Tea and Crumples

by Kinard, Summer;

  “I get it, Miss. She won’t get nicer if we make her feel bad about the misunderstanding. I’m sorry for talking about her not paying. I just—” Nina sighed and looked down for a moment, “I just felt bad, the way she was looking at me like I was a cockroach or something. I get that a lot, and I didn’t want it here.”

  Sienna followed Nina to the kitchen, where the girl began to wash a tray of cups. “Nina.” She waited until the girl looked up. “I do not ever want you to feel that way. Not here, not anywhere. You are a good person, made in the image of God, and no one should look at you that way. But if someone does, you have to know now that it’s about them, not you.”

  “That doesn’t make it better, though, does it? If that old lady has a shriveled-up heart, that doesn’t make me happy.”

  “It would be easier if she saw you as you really are, Nina, as a child of God. A gifted, hospitable, bright young woman who was extending kindness. You don’t have to be a roach, and she doesn’t have to be mean. We can pray that God will open her eyes to see properly. And ours as well.” Sienna walked to the sink and rinsed the dishes that Nina handed her. “Okay?”

  Nina nodded but did not speak. Sienna heard a small sniffle and decided to let her youngest staff member have a few minutes alone to sort herself.

  “I’m going to go check out Cleotis Reed’s crowd,” Sienna said, setting her cup in the rinse tub. “When you finish here, could you make sure the wine glasses are all dusted? We’ll need them for Thursday’s event.” She thanked Nina and left.

  Out by the chess table, Cleotis was soundly beating a young woman with long, curly hair. The woman smiled as her pieces were dispatched.

  “Checkmate,” Cleotis Reed announced. He lifted his cup and sipped his smoky tea.

  “Awesome!” the woman laughed. “Thank you for letting me try.” She offered her hand, and Cleotis stood to shake it.

  “May I?” A man with a quiet demeanor rose from a chair that had been pulled over to watch the match. He had a long beard, which he wore over a black cassock and a pectoral cross. Sienna saw immediately that he was an Orthodox priest.

  Cleotis assessed the man and smiled. “Please,” he gestured to the seat the young woman had vacated. He offered his hand. “Cleotis Reed. I’m seventy-four years old, and I speak my mind.”

  “Max. I’m fighty-eight years on this earth, and I’m glad to hear it.”

  The men quickly reset the board, but they did not begin to play at once. Instead, the priest noticed Sienna’s attention and looked up.

  “Father, may I bring you some tea?” she asked.

  “Have you Russian Caravan tea?”

  “I have. We sweeten it with pineapple juice. Will that do?”

  “Yes, please. Thank you.”

  When Sienna returned, the men were engrossed in a game. Though they both moved rapidly, there was no accumulation of captured pieces. Smiling, Sienna wondered if Cleotis Reed had met his match. She decided it was time to freshen his tea, one way or another.

  Cleotis Reed said, “Check,” just as Sienna set down a piping hot pot of tea at his elbow. It took her a moment to realize he was absorbed in the game, not asking to pay. She leaned against the windowsill along with the other rapt spectators.

  “Check,” Father Max echoed after moving a piece.

  They volleyed checks for another few moves, until, at last, Cleotis announced, “Checkmate.”

  Father Max shook Cleotis’ hand and took up his teacup. The men eyed one another respectfully and agreed to a rematch the next afternoon, before they were inundated with questions from the enthusiastic onlookers. Sienna cleared empty pots and made sure that everyone had all they needed, then returned to the back of the shop.

  After dropping the laden tray off in the kitchen to a recovered Nina, Sienna decided to talk with Tovah. She found her in the office.

  “Something amazing just happened,” she announced, sliding into the chair.

  “A graduate student bought a second pot of tea to make up for hogging a booth?” Tovah smiled. In truth, she was glad to have the students there, but the two had teased each other about the phenomenon of booth hogging when they were putting the shop together. They had settled on a long section of half booths along one wall with outlets so that the students might be accommodated without impeding other customers.

  “Cleotis Reed almost lost a match.”

