Sienna smiled and followed suit, a smile washing over her features as she chewed. “I did it! Great. I’ll go get some paper and write this down before I forget.”
“Oh, Miss, I almost forgot. There’s a lady here, Liz something, says she wants you to meet her friend.” Nina looked down sheepishly. “I was supposed to come tell you, but I guess I got distracted by the scones.”
“Tell you what,” Sienna said, removing her apron, “Why don’t you plate a couple of these for Liz and company and bring them out? That’ll make up for your moment of distraction.” She smiled, clearly not upset at the lapse.
“You got it.”
Liz was sitting at the table where they had met before, animated in conversation with a woman with sleek red hair. “I mean, if you asked, ‘Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf?,’ she’d raise her hand!” She laughed. The redhead shook in silent laughter. “Oh, Deborah,” Liz exclaimed when she spotted Sienna, “look who’s here!” Liz stood and looped her hand through Sienna’s arm. Sienna felt a little sheepish at the enthusiastic welcome, but she smiled politely. “This is Sienna Bannock, the woman who saved my life! She even has wine, so no one will have to talk to one another unlubricated.”
Deborah raised an eyebrow at her friend’s description, but smiled warmly at Sienna. “Deborah Lundquist. Good to meet you.” She shook Sienna’s hand and somehow managed to extricate her from Liz’s grip at the same time. “I hear you’re feasting the history department on Thursday. Brave woman!” She offered Sienna a seat with a gesture that brooked no refusal.
“Oh, come on! You know your department is worse,” Liz teased.
“I don’t deny it,” Deborah smirked. “But at least my people can hold their drink.”
“Don’t listen to her unless she agrees with me,” Liz said, squeezing Sienna’s upper arm. “Anyway,” she pursed her lips at Deborah, “I brought you here to meet someone who knows more about tea than you.” She beamed proudly at Sienna and nodded toward Deborah. “That’s rare for this Miss. Well, this professor, ‘scuse me.”
“Don’t let my friend here give you a false impression about my formality,” Deborah said with a good-humored smile. “She just likes to tease me in retaliation.” She sipped her tea and raised her eyebrows. “This is amazing tea.”
“Let me guess.” Sienna closed her eyes and feigned concentration. “Victorian bridal green blend?”
“Yes! How did you know?” Deborah seemed genuinely surprised.
“I blend that one here with orange peel, a delicate green tea, myrtle oil, a touch of white rose petals, and…” A lump rose in her throat as she recalled the last ingredient. She swallowed and smiled an apology. “Wild bergamot. The usual bridal bouquet, plus a little something Southern to make it special.”
“Well,” Deborah began slowly, searching Sienna’s face for further distress, “it just so happens that I am a bride. Two months until the big day.”
“I wish you all the best. Will you have the wedding locally?”
“Yes. Brad and I will be married at the church where I serve as deacon.”
“Well, if you need any tea, I hope you’ll keep us in mind.”
“Hold that thought, Sienna, because I’m going to do a shower for them here, or for her, at least,” Liz interjected. “But first, what do you mean, ‘in retaliation’?! What have I forgotten that I’m retaliating for?”
“Let me see, I believe it was a disagreement about soy. I said soymilk isn’t good for anyone, and you cited a commercial as evidence that it was an ancient beverage.”
“Oh, that. I wasn’t offended at you calling me on that malarkey. I was upset because you took five minutes telling me which soy foods were and were not actually ancient food sources and GMO’s and paleos and what not.”
“Me?” Deborah raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “No, I’m sure I never lecture.”
Sienna watched the friends stare at one another for a long moment. Then they laughed.
“Anyhow, Sienna here agrees with you. It’s right on the menu: coconut milk, rice milk, dairy, but no soy.”
“I’m to blame for that,” Sienna explained. “Soy allergy.”
“No! How do you eat?” Deborah asked. “It’s in everything.”
“Not here, it’s not,” Sienna explained. “Are you allergic, too? So few people realize that soy is in so many foods.”
“Deborah here is used to scrutinizing labels on food.”
“Oh?”
“I’m a part-time wild foods activist. That is, I still buy things that past muster, but I forage for a lot of my food. My sister put me up to it at first, and once I found out how much stuff grows on the side of the road, I kept it up.”
