Tea and Crumples

by Kinard, Summer;

  Sienna had never attended the early service, so she sat in a front pew. She bowed toward the altar rather than genuflecting and slid into the seat. Graduallly, other parishioners entered and knelt and opened prayer books and put them aside. The hush of soft page turns let her know it was nearly service time. She lowered the kneeler in front of her and prayed the prayer before worship. It had been the first prayer she memorized when she had joined the Episcopal church twelve years before. No sooner had she finished, than she heard the rumble of kneelers moving, people standing.

  She stood with the others and reverently bowed as the cross processed past, carried by the curate. The rector and assistant followed. Then the service began. It was the Elizabethan service rather than the modern one to which she was accustomed. She tried to keep up with the unusual responses as the service clipped along elegantly. When they came to the Eucharist, Sienna found her eyes drawn to the flower arrangement framing the rector as he lifted the bread and wine. The tall red spikes of bee balm seemed to glow. There were five of them, bright as Christ’s wounds.

  Swallowing hard to keep her voice, she knelt with the others, priests and all, and spoke aloud the prayer before receiving communion. A line stood out to her, “Thou art the same Lord whose property is always to have mercy.” It was old-fashioned, but it hit home. She began to weep hot silent tears. The same message as in the church under the icon, the same message as Nina brought her, the same simple truth of God’s love that had sustained her and Peter through eight years of marriage.

  Face burning and wet, Sienna went forward and knelt with the others to receive communion. She thought of A.C. as she waited her turn, of his wisdom. She said a silent prayer of thanks for him as she received, for he was right. God had caught her attention.

  The day was young when the service let out, so Sienna made her way downtown for breakfast at the French bistro near Tea and Crumples. She broke from habit and ordered strong, sweet coffee, a plate of beignets, and an omelette. She relaxed into her chair by the window and enjoyed the effects of the early sun on the downtown building faces. A cheerful family chattered nearby, and she smiled at the towheaded children using big words to express small pleasures. Someone moved in her peripheral vision, and she turned toward him, expecting the waiter.

  “May I join you?” Greg asked, an easy grin lighting his face.

  She was taken aback by his sudden appearance. “But it’s Sunday!” she exclaimed, surprised. Then, feeling rude for blurting, she opened her palm toward the seat opposite her.

  “Thank you,” Greg said. He settled into the chair, sending a waft of warm citrusy cologne across the table. He was dressed in another cashmere sweater, this one deep maroon. His gray eyes were clear and present, intelligent and sharp. He looked at her admiringly. “You are right; it’s Sunday. I’ve taken a leave of absence while I work things out with my wife. Bishop’s recommendation.”

  “I see,” she said, and she fiddled with her fork. The server set down her coffee, and Greg ordered one for himself.

  “Do you?” he asked. “I suppose I must seem very strange to you, my showing up so often in the shop and around town,” he licked his lips subtly, “being open about my admiration for you.” He gave no hint of contrition. Rather, his mouth pursed slightly in a sexy pout.

  “You seem to like the idea of me thinking you strange,” Sienna answered, meeting his eyes. She tried not to look at his supple lips or to notice the way her pulse raced when he looked at her. “But I think I have you figured out. You only want me because you cannot have me.”

  “Is that so?” he asked. The waiter placed his coffee in front of him, and Greg ordered breakfast, leaving Sienna to wonder whether Greg questioned her availability or her accuracy as to his motives.

  “Is this your first Sunday away from the pulpit?” Sienna asked in an attempt to turn the conversation.

  “Yes. At least, the first since recent events came to a head. I take vacations, of course. My family has a lake house in the mountains where we spend summers.”

  “Will you go there now?” She hoped he would. Distance would keep her head clear. When Greg was in front of her, she felt the pull of attraction. She did not like how it addled her thinking.

  “No. I have a few projects to see to around town.” He looked at her, let his gaze linger on her lips for a moment. She was about to look away when his eyes snapped back to hers. “Have you considered, Sienna,” he leaned forward slightly, aligning his shoulders with hers, “that I admire you because you are admirable?” And beautiful, his look said.

