Jane of Austin

by Hillary Manton Lodge

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I told her instead. “Rest well, Jane.”

  34

  Tea, but the strong stuff. Leave the bag in.

  —TOBY WHITHOUSE

  Jane

  I woke up the next morning, and as my eyes focused I remembered where I was. The ICU, because of the double pneumonia. The pain in my chest had eased, and the fever had abated, but I still felt…terrible. I opened my eyes wider.

  My mouth felt so dry.

  “You awake, there?”

  I tipped my head to the side and saw Callum sitting in the plastic chair next to me. “Hi.”

  His face relaxed into a warm, real smile. “Hi.”

  “How’d you get in here?” I asked.

  “Celia told the staff I was family yesterday. Nina too.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. “Whatever test exists to create family status, I think you both passed a while ago.”

  “They’re still sleeping at the hotel. I came to see how you were doing. You hungry? You mentioned wanting a big breakfast last night.”

  “That was more to give them something to do.” I thought for a moment, and focused on my stomach. “Nope. Not hungry.”

  “Thirsty? I found some tea.”

  My eyes widened. “You did?”

  “I’ll be more specific,” he said. “Your sister found tea in your purse, and I found hot water and insulated cups.”

  “That tea in my purse keeps coming in handy. I’m glad I restocked.” I reached my non-IV hand out. “Hand it over, mister.”

  “Tell me if you need a straw.”

  “A straw. As if.” But the cup was heavier than I was prepared for, and only Callum’s quick reflexes kept me from giving myself a baptism of hot tea. I blushed. “Thank you.”

  “Of course. You’ve got it?”

  “I have it, thank you,” I said, my flush not fading at all. I took a sip, and the crisp, clean taste of green tea filled my mouth. “This is perfect.” I squinted. “This tea—it’s loose leaf. How did you…”

  He folded his arms. “I begged coffee filters off the nurses. Stapled them together to make a bag.”

  “Did you, now? I wish I could have seen that.” I told him, slowly, around sips, about how I’d had to make last-minute tea at Ruby Lou’s concert. “That tea was loose too. I need to start carrying bags around.” I gave a tiny shrug against my pillow. “Feels like a very, very long time ago.”

  “You used coffee filters at the concert too?”

  I gave a half smile. “I did. Tied them with string. For someone who doesn’t know how to make coffee, I use a lot of coffee filters.”

  “You don’t know how to make coffee?” His eyebrows flew upward, incredulous.

  “I don’t drink it. Why should I know how to make it? It’s like asking a vegetarian to know how to roast a chicken.”

  He laughed, and I enjoyed the sight. His face—so often appearing stern, broadened and crinkled when he laughed.

  I gave the tea another sip and realized I was starting to wear out already.

  He must have been able to tell, because Callum reached for the cup and set it aside, onto the small sliding tray that clipped to the hospital bed. “You should rest,” he said. “But I know it can be boring when you’re in bed for any length of time—especially for someone like you.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Callum gave a soft laugh. “You like to stay busy, that’s all.”

  I sighed. “True enough. Though at the moment, I don’t feel like being busy at all.”

  “You’ll feel better. How’s the fever? Still gone? You look flushed.”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m not sure.”

  Actually, I was pretty sure my blush wasn’t at all fever related.

  “Well, I brought a book. When I was young, there was one week when my parents were away on vacation in the Bahamas, and Roy and Betsy were watching us. I fell ill with the chicken pox, and when Roy was off work, he’d read to me while I rested.”

  I smiled up at him. “That’s a wonderful story.”

  “I felt better, and I think the book did the trick. So I brought it with me.” He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a beaten paperback.

  Peering at it, at an angle, I just managed to read the title.

  The Princess Bride, it read.

  I pursed my lips together.

  Callum Beckett? The Princess Bride? I’d read the book ages ago, enjoying the author’s sly fictional narrative about “abridging” the “original.” And it looked as though I was about to enjoy it a second time. Callum flipped through to the first page and began to read. “ ‘This is my favorite book in all the world,” he read, his voice deep and even, “though I have never read it. How is such a thing possible? I’ll do my best to explain…’ ”

  35

  Tea! That’s all I needed. A good cup of tea. A superheated infusion of free radicals and tannin. Just the thing for heating the synapses.

  —RUSSELL T. DAVIES

  Jane

  “How are you feeling?” Celia asked for the fourth time that morning.

  “I am well,” I answered, working hard to stay patient. She did, after all, have my best interests at heart. “How about this: I promise, cross my heart, to tell you if I need to rest.”

  “That would be more believable if you hadn’t fainted last week.”

  I winced. “I should have known you’d bring that up.”

  In truth, my recovery had been much slower than I’d hoped for. I tired easily and sometimes had difficulty catching my breath. The experience was frustrating because after such close encounters with death, I was eager to get on with life. And as far as I was concerned, that meant getting serious about opening a tea salon here in Austin.

  While I rested, I prepared my heart for a location that would do in the meantime. For a place to start out in, while we waited.

  But this morning, while I weighed tea for orders with Parks and Recreation playing in the background, Celia took a call from our leasing agent. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I could see her body shift in anticipation, excitement radiating from her pores.