Sienna nodded, trying to make sense of the polished professor before her next to her mental image of foragers as wizened, wide-eyed, and shabby hippies. She shook her head slightly at the incongruity.
“I know.” Deborah smiled and sipped her tea. “My parents look at me the same way.”
“So, you’ll understand why I’ll want to feed her up good when I bring her in for a bridal shower,” Liz said to Sienna, adding an affectionate squeeze to Deborah’s arm. “Which is the other reason I brought Deborah to meet you. She may dig up clumps of flowers on the side of the highway, but she’s a total tea snob. I didn’t want to have to wrassle her in here if she had doubts as to your standards.”
“Will it be a large coed bridal shower?” Sienna asked. “You may want to plan for an after-hours event so you can use the whole space.”
“Oh, no. I’m just in charge of Deborah’s shower. Brad’s coworkers are doing his. His bachelor party, I mean. He’s an OB who specializes in low intervention childbirths. The matrons of honor have little babies, so they abdicated the showers to a bunch of professors and midwives, which is to say—can you imagine how bawdy it’s going to get?”
“Are midwives bawdy?” Sienna asked. She tried to push away the thought of her midwife, the long silence they shared when there was no heartbeat.
“Professors, Sienna!” Liz’s scandalized tone jerked Sienna from her remembrance, unintentionally rescuing her from a fresh wave of pain. “Well, you’ll see tomorrow night.”
“It’s true, I’m afraid.” Deborah set down her teacup with an air of resigned authority. “One can’t talk about all manner of human behavior and body parts with scholarly distance without squeezing one’s baser humor into after-hours exhibitionism.” Her tone was dry, but her eyes twinkled mischievously.
“Oh, go on, Deborah. Just say it. We get tired of behaving ourselves all the time. When we let our hair down, we really let our hair down.” Liz tugged one of her flyaway blond locks, then sat back, looking from Deborah to Sienna. “Which, with you two, both with your perfect hair, should be fantastic. Look at her hair, Deborah. That doesn’t come in a bottle.”
“My hair?” Sienna touched her temple above an elaborate golden comb that Marnie had brought her from Israel. “Thanks.”
“I’m not the only one who noticed,” Liz whispered, leaning forward. Deborah darted her eyes around, pausing in the direction of the manuscript table. “Am I right, Deborah?”
“I think you have an admirer,” Deborah said directly. “One who paints while staring at your neck.” She was quiet, clearly observing Sienna’s reaction.
Sienna sighed and tried to diffuse the situation with a smile. “Ah.” She did not turn to look. “Yes, I think I know who you mean. Let’s not encourage him.”
“Agreed,” Deborah said and became very interested in Liz’s teacup. “But I want to know how you can tell so easily which teas we like. Is it the fragrance?”
“No,” Sienna said, relaxing. “You said you’re a deacon. Are you familiar with spiritual gifts?”
“Yes.” Deborah nodded. “You, Liz?”
“Well, don’t spread it around, but I happen to know that my spiritual gift is for teaching. My eleventh grade Sunday school teacher wasn’t too sure, owing to my being a female, but I think God and a few fine
universities will agree with me.”
Sienna nodded. “Yours is teaching. Mine is tea.”
“God tells you which tea I like?” Liz asked, incredulous.
“More like, I see the good in people, and I have a sense of what they might like, just right away. Like, I saw you the other day, Liz, and I knew immediately that you have a gift for teaching and encouragement and healing through storytelling. And it just popped into my mind, like that,” she snapped her fingers, “that you would prefer Formosa oolong.”
“Oh! Do Deborah, too,” Liz said excitedly.
“With Deborah…” she looked over Deborah’s face and paused at the rich red hair. “Well, I noticed your hair first.” Sienna chuckled, a warm sound that drew the other women in. “But I also saw a glow—of joy and healing through listening and pastoring. You know those old Christian paintings of bishops and such with long staffs in their hands? That’s you. Sacred, old school, guiding. I just knew that you would like the Victorian bridal blend.”
“But is it like a feeling, or an image, or a smell?” Liz asked.
