could know if he’d never tasted it.

  “No.” He beamed. “You called me Ash. I like that nickname.” He slid his hands in his pockets. “Just saying.”

  I swung my arms at my side for a second before gesturing toward the library. “Okay, Ash. Well, let’s go sit and catch up. I have a lot to tell you.”

  Asher’s face crinkled into a question. “You don’t know?”

  I stopped.

  “I was there at the end. Well, sort of.” He ran his fingers through his hair.

  Mouth falling open, my mind returned to when I’d seen him in my unconscious state. I’d been in some different plane of existence. Was that where he went when he was “in a fog” as he called it?

  “You sent my grandma to help me?”

  Asher lifted his chin. “I was worried about you.”

  “Not mad?” I asked, glancing at him warily.

  He shook his head. “Not mad. I’m sorry I reacted the way I did.”

  “I’m sorry too.”

  “I felt so stupid,” he said, raking fingers through his hair. “I’d promised to keep you safe and then disappeared on you when you needed me the most.”

  Frowning, I took a step toward him. “Hey, you’re the reason my grandma saved me.” I squinted. “Care to fill me in on all that?” I asked with a chuckle.

  He smiled and dipped his head in concession. “I wasn’t at full strength yet, so I couldn’t come back. I’d never been to the farmhouse or its barn, so I wouldn’t have been able to manifest there. Your grandmother spent a lot of time there. I gave her the rest of my energy to go back and help you. She wanted to see you, had been trying to make the jump back to your plane of existence for days, but she didn’t have the energy to do so just yet.” He gave me a sheepish grin. “Giving her the energy I’d been collecting in the days since I moved your car depleted me again, which is why it’s taken me so long to come back now.”

  My head tipped back as I filled in the remaining blanks about what had happened that night. “But how did you find her?” I asked, remembering he said it took him almost two years to return as a spirit, and it might take my grandma as long or longer. She’d reappeared only a month after her death.

  “She was always with you, followed you everywhere. So I didn’t have to look far.”

  The thought of Grandma being there with me through it all sent a warmth tingling through my arms and legs. “Does that mean I’ll be able to see her soon?” I asked. “She used a lot of energy to attack Althea, but she should gain it back soon now, right?”

  Even as I asked, I knew the answer. Asher’s posture turned rigid.

  He smiled sadly. “You solved her murder, and you forgave her. She no longer had unfinished business, so she passed over to the other side,” he told me.

  “That’s so … sudden,” I said, though thinking back to the moment she left me in the barn, it made more sense. The way she’d said she loved me, had fought for me, and the smile on her face before she’d settle into that final, forever kind of peace.

  A tear trailed down my cheek, and Asher clenched his fingers as if he’d been about to wipe it away for me, remembering at the last second that he couldn’t.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “She knew you loved her too.”

  “I wish I could’ve hugged her, just one more time.” I swiped at the tear before setting my hand on the counter to steady myself. “If wishes were fishes, she used to say that all the time.”

  Asher reached forward and placed his hand over mine. “We’d all cast nets,” he finished the quote.

  Again, even though I couldn’t feel him, the gesture sent a warmth through my chest and out to the tips of my fingers. “Well, at least one of my wishes came true.”

  The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Me too.”

  It wasn’t until that weekend that I made it back to the library in town. The tea shop had kept me busy during the day, and the information I needed to research was not safe to do around Asher.

  The Loft called to me as I entered the small library, but I stayed on the ground floor, sitting in front of a computer. Taking my notes from the last time I was here, I typed in Asher’s regiment and battalion number.

  The same material came up as before, digging me deeper into the dejection I’d felt the first time I’d read it, the terrible finality of it all.

  Deciding not to lose faith, I did what my mom told everyone to do when they researched at the library: “Confirm your information with at least three sources, if possible.” Nodding as if she were coaching me in that moment, I clicked on a different site, and then another.

  It was the third that brought me something new. This site listed the name of the officer that had been executed.

  I sat bolt upright and blinked in disbelief at the name. It wasn’t Asher Benson, the name listed for the executed officer was someone else. It hadn’t been Asher after all!

  Suddenly I felt terrible for ever doubting him like that. How had I believed such an awful thing about a person I knew to be so courageous and kind? Excitement built in me at the realization that I could tell Asher what happened to him now. I just needed to find out what actually happened.

  My fingers flew across the keys as I typed in his name and "World War I" along with his regiment number and battalion number. Then I tried it without the numbers, realizing he might’ve misremembered them after all this time. Nothing. Nothing came up at all. My elation ebbed into confusion. How was there no record of him? He was an officer in the army, for goodness' sake.

  I bit at the inside of my cheek, remembering Asher’s request that I look into old newspaper articles from Pebble Cove. After finding out I would have to pay for a profile to access any of the online newspaper databases, I asked the librarian if they had any records on file. I smiled in triumph as he led me to an old microfilm machine like we had in the back room of the library where Mom and I worked. I told him the dates I was looking for, and we found the relevant film.

  Once he was sure I knew how to use the machine, he left me alone. My eyes ached as I squinted, moving closer to the screen the more editions I flipped through with no success. Finally, as my stomach grumbled in protest, and I thought I’d have to give up the search, I caught the words “officer” and “Benson” on the screen. I stopped, eyes poring over the words hungr
ily.

  But just as palpably as I’d felt the relief flow through me with the knowledge that he hadn’t been the disgraced officer I’d read about, all of the terrible feelings came tumbling back … and more.

  “Local Officer, Benson, Deserts Post.”

  My stomach dropped as I read through the article, explaining that he’d never returned to Fort Macy after a short leave, and the army had listed him as a deserter. The author of the article wrote about his own, and the town’s, shock at this development, noting his good character:

  "Though none of us know how we will react when courage is asked of us," wrote the author.

  Head pulsing with a headache, I finished scanning the article, reading how, once they’d accepted the news, locals speculated he’d fled to Canada. Asher’s family had moved away in disgrace.

  I’d thought nothing could be worse than telling Asher they had executed him for dereliction of duty, but here it was. He hadn’t even gotten to the battlefield. And although I’d come up with the new rule to be truthful and open with everyone, a pit formed in my stomach at the prospect of breaking this news to my friend.

  My mind and heart fought with the words on the page. This couldn’t be the truth. The internal scolding I’d given myself earlier at believing he’d been executed burned in my memory. Was accepting this just as bad? Asher wasn’t a coward. He’d talked at length about the honor of fighting for his country. Disbelief buzzed around me like charged air before a thunderstorm.

  But then there was his name, in bold print right in front of me, and the undeniable fact that his spirit had yet to cross over. Was it because he was a World War I deserter and his subconscious knew it? He’d said he understood the flight response that day I’d run out of the grocery store. Was this what he’d meant?

  I hated not knowing the truth. Surely the army would’ve done an investigation into this. There had to be more out there than just this local article. Regardless, it was something I would have to look into at another time. I’d already been here for hours. The sun was setting, and the library would close soon. Packing up my notes, I headed out of the library.