Well, ex-landlord. Because the owner of our building, Atticus, had passed away the week before. Atticus had passed, and there was no way we could pay his nephew the number on the paper in front of us.
“You’ve been leasing the space for six years now?”
“Seven,” Celia corrected softly.
“Right. And the market, you know, has increased in the area exponentially. Which was fine for my uncle, but for myself as a businessman…” His voice trailed off, leaving us to infer his thoughts on not exponentially increasing our rent.
“Do you think,” my sister Celia asked carefully, “that there could be some room for negotiation?”
“Well,” Jonathan started. But his wife, Phoebe, laid her hand over his to stop the flow of words.
“My uncle-in-law was quite the philanthropist,” Phoebe said, drawing out the last word. “But the recession is over.” She smiled, or at least gave her best facsimile of a smile. “Our son’s tuition won’t pay for itself.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Celia kicked my foot and shook her head slightly. I looked out the office window and counted to fifty.
Backward.
If Celia didn’t want me to point out that Jonathan and Phoebe’s son was all of three years old, I wouldn’t. If she didn’t want me to remind Jonathan that since he’d inherited his uncle’s real estate holdings, we could use the tea salon space for free and he’d hardly miss a penny, fine. We were hardly standing between his son and whatever lower-tier private university Jonathan Junior wouldn’t attend for another fifteen years, and everybody in the room knew it.
“You could speak to your father,” Jonathan suggested.
My hands clenched into fists.
Celia spoke first, saving me from trying to string together a civil sentence. “We’ve chosen to keep our business interests completely separate from our father, thank you.”
Phoebe’s smile edged into a smirk. “That’s probably for the best.”
I rose to my feet, struggling to remain calm. “We’ll be out in the thirty days stipulated in our lease agreement.” It would be a thin, sad holiday season, but at least we could spend it at our home before relocating.
Jonathan clapped his hands. “Excellent. You’ll find something else; I’m sure of it.”
I wasn’t but didn’t say anything.
“Could you make it fifteen?” Phoebe asked.
My spine straightened. “Excuse me?”
“Jon’s uncle simply rented without making improvements to his properties, and many of them need major repair and updating. I have a list of clients waiting to look at the space,” Phoebe continued. “The remodels will have to be completed before they see it.”
“Fifteen days,” I said, barely controlling my temper, “is Christmas Eve.”
“Oh,” Phoebe said. “I hadn’t realized. I apologize. How about twenty?” She clasped her hands together and gave us a benevolent smile. “Start the new year somewhere fresh.”
“Twenty is fine,” Celia answered quickly, before I could tell Phoebe where she could shove her fresh new year. “Thank you.”
And before I could say another word, she grabbed my hand and dragged me from the office.
We stayed silent as we walked down the hallway, but once the elevator doors closed, I whirled to face my sister. “What were you doing, agreeing to twenty days? What they’re asking is illegal!”
“Of course it is, Jane.” Celia pressed the L button to take us back to ground level. “But you and I both know that they can make life miserable for us if we disagree, and we can’t afford a legal battle.”
“It wouldn’t come to that. You’re dating Phoebe’s brother; she wouldn’t take it to court. Speaking of, does Teddy know about this?”
“He would have told me if he’d known. We’ll figure it out.”
I faced the elevator doors and crossed my arms. “I don’t like it. I don’t know how we’re going to get the three of us and the business moved out in twenty days. And”—my anger redoubled—“the building isn’t out of repair.”
“I know,” she sighed.
“How are we going to tell Margot that Christmas just got canceled?”
“It’s not canceled, just…”
“We can take a break from packing,” I said dryly, “to hold hands and sing carols. That’s our very-best-case scenario. Let’s not pretend it’s a good one.”
Celia sighed again.
I shook my head. “We’re Valencia Street Tea. What are we going to do if we’re not on Valencia Street anymore?”
“I suppose we’ll just be Valencia Tea. Or something.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Mmm. I like Valencia Tea Company better.”
“That’s perfectly fine.”
My stomach twisted with the thought, though. “Are you sure you couldn’t say something? To Teddy?”
Celia lifted a resigned shoulder. “Phoebe’s always gotten her way. If she says jump, he jumps. And tries not to get hit.”
“But he—”
“No,” Celia said.
I scowled and leaned against the mirrored elevator wall. “You’ve been seeing each other for how long? The two of you are practically engaged.”
“His hands are full enough at work; he doesn’t need to get tangled up with Jonathan and Phoebe’s issues.”
“Atticus would be horrified.” I shook my head. “I took his favorite scones to the memorial.”
Celia sighed. “You’re right. He would be shocked.”
I tried to take a deep breath, but it came out ragged. “How are we going to find another space in twenty days,” I asked, quieter, “much less move? What about the tea plants? And Margot?”
“I won’t tell her you thought of the tea plants first.” Celia’s mouth settled into a firm line. “We’ll figure something out.”
For the last seven years, we’d leased the downstairs of the row house—not Victorian, like the Painted Ladies, but built after the 1906 earthquake. Diverse and eclectic, our neighborhood on Valencia Street had gentrified over the years, with shops and restaurants springing up around us.