  “Greg,” she began, clutching her coffee mug with both hands, “I—”

  She was interrupted by the waiter placing their food in front of them. Then, for a surreal few moments, they bowed their heads as Greg prayed aloud the usual prayer before meals. She made the sign of the cross over herself out of habit, then straightened herself in the chair.

  “Greg, about what you were saying, about—”

  “Admiring you because you are admirable.”

  “Yes.” She drew a breath and decided that firm formality was the best course of action. “Be that as it may, Greg, it’s not right for you to say so. Not to me, not with my Peter sick and your wife—”

  “My wife has nothing to do with it. And as for your Peter, I’m sure he would agree with me.”

  “Perhaps in sentiment, but not in your right to express it.”

  “And what do you think I’m expressing?”

  “More like an offer.” She poked at her omelette. “I think you’re offering something you’re not free to give, and I’m not free to receive.”

  “But if you were?” He poked his fork into a fruit slice and lifted it, considering. His focus shifted to Sienna’s flushed complexion across the table. He seemed to interpret her blush as encouragement. “It’s not an objectionable prospect, surely, spending time with me. Getting to know one another.” An image seared into Sienna’s mind of eager kisses and close bodies.

  “Stop, Greg.” She cleared her throat and leaned toward him, speaking low. “You should not do that, you know. You are misusing a great gift.”

  He sat back as though slapped. “You can tell?” He considered her for a moment. At first she thought he would repent. His eyes seemed lighter, and he seemed to be listening. But the amorous expression returned to his features the next instant. “Well, another reason to admire you.”

  “Are you going to church this morning?” she asked, trying to wheedle him back toward holiness. “I went to the early service.”

  “No.” He leaned back and smirked as though on to her. “No, too many awkward questions. I know all the other priests in the area, of course.”

  “Of course,” she agreed, but she did not relent in her goal. “I had a bit of an epiphany in service this morning.”

  “Did you?” he flirted.

  “I did.” She took her time eating and swallowing. “You would have appreciated the flower arrangement today.” She looked into his eyes and held her gaze steady. “You’re very fond of bee balm, I understand.” He looked down at his food. “There were five tall blossoms in the arrangement, bright dark red.”

  “Like the five wounds of Christ?” he asked, his tone almost mocking. “Is that the source of the epiphany?”

  “‘My heart is a five-petaled rose,’” she quoted rather than answering him. “‘My heart is a rose with five petals.’ Isn’t that how Mechthild of Magdeburg described the way Christ’s wounds had affected her psyche?”

  “Psyche. Soul. Heart.” Greg fiddled with a last grape on his plate. “Sounds about right. But what could she have meant by it? Hearts don’t take lasting impressions like that.” He stared into his coffee.

  “Don’t they?” Sienna challenged. She finished her meal and set her napkin on the table next to her plate. “I think that some impressions, when given the weight of good habits and holy meditation, can transform an entire person.”

  “No. I don’t like that part of her writing,” Greg said de
cidedly. A wounded expression haunted his eyes. “I prefer her talk of attraction, of God drawing the soul to himself like a needle pulling inexorably toward a magnet. Irresistible.” He gazed hungrily at her face.

  “Perhaps,” Sienna said, looking away to gather her purse. “Perhaps a little sacred reading is in order. Somehow, I don’t think Mechthilde meant what you imply.” She laid a few bills on the table and rose to leave. “Happy studying, Greg.” She decided haste was in order. Whenever someone looked at one that way, it was best to run away, especially if any part south of one’s head wanted to stay.

  He stood when she did. “Thank you,” he answered awkwardly. He remained standing as she walked away, but she saw him sitting when she passed the window a few moments later. His head was tilted, and he stared blankly at her vacant chair. His bravura had collapsed, and he seemed empty.

  She started to push away pity, knowing how easily it could be twisted into affection when one was vulnerable. But years of having Marnie as a prayer partner had taken hold on her mind. She heard her friend’s voice in memory, describing the pieta, the pity of Christ. His pity was a stand-in for his great mercy. It was mercy one could see. She stopped trying to make herself not pity Greg and redirected her feelings toward prayer. “Lord, have mercy upon him,” She said, and then felt her own vulnerability deeply. “Lord, have mercy upon us.”