“Maybe all of those,” Sienna said, considering. “Have you heard of the gift of knowledge? When I studied in school, I would pray about what to look over, and I would always study the right things for the exam. I would ask God to tell me what I needed to know for a paper, and outlines would just line up in my head. I got in the habit a long time ago of asking God about people. He would show me good things about them, so that I just knew what I needed to know to love them in that moment. And tea is how I love people here.”
“That’s beautiful,” Deborah said quietly.
“It really is,” Liz agreed, tender-eyed. She reached out and squeezed Sienna’s hand.
Deborah sat straighter suddenly. “I enjoyed meeting you, Sienna, but I think now might be a good time for you to go check on something in the back.”
“What?” Sienna sputtered. She smelled a waft of minty air. “Oh. Yes. Thank you, Deborah,” she whispered. Aloud, she continued, “Well, I hope you like the scones. I had better go start the next batch and start on those cookies you like, Liz.” She winked at Liz, smiled at the women, and walked quickly toward the kitchen.
She almost made it before Greg’s musical voice crossed the space between them. “Please. I’d like to show you the use I’m making of the notebooks.”
Sienna turned and eyed Greg warily. He kept his distance on the far side of the counter, a colorful drawing extended before him. From where she stood, she could make out a bright pink blossom in dark hair, an impossible ornament poised above a golden neck. Her breath caught, and she stepped closer, her voice ragged. “How did you know?” She touched the paper, tracing the irregular petals with her forefinger. It was her flower, her and Peter’s flower, wild bergamot.
“It’s the flower I think of when I look at you,” he answered, looking at her as she touched his painting.
“But you can’t know that,” Sienna said, incredulity strengthening her voice.
“And you can’t know I like real Moroccan mint tea. I haven’t drunk it since my honeymoon, not the real stuff like you make.”
“I guess we’ve both been paying attention to God.” She thought of their wedding rings, of his intense attention, and her brows knit in concern. “At least…”
“Sienna, I see you. I’m the real deal. I don’t want to hurt you.” Greg laid the notebook down and slid it closer to Sienna. For the first time, she noticed that the shoulders were bare under the thick dark waves of hair and the bright ornament of wild bergamot. “I just want to get to know you better.”
“Greg,” Sienna looked directly at the priest, “I believe that you are the real deal. You have spiritual gifts, and I know you see me. But I don’t think it’s a very good idea, us getting to know one another better.”
“Why?” His voice was quiet, seductive in its simplicity and the music in the one word.
“Because we may be blinded by one another’s haloes. You see what God shows you, and I see what God shows me. Let’s leave it at that, or we might be dazzled enough to think we’re in… we have more going on than we do.”
“So you think I have a halo?” Greg looked at her as though he certainly did not.
“Yes. And I’m not going to be the one to tarnish it.” Sienna backed away. “Excuse me, Greg.” She went into the kitchen and walked into the cooler, pulling the door closed behind her. Her hands shook, and she put them on her cheeks, which were flushed and hot. The cold fingers made her think of pressing ridges into piecrusts and cookies. She felt pliable, unset.
For years, she had not noticed any man other than Peter. He was her soulmate, her beloved. Now she realized that he had made her solid. Without him near her, with the fear of losing him, she was softening like wax in the sun. She was melting, sliding down the slope that Greg’s attraction was creating.
“What is going on, God?” She thought of the wild bergamot, of her desire for children, of Peter, maybe unable to father again, and Greg, waiting. Unbidden, the thought of kissing Greg, of making babies with Greg, rushed into her mind. “No. I want Peter,” she whispered. But she understood, now, the effect Greg had on her. His body was whole, unbroken, and he was offering her a way out of her worst fears. Her heart pounded, her senses raced, and Sienna tried to calm herself with deep breaths of cold air.
“Show me,” she prayed, focusing on the memory of Greg standing in the tearoom to keep her mind from illicit images. If he was attractive, there must be some holy quality that was drawing her. There must be some good characteristic that the enemy was trying to pervert, to catch her off guard while she was vulnerable. Gradually, a window cleared in her mind.
Greg was cooking, painting, laughing, a curvy woman with auburn hair laughing at his side. She had a leather purse. No, it was a briefcase, sturdy and expensive. The woman smelled like chocolatey boutique lipsticks, citrusy perfume, and leather. But also scotch whisky, and Greg was grimacing when he smelled it. Another man was kissing the woman, and Greg stopped laughing. The scene went dark.