  When she hung up, she clapped her hands together with glee. “There’s a new space! It’s not even listed yet; Chad found out about it through a contact. We can take a look at it today, at noon. Jane—it’s in Hyde Park. On Duvall!”

  “You’re kidding!”

  Celia’s face split into a smile. “Not even kidding.”

  “Shut up!” I rose as fast as I could—though not my top speed—and hugged her tight. “You said noon?”

  “Yes!”

  “Aw, that’s too bad. I have my canasta group at noon.”

  Celia laughed and swatted my arm. “Shall we plan on getting tacos on the way?”

  “Was there any question?”

  At noon we pulled up in front of the property in question. “It’s not officially listed yet,” Chad said, and I could see why. People were still coming and going, carrying out furniture and equipment.

  I knew the feeling. And I felt guilty, in that moment, for being so fast on the scene to scoop up a place after the death of someone’s dream.

  I’ve been there, I wanted to say. I’ve been in your shoes.

  But…life went on, I realized as I looked around. For better or for worse, life had continued. Leaving San Francisco hadn’t ended me, or me and Celia, and now we were here, on the precipice of good things.

  This location still wasn’t quite as magical as the first one we’d seen, before we’d arrived in Austin. But there were some friendly plants around the building, a patio for outdoor seating, and parking spaces not only in front but also behind.

  Celia squinted across the street. “Is that a Smoky Top over there?”

  I made a show of casually peering in that direction. “Oh, I guess so.”

  Celia looked back at me. “Huh.”

  “Never a bad thing to have barbecue nearby,” Chad remarked, oblivious.


  “No,” Celia agreed blandly. “It’s not.”

  With that bit of knowledge out in the open, we turned our attention to the space itself. In truth, I braced myself for the interior to be dreadful.

  While it didn’t hold a candle to the architectural grace of our San Francisco location, it wasn’t bad. The tiles were faux stone, in a nice dark green with blue and gray undertones. The walls were covered with what I surmised to be twenty-year-old wallpaper but would be easy enough to take care of.

  The orientation of the space was similar to our last location, which meant that the marble-topped bar had a very natural placement within sight of the front door. I glanced up and found a drop ceiling. As far as I was concerned, the drop tiles would go, and we’d embrace exposed ductwork like true hipsters.

  Maybe I’d even grow a moustache.

  We walked into the kitchen together, taking in the space—most of the appliances and equipment had already been sold off, but the space had an efficient flow.

  I turned to check in with Celia. “What do you think?”

  She turned to me, her face carefully arranged. “I think it could work for us.”

  “Good,” I told her. “I totally agree.”

  Chad looked gobsmacked. “You do?”

  Celia’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  I nodded. “I think we should do it.”

  Celia squealed and threw her arms around me, her momentum sending us spinning across the floor.

  I grinned, hung on tight, and spun with her.

  “I can’t wait to put up new wallpaper, and we can put shelves on the wall. Can you imagine?” Celia asked as she drove. “Being able to put in wall shelves up high without worrying about an earthquake?”

  “You trust customers not to break their cups?” I asked.

  “I’m sure we’ll lose a few, but I think it’ll be fun.”

  “Then we’ll do it. I’m excited about the office space. It was that or take out the TV to put in more shelves at the casita. Once we open,” I continued, “it might be worth hiring someone to fill the orders. Margot can do it after school, some of the time, but the kid’s gotta get outside.” I paused, and then continued. “I’ve been toying with an idea; I’m not sure what you’ll think about it.”

  “What is it?”

  “A tea subscription box. Every month, we’d send a selection of teas—or people could pay extra to pick their own—and a bag of scone mix or something. Maybe spend a bit of extra money having the boxes printed with local artwork.” I looked over at Celia, my lip caught between my teeth.

  “I think it’s genius,” Celia said. She glanced at me, and then back at the road. “You have good instincts.”

  “Thanks,” I said, my sister’s approval filling me with a warm glow. “I think you do too.”

  “Speaking of good things,” Celia said, her voice turning coy. “You and Callum?”

  My face turned the brightest shade of red. “Yes?”

  Celia waited, raising an eyebrow when I didn’t continue. “It’s like that, is it?”

  “I…I don’t want to jinx anything,” I admitted. “By rushing in.”

  “I see,” Celia said, a smile tugging at her lips.

  “He asked, if I was well enough, if I could come by Smoky Top today. Help him manage some of the employee situation.”

  “Oh?”

  “Figuring out who to fire, mostly.”

  “Oh,” Celia said again, this time on an exhale. “That makes so much more sense. You’d be really good at that.”

  “I feel like I should be offended, but I can’t muster enough effort to get there.”

  “Really!” Celia protested. “You’re good at handling that sort of thing. Much better than me.”

  “It’s kind of hilarious, sometimes, how good you were in the finance world, all things considered.”

  Celia shook her head. “I wouldn’t have lasted there forever. I’m good at what I do. I’ve enjoyed helping Ian with his accounts. But that world wasn’t for me. The suits, the attitude—no. I’m happier doing this.”

  I reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’m glad.”