  Once she had rounded the corner on her brisk walk toward the teashop, Sienna felt Greg’s allure fade away. Gradually, she stopped thinking of him and began thinking of tea and of Peter. By the time she reached the shop a few blocks away, she was deep into a debate over which tea to bring Peter to celebrate their wedding anniversary. She decided on a top shelf Assam blend with a rich bouquet. That way, Peter could enjoy the fragrance even if he was not up to sipping.

  Sienna busied herself preparing for the after-church rush, while in her mind she collated stories to bring Peter along with the tea. She would have to tell him about the flowers and how A.C. was right about God getting her attention. She hoped A.C. himself would stop by that afternoon so she could thank him, but as the hours between brunch and teatime ticked by, neither A.C. nor Cleotis Reed made an appearance.

  Without Cleotis holding court at the chess table, the shop seemed empty. Sienna was ill at ease at his absence. She had come to depend on Cleotis Reed not just as a physical anchor to the shop, but also as a beacon of understanding and wisdom. She decided to leave earlier than she had planned. It would do her good to while away a few hours with Peter.

  Peter smiled groggily when she entered the hospital room. “Hey, Beloved,” he croaked, “guess who called me?”

  “The dogs?” Sienna joked. She poured him water and held the straw to his lips. After a few sips, he nodded and spoke again.

  “Marnie.”

  “Marnie?” Marnie was friends with both of them, but Sienna thought it strange that she would call directly to Peter.

  “The same.” Peter smiled, and his expressive eyes teased her for being surprised. “Seems she wanted to tell me about a shrine where she prayed for me. Hip deep in grass, but the spring that flows under the ruined shrine is said to help miracles along when they are a bit on the feeble side otherwise.”

  “Oh.” Sienna knit her brows. If Marnie was talking about miracles, she must know that Peter was very sick. “And what did she have in mind for this shrine water?”

  “She said she made tea with it.”

  Sienna laughed at the unexpected turn. “No!”

  “Yes.” Peter grinned broadly, winced, and grinned smaller. “Said it was the best way she could think of to pray for us, what with customs being suspicious of liquids and all.”

  “Is she coming back soon?”

  “A few days, she said. She’s sure the tea won’t wear off before then.”

  “Well, that’s good news at least.”

  “Which? The persistence of holiness in tea water, or Marnie’s return?” His eyes sparkled in his gray face.

  “Both, I imagine.” She settled down next to Peter’s bed and entwined his hand in hers. “We can use the help.”

  “Marnie said that help is already on the way. Says you know a miracle-working priest?”

  Sienna’s heart raced and her brow pinched. Surely Marnie couldn’t mean Greg. If he was a wonder worker, his gifts were too inverted to help anyone till he got back on track. Her confusion showed.

  “An Orthodox priest?” Peter prompted.

  “Father Max!” Sienna relaxed and considered a moment. Yes, it was right there in her image of him. He was one of those whose Amen held authority. “You know, I think she’s right. I didn’t see him today, which is not surprising. Next time he comes in the shop, I will make sure to see if he’ll visit.”

  “Not that I’m complaining about my favorite visitor, of course.”

  “Of course.” She kissed him.

  “I had big plans for our anniversary. Double massages, a fall garden tour, a little pouch of foolishly expensive tea.” Peter’s eyes closed slowly as he listed the surprises he would have given her.

  “They’ll keep till you’re better.”

  “Sienna,” Peter looked her in the eyes with obvious effort. “They’ll come in here to tell you how I’m doing in a little while, and it won’t be good news.” He squeezed her hand. “I want you to know that I love you so much, with my whole person. Even if we don’t have long together…” He swallowed.

  “Then let’s spend our time right.” She pressed her lips on his temple and held his head to her chest. “I love you, Peter. I want to help you be fully alive for as long as you are here with me.” They kissed gently, and Peter’s eyes slipped shut.