“Embroidered alibis.” Sienna nodded. She crossed herself, her hands warm with the vision. She would need to call Marnie to help pray for this one. But for the moment, she breathed out, “Lord, have mercy.”
Notes from Sienna’s tea files
Elsie Pinkwater, bitter old crow: Lipton tea from bag. Or an astringent breakfast blend. Serve with white sugar. Puts teeth on edge but can be tolerated.
Father Maximos (Max), 58, Orthodox Priest, Monk, Author, Chess Enthusiast: Russian Caravan tea sweetened with pineapple juice or blueberry jam; sometimes a dark Keemun or Lapsang Souchang when hospitality demands it.
Deborah Lundquist, 32, Christian ethics professor, Episcopalian, deacon: Victorian bridal blend green tea—my blend (delicate China green, chunky orange peel, myrtle oil, white rose petals, wild bergamot). Subtle but surprisingly insightful blend.
Chapter Five
Marnie did not answer her phone. Sienna made an entire baker’s rack of raspberry thumbprint cookies, enough for the history department and the chess crowd. Baking steadied her erratic emotions, but her soul was still troubled. She stepped into the quiet alley behind the shop and called again. This time, a quiet, sleepy voice returned her greeting.
“Oh, Marnie! Thank God. I need to talk with you about a man.”
“Sienna, honey, I was out cold. We walked at least twelve miles today.” Marnie sighed, and Sienna heard the bed creak on the other side of the ocean. “Okay. I’m up.” The sound of swallowing and the clink of a glass came over the line. “I’m ready to pray. Be brief, though.”
“There’s a priest named Greg who wants me to love him, and he’s married to a beautiful woman who cheated on him. I am 100% married, but my heart is in shreds over Peter and… and Susan, and I keep feeling attracted to Greg even though I don’t want to. I am not giving into the attraction, but I’m afraid, Marnie. You know that makes it harder. What if Peter dies, or he can’t have children, and I’m alone or forced
to be the strong one when you know I’m not?”
“Whoa, Sienna. Slow down. Take a deep breath.” Marnie took her own advice. A whoosh of air crackled the line. “First, your feelings are normal. The body survives by means of a backup plan. But you don’t have to believe those feelings.”
“Agreed, but they still bother me. I thought they would go away if I just told myself how inappropriate they are.”
Marnie chuckled.
“I know. That’s not how feelings work.”
“Why do you think he’s attractive?”
“He’s very handsome.” Sienna sounded unconvinced. Greg was handsome, but that’s not why she felt attracted to him. She had been around plenty of good-looking men without developing even an eye twinkle of desire.
“And?”
“He’s convenient,” Sienna swallowed a lump in her throat. “It feels base to say that, but he’s made it clear that he’s available to me.”
“Is he, really?”
“Of course not. Even if, God forbid, we were both free from our marriage vows, he would not really be for me. He’s trying to use me to get back at his wife.”
“And you feel tempted to use him as well?”
“For physical comfort. And there’s more. He has an aesthetic approach that I find pleasing. He likes paper and pens and cashmere, and he moves beautifully.”
“What does that tell you about why you’re attracted to him?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I want babies.”
“Ugly, uncultivated men can make babies just as well as beautiful ones.”
“Hmm.” Sienna leaned against the alley wall and worried her hair comb. She felt a warm rush of longing for life before her loss. “Oh.” She swallowed back tears. “I miss it, all the beauty we used to share.” She continued slowly, entranced by the vision of remembered happiness. “Peter and I would turn on opera and open the windows to the patio. We would sit in the evening breeze with a pot of tea and simple food. Peter would sketch impossible shapes on brown paper, and I would write longhand until the light faded and the soprano died.” She laughed when she realized that she was quoting Peter. “He said that, you know, the last night before the cramping. ‘Come away with me, beloved, and sit in our paradise until the light fades and the soprano dies.’ I want that back.” Sienna sobbed, and Marnie listened for a few minutes, the soft flutters of her spiritual prayers the only words she offered in return for Sienna’s grief. Gradually, Sienna quieted. Marnie picked up right where Sienna had stopped speaking.
Tea and Crumples Page 7
