by H. Y. Hanna
“Did you like the card?” He walked up and stopped in front of her.
Leah kept her gaze on the ground. “Yes. It’s beautiful, especially the poem… Thank you.”
Toran hesitated as she kept looking away from him. “Did you wish it had come from someone else?”
“No.” Leah raised her head and met his eyes. Then she smiled shyly, remembering his own phrase from the cable car a year ago. “I was hoping it would be you.”
His face softened and he moved towards her. Leah felt herself trembling. She took another step back and realised that she was at the edge of the pond.
“Careful!” Toran reached out and grabbed her arm. He pulled her towards him, away from the pond, and swung her around so that her back was pressed against the trunk of the tembusu tree.
His arms came around her. Slowly, he lowered his head towards hers and Leah closed her eyes, holding her breath. His lips were soft, tentative at first, then bolder as he kissed her deeper. She lifted her hands and placed them lightly on his shoulders, still shy, and felt him quiver at her touch. Leah realised that a part of him was just as nervous, just as uncertain as she was. She stretched up on tiptoe and kissed him back with all the wild feeling that was in her heart.
The bell rang shrilly and they broke apart. Toran smiled and tenderly brushed a strand of hair back from her forehead.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long…” he said. “Maybe since the first day I met you.”
Leah blushed. “You were only twelve then.”
“There’s no law on when you can lose your heart.”
“But… why have you been so cold to me all this time then?” asked Leah. “I thought after what happened in the cable car last year—”
Toran hesitated. “It’s like it says in the poem. I have only my dreams to offer you, Leah. I’m not like the other kids at this school, with their fancy cars and designer clothes.”
“I don’t care about all that,” said Leah fiercely.
“Your father does, though,” said Toran.
“My father? What does he—”
“Never mind,” Toran interrupted, smiling and stroking her hair back again. “I’ve decided to forget all that for now. I’m spreading my dreams under your feet, Leah.”
The bell rang again. It was the second bell, the last warning. Leah stood on tiptoe to peck Toran on the lips. “And I promise to tread very softly.”
CHAPTER 37
Leah raised her hand and hailed the approaching taxi. It swung to a stop next to the curb and she got in.
“The Marina Bay International School, please,” she said.
She settled back into the seat and looked out of the window, trying to ignore the tight knot of nerves in her stomach. Would he come? Would he be there?
She hadn’t thought that she could find a card even close to the original, but it had been there, waiting for her on the top rack, when she walked into the card store. She had stared disbelievingly. Yes, it was a pair of black swans rather than white ones, but they were in an almost identical pose, their beaks touching and their necks curved to form the shape of a heart.
Telling herself that it was a good omen, Leah had bought the card and then carefully written the words of the Yeats poem inside, just like the card she had received thirteen years ago. She had hesitated at the end, then signed her name at the bottom, “Leah” and added a date and a time and their old school address. Then she had posted it to Toran, her heart pounding as she slid the envelope into the slot in the postbox.
In these modern times of instant messaging and email, it was strange to wait for a message to reach someone physically, the old-fashioned method. Leah had no way of knowing if Toran had received it, if he had opened it, if he cared… all she had to go on was hope.
And it was hope that had filled her breast this morning when she woke up and thought: This is the day. It was hope that touched her cheeks now with a flush of colour, made her breathing come faster, her heart beat harder.
The taxi pulled up outside her old school gates. It was the weekend and the school was empty, although the side gate had been left open for the few students and teachers who might be coming in for extra classes. Leah alighted and, as she watched the taxi drive slowly away, she noticed the logo on its side for the first time: “SONG TAXICAB ENTERPRISES”.
She smiled to herself. Perhaps it was meant to be, after all.