  “No pressure,” he whispered. She pulled back, worried that she had held him too tightly. “I mean,” he opened his eyes a little, “no pressure on picking the right way to spend our time.”

  Sienna sat up straight and knit her brows in thought. After a moment, her face relaxed into a small smile. “There’s always time for tea.”

  Peter chuckled lightly.

  Sienna opened the small tin she had brought along and held it near Peter so he could smell it.

  “Wow,” he said. He raised his eyebrows, though his eyes remained mostly closed.

  “It’s not foolishly expensive, but it will have to do.” Sienna let Peter rest for a moment while she bustled with the tea. After a space of ten minutes, the room had filled with a warm, malty and floral fragrance. She poured the golden brown liquid into mugs and watched them steam. When she placed the mug on his bed table, Peter woke.

  “Thank you.” He smiled with his eyes.

  Sienna held one mug up for each of them. “To us!” she said.

  “To us!” Peter echoed. She held one cup to his lips, and they both sipped.

  They had a space of quiet in the tea-scented air before it changed. The door swung open, and Dr. Avery entered. Her demeanor held the directness of one who brought news, but her eyes were sad. It would be bad news.

  Notes from Sienna’s tea files

  Merril Avery, 56, oncologist, fabulous baker, hiking enthusiast. Jasmine and oolong tea with honey, brewed lightly but in quantity. Served hot or iced—when she’s on the job, hot, but iced when she’s hiking. The sweetness of clover honey complements best. Warm, fragrant, healing, relieves pain and eases tension.

  Chapter Twelve

  In her dreams, Sienna kept finding herself falling into lakes when the hiking trails sloped suddenly, removing her foothold. The splash of her last fall melded with a wash of heavy rain on the windows. She rolled over in bed and reached for her phone. It was not on the table. She sat up. She was on Peter’s side of the mattress, and her phone buzzed lightly on her nightstand. It was Tovah, calling early. That must mean something was amiss.

  “Sienna, I know the timing is bad, but I have to call in sick today,” Tovah whispered hoarsely. “Can you believe it? Mumps. Who gets mumps anymore?”

  “What?” Sienna blinked. “Oh, Tovah, I’m so sorry. Of course you
have to stay home. Get well. Rest.”

  “I’ve had the vaccine, and they gave me a serum or something. Should just be a few days.”

  Sienna winced in pity at Tovah’s pained whisper. “Oh, Tovah. No need to explain. I’ll go in, or I’ll get Jessie to cover.”

  “That’s the other reason I called. Jessie is out of town at a bluegrass festival she’s playing.”

  “Oh.” Sienna rubbed her forehead. Peter might not have a lot more time. The doctors’ percentages were lower than the fat percentages on her raspberry thumbprint cookies. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “What is it?” Tovah’s voice raised to a grating volume.

  “Peter’s not doing well.”

  “Two days, and I’ll be better. I may still sound like Cerberus, but I’ll come back in two days.”

  “Two days.” That gave her another two weeks, maybe, with Peter. She knew she should say something to Tovah, but she was too shocked to feel her way through to speech.

  She hung up the phone and stumbled to the shower. The sharp spray washed some of the grief from her eyes. She dressed in a soft blue batik skirt, a long white tunic, and coral beads. Then she remembered the cold. She dug in the cedar chest Peter had built into the back wall of the closet and pulled out a quilted silk jacket in a rich berry hue. It was under Peter’s cream merino cable sweater, the one he wore while sketching in the autumn and winter. She fingered the ink and charcoal stains on the cuffs, remnants of their happiness. He’d leave blue and gray fingerprints on the teapot in the cooler months. When he kissed her in autumn, he’d leave dust in her hair. Her seasons relied on Peter.

  She closed the chest and slipped into a sturdy pair of black leather Mary Janes. The shop needed her if it was to survive Peter’s illness. It was painful to be away from him, but it would not be for long. For two more days, she would give the shop as much as she could. Then she would stay by Peter until he left the hospital. She would drink in his face, the strong length of his lovely hands, and she would hope. The hope would be her prayer.