The upstairs of the house had been remodeled into an apartment, and when the tenants left three years ago, Atticus had offered it to the three of us. We’d been living on borrowed time, I now realized. Atticus didn’t raise our rates as the neighborhood changed, always telling us that he valued us and our tea shop.
In exchange, we kept him in tea and all the scones he could ever desire. The arrangement pleased us all—our old apartment had been cramped and a longer commute for Margot to get to ballet. After we moved in upstairs, she’d been able to walk to school and back, take BART to ballet, and have her homework supervised by Atticus in exchange for company and croissants.
Having the second floor also meant I had room for a secondhand piano and access to the rooftop, which is where I grew my personal tea plants.
The tea plants, like all camellia sinensis plants, grew slowly. I harvested them occasionally for our personal use and practiced making white, green, and black tea from the leaves, but I wouldn’t be able to use them on a commercial basis until I had more mature plants. Atticus had treasured my tea, and I’d always set aside the best of the harvest for him.
Atticus’s death meant that those days were now at an end. Our home, our business, and my plants—all would need to relocate.
“Maybe we won’t have to move far,” I said to Celia upon returning home. “We can go inland. Pleasant Hill, Walnut Creek…”
“Maybe,” Celia answered.
Margot wouldn’t like it, but neither of us would say so. As a junior in high school, Margot would likely find a move to the farther-flung burbs a fate worse than death.
“When is Teddy picking you up tonight?” I asked, reaching for something positive in my mind.
“When he gets off work, so…around eight or so.”
I squeezed her hand. “Maybe he’ll have a brilliant idea.”
“That would be nice,” Celia agreed.
>
We found Margot on the balcony, practicing her dancing and using the rail as a bar. Celia gestured her to the small kitchen table, and the three of us sat down.
“We’re going to have to move, aren’t we?” she asked, her face resolved. “Because Atticus died?”
“Yes,” Celia said. “But we’ll find something else.”
“I saw a For Rent sign two blocks over,” she offered.
“Oh.” Celia nodded. “Good. I’ll look into it.”
I knew my older sister. She would look, just as promised. But if the owners wanted what Jonathan and Phoebe wanted, there was absolutely no way we’d be able to afford it.
“We should start packing,” I told Margot. “Even if we don’t know where we’ll land yet, we can still get ready.”
She wrinkled her nose, but nodded.
Margot and I spent the evening in our apartment; the two of us made a pile of items that needed to be put away and another pile to be donated. I was asleep on the sofa when Celia returned later that night; Margot had long since retreated to message friends from the privacy of her room.
“Did you have a good time?” I asked, though the rosy glow in her cheeks gave away the answer. “Did he have any genius ideas?”
The glow faded, just a little. “No,” she said, removing her jacket before taking a seat beside me. “But he does hope we find somewhere nice and close by.”
“He doesn’t think he can influence Phoebe?”
“Phoebe is un-influenceable.”
“I highly doubt that, for a series of reasons it would be petty to mention.”
The corner of Celia’s mouth turned up in a smile. “No?”
“Also, I’m tired.”
“That makes more sense.”
“It is strange, when you think about it, that we’re being evicted by your boyfriend’s sister and her husband.”
Celia sighed. “Not evicted, exactly, but I know what you mean, and yes. But don’t worry. We’ll start looking for new places tomorrow.”
Every night, Celia closed out the till and we examined the numbers.
We had a little money, but not enough.
When I turned twenty-one, I gained control of my trust fund. My mother’s family had money, but not limitless wealth. The fund meant we had enough to pay off debts and tuck an appropriate amount into an emergency fund. The rest went into long-term investments to ensure that Margot could go to college. At the time we’d toyed with trying to buy a location rather than lease, but even then the price of purchasing property in the city was simply out of our reach.
Certainly, we couldn’t afford a place that could compare to where we were, especially after moving into the second-floor apartment.
With the investment money inaccessible, we had enough to keep the business going, to keep Margot in toe shoes, to make sure we all had medical coverage. Over the years, we’d gotten good at creatively making ends meet.
But the more we looked for a new space for Valencia Tea and a new growing space for the tea plants, the more my worries became real.
We’d had no luck finding anything in any of the adjacent neighborhoods; the For Rent sign had disappeared by the time Celia set out to inquire. Nothing across town, and so far Celia had been reluctant to examine the farther-flung suburbs, wanting to stay close for Teddy and Margot’s school, no doubt.
I just worried that close wouldn’t remain an option.
On day seven, we holed up after hours in the shop with the Oh Hellos playing over the speakers.
“Maybe if we tried something new with the Internet business,” I suggested as I wrapped yet another teapot up with packing wrap and placed it in a box. “Like a tea subscription box. Right now, most of our sales are local, but that kind of hook could take us national. Or maybe we do a pop-up shop from time to time or a food cart. What do you think of that?”
“We could,” Celia answered, looking up from packing her frilliest teacup. “But we make good money off the pastries. I’d want us to come back to this model. And I’d miss all this—the cups, the customers. This place has been special.”
I looked around at the space, with its original windows and vintage wallpaper. “It has.”