  “Ah. Well, one can hope.” Tovah smiled at her friend, then scrutinized the tired line of her shoulders. “How was Peter?”

  “Sick to his stomach. But we got to talk a little. I told him about the shop and about Bethel and the dogs.”

  “Well, that’s something, yes?”

  “Yes.” Sienna rubbed her forehead against the tightness around her eyes. “Marnie says it’s good that I have work right now, to have something to do. As much as I hate being away from Peter, I know she’s right.” She dropped her hand and smiled a tired smile at Tovah. “Especially with you doing all the heavy lifting. I can never thank you enough for carrying the show while I pop in and out.”

  “Listen, Sienna, you may not always notice, but you’re human. You have to eat, to rest, to work, and to spend time with your husband. I know you skipped church on Sunday. You shouldn’t. Don’t let this cancer get between you and the things that make you strong.”

  “My spiritual advisor, the Jew,” Sienna smirked.

  “Exactly. And if you would listen to me, you would be better off.” Tovah pointed at Sienna with a pen as her friend rose to leave. “That’s in the Bible. Look it up!”

  Smiling, Sienna walked into the stationery section of the store. There was a particular type of creamy smooth, pink cotton paper that always soothed her. She walked to the wall of open paper stock, removed a sheet from the tray, and ran her fingers along it. When she wasn’t frazzled with fear, Sienna loved to write long letters to her old school friends and Mrs. Hopkins. The thought of watching wet ink absorb into the page steadied her. What could be written could be tamed, or at least sanctified. At least, she hoped it could be.

  “You should try that with a fountain pen,” said a musical voice behind her. Sienna did not have to turn to know it was Greg. He had a habit of catching her unawares.

  “Ah, Greg,” she said simply, turning to face him. He wore a charcoal grey sweater that set off his eyes. Her heart skipped a bit; he was so gorgeous. Sienna noted the warm flush this man inspired and knew she would have to overcome it. Nodding to herself, she decided to approach the problem head-on. No more sneaking up on her if she could help it.

  “You like fountain pens, then?” he misinterpreted her nod. “I have one here you could try.” He held out an ornate silver and lapis pen in his open palm, where its beauty drew her eyes against her will.

  Examining a strange man’s pen felt somehow untoward, and Sienna pulled her eyes away. To change the terms of the encounter, she looked Greg directly in the eye, catching him unawares. Unfortunately, his open surprise and vulnerability caught her unawares as well, and she almost reached out to touch his face the way one comforts a child. She fought herself to finish what she had started, to look him in the eye and invent pleasantries. “Oh, no, thank you. I prefer rollerballs.” Her voice gave away her nervousness. She composed herself by returning the paper to its slot. “But, why don’t you join me at the manuscript table, and we’ll have tea?” She reasoned that the formality of tea in the informality of a public table would allow her to figure out the man’s appeal without committing to any of the ideas that arose. Then she would overcome them easier.

  “That would be,” he smiled, “perfect.”

  Sienna prepared the tea tray and brought it to the table. She sat opposite Greg with her back against the wall and poured for them.

  “Morrocan mint for you,” she handed him a piping hot cup of greenish, sweet-smelling tea. “Keemun for me.” She pulled her cup near, scooped in sugar, and poured in cream. “Now, I understand that you love notebooks.”

  “Yes.” He sipped his tea
, his eyes following Sienna’s movements as she stirred and raised her cup.

  “Are you a writer?”

  “An artist.”

  “Oh,” Sienna sounded disappointed.

  “What’s wrong with being an artist?”

  “Nothing. It’s just, we ordered ruled notebooks for you. Did we get it wrong?”

  “Oh, no. I like ruled notebooks. It’s part of my style, coloring outside the lines.” He spoke into his cup, so that Sienna wondered if she only imagined the flirty lift of the corner of his mouth.

  “Altered books?”

  “Something like that. But I also write in them.”

  “Oh?” Sienna had not intended to ask a question. “Oh,” she corrected neutrally, not wishing to pry or to invite sharing.

