I’ll be there, came the reply. Hang tight.
I tried and failed to keep the smile from taking over my face.
“What are you smiling about, there?” Nina called out from across the room.
“The weather is nice,” I answered, as benignly as possible. “It’s…sunny.”
Celia looked over her shoulder at me, her face quizzical.
“It is a lovely day,” Lyndsay trilled. “The colors in this room look so nice in the natural light. Did you design the room, Mrs. Vandermeide?”
I used every ounce of self-restraint to keep my groan on the inside.
The minutes crawled by until the bell at the door rang. Pilar set down her tray of sweet teas to answer the door, and moments later Sean Willis strode in, hat in hand.
He greeted everyone, working his way through the room with a series of firm handshakes and broad smiles. Sean saved me for last, placing a kiss on my cheek. “I broke speed limits,” he whispered into my ear. “Did I get here in time?”
“Only just,” I whispered back. “Are you giving excuses, or am I?”
“I wanted to see you—no excuses necessary.” He squeezed my hand before turning back to the room. “I’m stealing Jane away,” he said, his voice warm and confident. I would have done whatever he wanted, and I hated being told what to do.
Nina pressed her hand to her heart.
That, or her left underwire gave out. But she was smiling, so likely the former. “Have fun, you two crazy kids!”
I didn’t dare look at Celia as we waved good-bye, half running from the room.
Pear and Earl Grey Tea Pies to Go
For the pie dough
2 ½ cups unbleached all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting the work surface
14 tablespoons cold salted butter, cut into ¼-inch pieces
8–10 tablespoons ice water
For the egg wash
1 egg, lightly beaten
1 teaspoon water
For the filling
4 cups pears, peeled, cored, and sliced
¼ cup sugar
1 ½ tablespoons cornstarch
1 teaspoon lemon juice
¼ teaspoon lemon zest
½ teaspoon of Earl Grey tea, finely ground
For the glaze
1 cup powdered sugar
2 ½ tablespoons strong brewed Earl Grey tea
To make the pastry, cut the butter into the flour until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs. This can also be done with a food processor, pulsing in short bursts.
Sprinkle 8 tablespoons ice water over the mixture, mixing with a fork until the dough begins to cling and form. If it remains dry, add the remaining ice water 1 teaspoon at a time—the dough should hold together without being either crumbly or tacky.
Shape the dough into two discs, cover them with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least an hour to allow the dough to rest.
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
Prepare the egg wash, stirring together the beaten egg with the water.
In a large bowl, toss the pears, sugar, cornstarch, lemon juice, lemon zest and ground tea together.
Roll out the dough on a lightly floured surface until it’s about 1/16-inch thick. Cut the dough into 5- to 6-inch squares—you’ll get between 8 and 10. Brush the edges with the egg wash, and spoon on 3–4 tablespoons of pear mixture. Place a second pastry square directly over the pear filling, and press the edges of pastry together to seal into a pocket. Use a fork to crimp the edges of the pocket, and pierce 3 or 4 holes in the top of each pie.
Lightly brush the top of each pie with egg wash. Place on a baking sheet and bake for 20–25 minutes, or until the tops are golden brown. Move the pies onto a wire rack and allow to cool.
For the Earl Grey tea glaze, mix together the brewed tea and powdered sugar with a fork. Drizzle over the top of the cooled pies and serve, or save for your next getaway—they’ll keep in the fridge for up to 1 week.
Makes 8-10 pies.
13
Texas does not, like any other region, simply have indigenous dishes. It proclaims them. It congratulates you, on your arrival, at having escaped from the slop pails of the other forty-nine states.
—ALISTAIR COOKE
Callum
I was hiding, though I tried to be discreet about it. Begrudging Ian a new dinner guest was petty of me, all things considered. But Lyndsay Stahl reminded me of the women who often chased after military men, only to flit to the next guy when they found out what a military life—and salary—entailed.
No good could come from that one.
Watching Jane, I could immediately tell that Lyndsay landed on her last nerve. But as I watched Jane’s gaze flit from Celia to Lyndsay, her brows pressing together with that Jane-like intensity, I knew the sight of trouble brewing.
So I wasn’t surprised, not really, to see Sean’s truck roll up; even less when Jane and Sean emerged from the house, hands clasped, barely containing their laughter.
But still. Still.
From my room upstairs, I could see the way she clutched his hand, the way her head tipped back in laughter.
I moved from the window, my leg aching. Today, the ghost pains shot through my calf, a calf that didn’t exist. I walked to the bed and sat down.
She was happy. I should have been happy for her, been grateful for anything that put such a wide smile on her face.
Instead, I picked up my phone and dialed Lila’s number. The line rang, but I stood up straighter when it connected.
“Hello? Who is this?”
It wasn’t Lila’s voice, and I could tell because it was, well, male.
“This is Callum Beckett,” I answered. Did I have the number wrong? “I’m looking for Lila Branford.”
“Do you know where she is?”
My stomach clenched. “No, I don’t.”
“Lila’s missing. I’m her landlord. She skipped town and left this phone behind.”