A rap sounded at the door behind me. “We’re closed!” I called without looking up.
“Just me,” came a familiar male voice.
“Teddy!” Celia set her packing aside and jumped up to unlock the door and let him inside.
He’d obviously come from work, his suit perfectly cut but a little rumpled from the day’s wear. He and Celia looked good together, like a Zales diamond ad. His hair was dark, like Phoebe’s, but where Phoebe’s was viciously straight, his was thick with a bit of curl.
Speaking of diamonds, I wondered—and not for the first time—when he’d get around to putting a ring on it. After all, they’d been together for ages.
“Sorry about leaving you in the cold, Teds,” I said, sitting up and taking notice of the bags in his hands. “Whatcha got there?”
“I brought Indian,” he said, lifting a plastic bag full of containers.
Celia gave him a chaste peck on the cheek. “You’re so sweet.”
“I’ll get plates!” I called out. “What’s in there?”
He began to pull plastic tubs of curry out, one by one. “Lamb rogan josh, chicken tikka masala, baingan bharta, and dal curry.”
I cocked my head to the side. “But what will the rest of you eat?”
Teddy gave a warm laugh. “There’s palak paneer too and samosas for Margot. Is she upstairs?”
“Only until the scent of food finds her nose.”
Sure enough, seconds later Margot’s head, surrounded by a soft halo of curls that had escaped her ballerina bun, appeared in the doorway. “Teddy! You’re here!” Her eyes lit on the food on the table. “And you brought Indian!” She looked up at him, her large dark eyes hopeful. “Did you get samosas?”
He lifted the brown paper bag. “Just for you.”
She threw her arms around his middle in an impetuous, classically Margot hug. “You’re the best.”
The four of us set up the containers at one of the café tables and filled our plates with rice, naan, curries, and samosas. As we ate, I looked around at the tea shop, struck by the realization that we wouldn’t be here, in this space, much longer.
After everything that had happened, Valencia Street Tea had become our home. It had provided a living for the three of us, a rewarding one that provided us the flexibility to take care of Margot.
And while I’d taken a class here and there, working toward finishing my degree, this home had given me the space to lean into one of the great loves of my life—tea. Here, I had space not only to grow my own tea but also reason to buy bulk tea and mix it with herbs, citrus peels, or flower buds to create my own specialty flavors. I loved experimenting with those blends, not just to brew as tea but to season food.
All this I could have done on my own, without the restaurant part of the tea salon, but that was Celia’s favorite part. Aside from keeping the books, she’d left the world of finance behind, embracing the hospitality side of running a tea shop. She loved serving tea in her eclectic collection of teapots and teacups, loved serving shortbreads and pound cakes, loved meeting customers and hearing about their day.
Every single good Internet review mentioned Celia, usually by name. The few bad ones?
I believe one former customer referred to me as a “termagant,” which if memory served me was actually code for “someone who will insist on people keeping their hands out of the loose-leaf tea jars, thank you very much.”
Margot sighed contentment as she ate. “I don’t want to leave,” she said. “I want to stay here forever, eating Indian takeout with Teddy.”
“We’ll find something close,” I said, sounding more confident than I felt. “Close to our customers. Close to Teddy.” I passed the container of rich green palak paneer to Celia. “I promise.”
On day ten, Phoebe called. “I’m goin
g to come in,” she said, “to take some measurements. Could you or your sister unlock the door for me?”
“It’s open,” I said.
“Oh,” she said, surprised. “You’re still open?”
I looked around the dining room at the regulars clustered around tables and bit back a dozen sarcastic retorts. “Yes, we are,” I said instead.
“Do you have any of those green-tea macarons?”
“The matcha macarons?” I reached into our pastry case and removed the tray. “No, I don’t believe I see any in the case.”
Phoebe made a noise of disappointment and hung up. I set the phone down and raised the tray. “Matcha macarons, anyone? They’re on the house.”
Within seconds, the macarons were gone.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving,” one of the customers said. “And over the holidays, no less. You’re Valencia Street Tea. You belong here; it’s in the name. You’re an institution.”
I gave a sad, wry smile. “We’ve only been here since 2010.”
“In this neighborhood? Institution.”
I smiled a thank-you and put on a brave face, knowing that Phoebe could walk in at any moment.
“It’s just so dated in here,” Phoebe said with a sigh after her arrival, as if the vintage interior made her tired.
I watched as Phoebe took in the original paned windows, the floral wallpaper, the crown molding, and tiled stone floors. If I could have taken the lot of it with us, I would have. I loved our tea salon, from the sign on the front to the potted plant in the back, and my heart broke at the thought of what she might do to it.
“Yes,” she said finally. “A lift is just what it needs.”
I physically clamped my tongue between my teeth.
Her vulture-like gaze swung to the bar, and her eyes lit up. “That’s nice though,” she said. “That can stay.”
“Actually,” Celia said, coming up behind me, “the bar is ours.”
Phoebe’s eyebrows, which managed to be at once massive and manicured, furrowed low over her eyes. “What’s that?”
“The bar,” Celia repeated, placing a hand over the marble top. “We bought it on craigslist.”
Jane of Austin Page 2