  “Mostly just my secrets, and what I feel comfortable noting about the secrets of others.”

  “I thought priests couldn’t tell secrets.”

  “Not from the confessional, no. But there are other ways to come by knowledge. Sometimes it’s forced on one.”

  “Like Elinor Dashwood.”

  “Yes,” Greg smiled, “and no.” He sipped again.

  “How so?” Sienna wanted not to be curious about this man, but she was a sucker for conversations about Jane Austen characters.

  “Elinor Dashwood was given an embroidered handkerchief,” he began, and Sienna realized he had only seen the movie, not read the book, “and I have been given embroidered alibis.”

  Sienna nodded. Jane Austen reader or no, Greg was obviously deeply wounded by the alibi giver. She searched for a way to take the conversation back to casual footing. “Well, I hope our notebooks offer you a small source of consolation.” Pretending interest in her teacup, she fiddled unconsciously with a pen someone had left on the table.

  “You really should try a fountain pen sometime,” Greg said, watching her. “Here.” He slid a notebook across to her and opened it, then laid his fountain pen on the blank page. “Write your number. Give it a try.”

  “Um,” Sienna’s brows knit. “You have the store number already.” She glanced up, saw his unhurried interest. She was just about to say, “No, thank you,” when a deep, kind voice called out to her.

  “Sienna,” Father Max intoned, “I wanted to compliment you on the tea. It’s the best preparation I have found.” His eyes were quick in his calm face. Sienna suspected he had seen her discomfort and had come to the rescue.

  “Thank you, Father.” She rose and came around the table. “Shall I freshen up your pot? We were done here.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Greg flinch at her dismissal. She thought it was for the best.

  “No, thank you, but if you could sell me a packet?” He began to walk toward the tea counter. Sienna was drawn into his direction and kept apace, grateful to have a reason to go where she felt at ease.

  “Of course.” Sienna went behind the counter and lifted down the large tin. “How much?”

  “Four ounces.”

  She weighed the tea, added an extra scoop, and handed it across to the priest. He paid in cash and picked up the small paper bag, plump with tea. He paused for a moment, his eyes making her feel as though he saw more than the surface of things. She thought he might have been praying for her, and she worried that her exhaustion and fear were so obvious. Her smile tightened as he turned to go. To avoid crying, she busied herself with wiping tea leaves from the back of the counter.

  When the bell over the door announced Father Max’s exit, she turned around to find Greg approaching her. He wore a contrite expression that was not entirely convincing.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “Listen, Father Greg,” Sienna began, using the priestly title to distance herself, “I’m married. I don’t think I’ve been subtle about that fact, but you don’t seem to have gotten the message.”

  “Greg,” he corrected. “Just Greg, and I noticed.”

  “Well,” she searched for words. If he did not admit to flirting with her, what could she say? She thought of Peter, lying sick in the hospital. “I’m going through a lot right now. My husband is in the hospital. And I don’t need any ambiguity.”

  “Of course,” Greg said, tilting his head slightly. He looked as though he cared for her suffering, but Sienna was not sure. Compassion might be just another line he would cross.

  “I hope you will still feel free to come here for tea and, well, crumples,” she gestured toward the stationery section, “but please, no more trying to get my personal number.” She set her hand on the counter in front of her, making her words final.

  “If you need a friend,” Greg laid his warm hand on top of hers, “let me know.” He held still for a beat longer than was casual, then walked back to the manuscript table.

  Sienna watched him go, his strong back evident under the cashmere sweater. She rubbed the hand he had warmed with her chilly one. It had been too long since someone had warmed her, and she felt a little tug toward Greg for the simple expedient of contact. After losing the baby, she had craved Peter’s touch. It was her only consolation when the grief overwhelmed her, the heat of his hands on her shoulders, her face and back. She breathed deeply to calm her heart rate and made herself look away from Greg. It would not do to allow herself to be attracted to him, not when she had so many other battles to wage.

  Cleotis Reed waved and smiled. Sienna had been looking toward him, unseeing. She smiled back at him and walked over.