I took a deep breath. “Have the authorities been contacted?”
“Yes, sir, but no one’s heard anything. And she’s late on her rent.”
“Where are you?”
“Austin. I manage the Casa Grande apartments.”
I took his name and number and promised to be in touch. Pulling out my computer, I ran a search for Lila’s name and the word “missing,” and sure enough, there were local reports of a missing woman, aged thirty-three, last seen back in October.
My brain froze.
Lila had been looking for work and now she was missing. My stomach twisted as I thought of Lila as she’d been, the sun glinting on her hair, her eyes laughing, her arms over her head as she danced along the sidewalk. I thought of her after her marriage to Cameron, expensively clad, expression pinched.
Her life must have taken a very difficult turn.
I knew Lila didn’t have much family to speak of. My family had been all she’d had. And now my family was just…me.
Maybe she had other people. I didn’t know. We hadn’t seen each other for years. Either way, I settled at the desk in my room and picked up my phone again.
14
What better way to suggest friendliness—and to create it—than with a cup of tea?
—J. GRAYSON LUTTRELL
Jane
Sean and I climbed into his truck, and as we sped down the road, I found I didn’t care where we were going. Music played over the speakers, and I took deep breaths as I felt my shoulders relax. I was away. Away, and with Sean.
We weren’t very far away when he pulled into a long drive. “This is where I’m staying,” he said, pointing ahead to an expansive house, one not unlike Ian and Mariah’s home.
“That is massive,” I said, taking in the columns, wraparound porch, and coordinating balcony.
“It’s my great-aunt’s,” he said. “She’s elderly, and I help take care of it.”
“That’s good of you.” I turned to look at him, enjoying the sight of his dim
ples, the way his hair fell over his forehead.
“She doesn’t have a lot of family,” he said. “She’s lonely. And she wants me to inherit the house, so I figure if I can run the place now, I’m set for later.”
I peered out the window. “That’s a lot of house to inherit.”
“Perfect for raising a family, I figure.” He turned and winked at me. “Lots of room to roller-skate.”
“Depends on the floors,” I said without thinking.
“Pardon?”
“You know…the floors, if they’re smooth or not.” The floors of my childhood home flashed before my eyes. The travertine in the foyer, the original wood in the upstairs halls. Even after we rolled the rugs away, the way the wood ridged had made it rough going for Rollerblades. Instead, we rolled down the sidewalk, then changed into our lace-up Keds to hike back up, only to roll down again with our hands in the air.
We’d only scraped our knees a dozen times.
Those were happy memories, but I kept them to myself as Sean parked his truck inside the cavernous garage.
“Is your aunt home?” I asked as he helped me down from the seat.
“No, she’s visiting friends in Highland Park. Outside of Dallas,” he added, seeing my blank expression. He pulled one of my curls, grinning as it sprung back into place. “Surely you’re not afraid to be alone with me.”
“As long as she doesn’t mind a stray visitor…”
“Never. She’d love you.”
I didn’t feel lovable, not in that moment. We walked together into the house, and I took in the soaring ceilings, but saw my old home in San Francisco instead.
Would his aunt like me if she knew about my father? Would Sean?
I’d experienced it over and over as the years had unfolded. As soon as people knew, things changed. When I left school, and Celia left her firm, very few of our friends from our former life stayed in contact. We made new friends—Celia especially—with people who didn’t read the business section of any periodical, people with no connection to our former life. They knew our mother died and then our father lost his job, that we were taking care of our sister while our dad was traveling, that Celia and I worked hard to make ends meet—and that was enough. We didn’t fill in any remaining blanks.
The rooms opened one into another at Sean’s aunt’s home. He took me to his rooms upstairs; I glanced into the space where he slept, and followed him into the one with his instruments and recording equipment.
“So you’re a proper rock star. Is that what you’re telling me?” I asked teasingly.
He slung a guitar strap over his head and strummed a few chords. “Do you have a thing for rock stars? Because if you do, the answer is yes.”
“I had a crush on the first chair, once, in college. He was an oboist.”
“You had a crush on an oboist?”
“He had lovely hands, played with such feeling.”
“I’d respect it if he were a trumpeter.”
I rolled my eyes. “Trumpeters? Drunks, every last one.”
“What instrument were you playing?”
“Clarinet. But also the viola.”
“That’s right. You can play wind, strings, and piano. Did everyone hate you?”
I shrugged and looked away. I hadn’t been extremely well liked in the music department, at least not by the other students. All the professors, however, had known me by name.
“I would have liked you,” Sean promised. “Let’s go outside; I’ll show you the grounds.”
He grabbed my hand, pulling me back out to the hallway.
“Are they particularly scenic in February?”
“I think so. And it’s not cold out, anyway.”
We stepped through the french doors; the bright afternoon had begun to dim, but white lights twisted in the bare branches of the trees twinkled in the last daylight.
“You’re right,” I said, looking around, enjoying the breeze that tousled my hair. “It’s lovely.”
“The lights stay in the trees year-round,” he said. “My idea.”