  “What about you?” she asked, her eyes full of concern. “I don’t…I don’t know that I’ve ever thanked you. Not properly. You gave up school so that we could have the tea salon. It was your idea, and you were right. So right. But are you happy?”

  Celia’s question made me stop and think.

  “I’m happy we finally have a new location,” I said slowly. “And I’m happy to be here with you, and happy that Margot is settling in. There have always been things I’ve wanted to do, to learn. I still want to finish my degree; that’s important to me. But you and Margot, you two matter more. And”—I pictured the almighty mess of teas on our tiny table—“I like this. I’m good at it. It’s not what I would have chosen at nineteen. It’s good to have dreams. But sometimes dreams change, or take different forms, or you go down a path and realize that while it’s not the beach, you really like the forest.” I squinted at Celia. “That’s really deep, you know. I hope you appreciated my profundity.”

  “Very much so.” Celia squeezed my hand. “I just want to make sure you’re happy.”

  “I am, I think. I’ll be happier still when we have our own place. But we’re all together right now, and that’s the thing that matters most.”

  I drove to Smoky Top later that afternoon, the one kitty-corner to our new space. Walking inside, I found myself feeling shy as I looked around for Callum.

  The hostess seated me and I waited, stacking the tiny tubs of whipped butter. I was working on making a bridge with the hand-wipe packets when he came around the corner.

  He stopped at the door first, and flipped the Open sign to Closed before he approached my table, a smile on his face.

  I looked up at him, feeling my breath catch. “Hi,” I said, sounding weird and out of breath. I looked down, saw my tower of table accoutrements, and flushed. “Sorry, I’ll put these back in their places.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said, sliding into the booth on the bench opposite me. “I did that all the time when I was a kid.”

  “Yeah, but the operative word in that sentence is kid.”

  “Give it up if you want, or level up to being able to make something with the sugar packets.”

  I grinned at him, and he grinned back.

  We just sat there, at the back booth of the Hyde Park Smoky Top, grinning at each other like happy idiots.

  “I really appreciate your willingness to give me a hand around here.”

  “Not sure how helpful I’ll be,” I said, managing to close my mouth right before I could say, “but it’s the least I can do.”

  If there was one thing Callum hated, I had learned, it was any sign that I might feel beholden to him. So I said nothing, just smiled with my lips closed to keep the words inside.

  One by one, that afternoon, I met with each member of the staff, looked over the slim personnel files, asked a few questions.

  “Do you like your job?” I asked each one. “What would you change around here? Who deserves more responsibility? Who do you think is a poor fit?” And one by one, they either told me—or told me more by how they evaded answers.

  Afterward, Callum and I ate banana pudding and discussed each staff member.

  “Well,” I said, “I think Latisha and Ramon are super sharp, and Latisha should probably be your front-of-the-house manager. It sounds like Asher needs to be fired yesterday. With more training, I think Yolanda and Hector could be really strong.”

  “You think?”

  “You might double-check with Roy—I feel like he’d know things—but I think so. It’s ultimately your call, though.”

  “You’d think that after running a company of marines, this would be easier.”

  I shrugged. “Civilian life is different. Different kinds of variables.”

  He ran a hand over his face. “You got that right.”

  “I think firing Asher is going to d
o a lot for this location.”

  Callum dipped his spoon into his pudding. “Want to go out with me this weekend?”

  The sudden change of subject set me back, but not for long. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Another spoonful. “There’s a Balmorhea concert, Saturday night, at the Empire.”

  “Oh?” My eyes widened. “I love Balmorhea!”

  “Thought you might do.”

  There was nothing to do but sit and grin at the man.

  He really had wonderful eyes. Large and dark, rimmed with eyelashes so long I wondered if he’d caught flack for them when he was on active duty.

  Realizing I was staring, I dropped my gaze down to the bowl in front of me and cleared my throat. “Can I, um…steal your recipe for banana pudding?”

  His mouth quirked into an easy smile. “I don’t see why not. Recipes are in the kitchen.”

  “Yeah? Give me the fifty-cent tour?”

  “Happy to.”

  We stopped in the kitchen first, where I swore to Monroe, the chef on duty, that I would only use the recipe for personal use.

  Callum showed me the smokers afterward, and then led the way to his office. He stopped dead in the doorway before I could see inside.

  I stepped beside him, just far enough to see the woman sitting behind the desk.

  “Oh, hi,” I said, putting two and two together very quickly. “You must be Lila. We haven’t met yet.”

  She was pretty, very pretty. And pregnant.

  She was Callum’s first love. And now she was carrying my ex-boyfriend’s baby.

  This could either be really complicated—or really, really simple.

  “I’m Jane.” I stuck my hand out, stepping forward so she wouldn’t have to rise from the chair to shake it. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to meet sooner; I’ve been sick.”

  Lila studied my face as if she wasn’t entirely sure how to respond.

  “Anyway,” I continued, in a rush, “I’m glad we’ve finally gotten to meet.”

  “Yes,” Lila said, in an exhale. “I’m glad too.”

  “You should come over for tea. Come meet my sisters. Here”—I reached for the pen and stack of sticky notes on the desk, and scrawled my number onto it—“is my number. Text me when you’re free.”