  “How is my best customer?” she asked.

  Cleotis looked around and behind him. “Well, I don’t know. Do you want me to ask when I see him?”

  “Aw, come on, Mr. Reed, you know I meant you.”

  “I’m having a right fine day.” He cut his eyes toward the manuscript table, and the door. “I found another worthy opponent. And how about you?” He lifted his teacup, his hand steady with the sort of grace that only comes of self-command.

  “I have a feeling you won’t believe me if I say I’m doing well, but I am pleased with how the shop is going.” She looked over the group of chess enthusiasts at neighboring tables, several of whom were pretending not to listen. “Very pleased. Not least because of you, Cleotis Reed.”

  Cleotis nodded. “You have a good place here. I’m glad to be a part of it.” Again, he looked toward the manuscript table. “Chess tells you a lot about a person, how he thinks, what he’s after. I don’t suppose everyone is so forthright about why they’re here.”

  Sienna resisted the urge to turn, but she suspected that Greg was watching her. “No,” she agreed, “I don’t suppose they are.” She was spared further comment by a lanky young man who cleared his throat by way of approaching Cleotis for conversation.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, his voice wavering with the bravery of youth. “Sir.” He nodded. “I was wondering, Mr. Reed, if I might have a game with you?”

  Sienna smiled and excused herself. She checked on the corduroy and scarf-clad line of laptop users along the far wall. Two of them beamed their thanks when she offered to refill their hot water, but the others did not look up, isolated by their earbuds and the obscurity of their fields of study. When she had tended all of the other customers, she retreated behind the tea counter and allowed herself a glance at the manuscript table.

  Greg was still there, sipping tea from a clear tea glass, writing languidly in a journal. He was left-handed. Sienna watched his careful progress across the page. A sudden shaft of reflected afternoon sun poured through the window, catching on a thin gold band on his ring finger. Her breath caught in surprise. For all her emphasis on her own marriage status, she had not noticed his. Greg looked up, lifted the thick fountain pen from the paper, let a slow smile linger between them, then returned to writing.

  Sienna decided that she liked Greg too much. She would have to make herself remember all the reasons why she could not like him. She always thought best with busy hands. Turning to Lettye, Sienna made a decision.

  “Lettye, let me know if we get too busy this
afternoon. I’m going to bake.”

  “No problem, Sienna.” Lettye smiled graciously, and Sienna rejoiced again at the woman’s gift of putting others at ease. “Nina and I have it covered.”

  Sienna went to the back room, pulled out almond and white rice flours, hazelnuts, dates, bananas, and honey. She carried a tub of coconut oil to the counter after putting on a bright, ruffled apron, one of many they had purchased from a local seamstress who specialized in creative reuse sewing. After several failed attempts at gluten free scones, she was determined to find a recipe that worked.

  She added dates and bananas to the bowl of a large food processor, measured in generous heaps of almond flour, a smaller mound of rice flour, and pulsed the ingredients into a thick paste. She felt the texture, smelled, and tasted it. In went a scoop of coconut oil. She pulsed, tasted. Almost there. A dollop of honey, a coarse pulse of hazelnuts, and the dough was ready. She plopped the scones onto a lined pan by handfuls and placed them in the oven.

  A reassuring smell of the good earth and fruit met her while she waited for the scones to bake, her gaze unfocused. Gradually, the almond scent came forward. She recalled the massage oil that Peter had used to relax her over the long, exhausting summer. It was only slightly sweet, like the memory of a baby one could not hold. Her eyes swam. The timer dinged.

  The scones were perfectly golden brown and firm. Sienna was sure, in the same inexplicable way that she knew which tea was right for each person, that she had finally lighted on the perfect recipe. As if drawn by excellence, Nina appeared at her elbow.

  “Miss? Are those what smell so good?” She gestured to the smooth pastries.

  “Yes. Would you like to try the first one?”

  “Oh, yes, please.” She picked the edge off a piping hot scone and blew on it, then popped it into her mouth. “Mmm!” She nodded. “This is it, Miss! You did it.”