“You just didn’t want to take them out after the holidays.”
From his sly sideways smile, I knew I had hit the mark.
“You probably talked her into white lights, rather than multicolor,” I guessed.
“She finds colored lights vulgar.”
“But year-round white lights are fine?”
“She likes the lights in Paris.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
He reached for my waist, then pulled me close before pressing a gentle kiss to my lips. “You seemed upset earlier, before we came outside. Everything okay?”
I looked up at him, at his eyes that radiated sincerity.
“It just…made me remember things.”
“Your oboist?”
“No. Well, yes, but I don’t care about that.” A deep breath. “My sister and I grew up in a big old house in San Francisco. It was my mother’s family’s house, in the family for five generations. A long time, by Californian standards.”
I gave him the abbreviated, prettified version of our life in California, covering basics but skirting details.
His hand tightened on my waist. “I’m so sorry.”
“The three of us—we made it through. But it was embarrassing and hard, losing mom and the house, our respectability.”
“You don’t have to tell me. Not if you don’t want to.”
I nodded, and pressed my head against his shoulder. “We’re fine. You don’t need to feel sorry for us.”
He snorted. “I don’t see you as a victim, Jane. Anything but.”
“Thanks,” I said with a crooked smile. “I feel like I lost Celia, once we left California. Today just rubbed salt into the wound.”
“I don’t think you’ve lost Celia.”
“She doesn’t talk to me. Not like she used to. And we’re everything to each other; at least we always have been.”
He wound his fingers through mine. “I think you still are. But you have me too, you know.”
I looked up at him. “We haven’t known each other very long,” I said. It was more of a reminder for him than me. I knew how I felt about him, but did he?
“Long enough,” he said, before cupping my face, pulling me, my lips, gently toward him.
We kissed under the twinkling lights in the branches of his aunt’s garden, and if a late winter wind blew through, I didn’t notice. Not for several minutes, anyway, but even the warmth of love cannot overcome nature; Sean insisted we go inside once I began to shiver.
He made coffee with a massive Keurig, then presented it to me in a mug I recognized to be Wedgewood.
“Are you sure it’s okay for me to be here? I don’t want to intrude on your aunt’s space.”
He shook his head. “She wants me to be at home. One day, it’ll be mine, after all.”
I looked around. “And you’ll keep it?”
He nodded. “Might not be five generations old—most of this area was built up in the nineties, after all—but it’s got good bones. I like Austin. And,” he added, “those floors are marble smooth. Perfect for roller skates.”
“Do children even roller-skate anymore?” I asked dryly.
“Everything old is new again,” he replied with a wink, pulling on one of my curls again.
“You realize I used to backhand the kids who pulled my curls in school.”
“Oh?” He leaned in, running a thumb over my brow, my cheekbone, my jawline. “I’ll stop if you want me to.”
I lifted my lips to his. “I’ll keep you posted.”
He kissed me back, deeply. How coffee on his breath tasted good, I didn’t know. But I already knew him to be magic.
We were interrupted by a rumble.
Sean chuckled. “Hungry?”
“That was my stomach, wasn’t it?” I covered my face with my hand. “How embarrassing.”
“You’re not the one who should be embarrassed; I should have fed you. It’s gettin
g near supper, after all.”
I smiled at the way he said supper.
He looked around for his keys. “Want to head into town? I know of a great little taco truck.”
“Sure,” I said, and within minutes we were off again, together in his truck.
Much later that night, my stomach full of tacos and butterflies, Sean dropped me off just outside the casita.
The trouble, I realized, with trying to sneak into a one-bedroom guesthouse was the one-bedroom bit. Not that I’d ever tried to return home to our San Francisco apartment unnoticed, but if I had at least I would have had the benefit of my own bedroom door.
While Margot slept as heavily as a coma patient, Celia tended to sleep like a cat.
But, I reasoned as I reached for my key, maybe she’d tired herself out so much from her meaningful tête-à-tête with Lyndsay that she’d be dead asleep.
I slipped inside, startled to find Celia curled up in one of the two club chairs.
“What are you doing?” I blurted out. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” she said, blinking as she sat up.
“Sean and I were out,” I answered, defensive. “You could have texted, if you were worried.”
“Would you have answered?”
“Of course!” I said, stung.
She hugged her arms to herself. “I just didn’t know where you were.”
“Celia, we’re not seventeen anymore.”
“I know we’re not. But we’re in a new city, and it would be nice to know where you are.”
“So you want me to communicate?” I asked, my voice cutting. “Share with you? Want me to tell you all about my hurts, hopes, and dreams?”
I snapped my mouth shut, trying and failing to regain control.
All I knew was that it was late, I was tired, and after she ignored me this afternoon in favor of Lyndsay the Worst, coming home to Celia the Concerned Sibling was a bridge too far.
“I’m fine,” I snapped. “And I’m going to bed.”
“Jane—”
“Don’t worry, you won’t have to tell me any bedtime stories or bring me any glasses of water. I’m capable of seeing myself upstairs.”
Jane of Austin Page 12