Leah went through the side gate and into the school grounds, heading for the little ornamental garden that occupied the corner just inside the entrance. The buzzing of cicadas was thick in the air as she stepped into the lush, tropical foliage of the garden, walking through the palms and the heliconias, towards the little pond in the centre. It was years since she had been here and yet, in a way, it felt like nothing had changed, that it was only yesterday when she had been a shy fourteen-year old wandering in here, waiting for her very first kiss…
Slowly, Leah rounded the trunk of the old tembusu tree, still there, still standing, and came to a stop by the edge of the water. Ferns and water lilies grew thickly along the edge of the pond and now she could hear a faint croaking mingling with the hum of the cicadas. Dusk was falling and the creatures of the night were coming out to play. Above her head, she could already see the faint twinkling of stars in the pale indigo sky.
Leah glanced at her watch and felt her pulse race even faster. It was nearly the time she had given on her card. If he was going to come, he would be here any minute now…
The seconds ticked by. The frogs sang in the water, the cicadas hummed in the trees, and Leah’s heart pounded a desperate, feverish rhythm in her chest. Her hands clenched and unclenched by her sides. She felt a bead of sweat run down the side of her forehead.
She glanced at her watch again and her heart shrank inside her. Five minutes past. Had she been wrong to hope after all…?
“Leah.”
She whirled around. Toran was on the path behind her. They stood and looked at each other.
“You came…” Leah said breathlessly. Her heart was thumping so hard now that she felt as if her whole body was shaking.
“You asked me to,” said Toran. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were a stormy sea-green that belied his cool demeanour. He took a step forwards, then said a single word: “Why?”
“Because…” Leah hesitated, then suddenly she knew the right answer. The only answer. “Because I love you.”
Something blazed in Toran’s eyes and he moved towards her. Leah felt herself trembling. She took another step back and realised that she was at the edge of the pond.
“Careful!” Toran reached out and grabbed her arm.
He pulled her to him and swung her around so that her back was pressed against the trunk of the tembusu tree. Leah felt his arms come around her and she trembled, her heart so full it felt like it would burst. They had been here once, in another life, another time. It had been the start of their story—and now they had come full circle. Could they begin again?
She stared up at Toran as she slid her arms around his neck. His eyes were a deep, emerald green, hypnotising in their intensity. She held her breath as he lowered his head and then his lips were on hers, claiming her, possessing her. Leah closed her eyes, giving herself to him as he kissed her with a hunger that felt as if it would consume her. His arms tightened around her, pulling her even closer, his hands strong around her waist, his body hard against hers. She felt the rough bark of the tembusu tree against her back and, dimly, she was aware of the sweet fragrance of the flowers around them. Toran brought one hand up, gently tracing her collarbone, her throat, the delicate line of her jaw… his light touch sending a shiver of pleasure through her. He deepened the kiss and Leah lost herself in the whirling maelstrom of emotions. Joy. Wonder. Relief. Love.
Finally they broke apart, both of them breathless. In the dim light, Leah saw Toran looking down at her tenderly.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long…” he said, then added with a grin:
“Maybe since the first day I met you.”
Leah laughed and shyly returned his smile. “Why?” she asked softly.
He gathered her close again and brought his lips close to her ear. “Because I love you.”
Leah melted against him and this time the kiss was a tender homecoming, a sensual promise, a heady glimpse of a future together.
When they could speak again, Toran laughed softly and said, “I didn’t come prepared for this, but…” He took both her hands in his and smiled whimsically. “Leah Fisher, will you marry me? So I can lay my dreams at your feet for the rest of our lives together?”
Leah looked down at their hands joined together, and for a moment she almost thought she could see a flash of red string between their fingers. She smiled and looked up at Toran.
“Yes. And I promise to tread very softly.”
FINIS
To all those who have followed Toran & Leah’s journey from the beginning—thank you and I hope you have enjoyed their story.
Read an excerpt from my new cozy mystery series:
A Scone To Die For
(Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1)
When an American tourist is murdered with a scone in Gemma Rose’s quaint Oxfordshire tearoom, she suddenly finds herself apron-deep in a mystery involving long-buried secrets from Oxford’s past.
Armed with her insider knowledge of the University and with the help of four nosy old ladies from the village (not to mention a cheeky little tabby cat named Muesli), Gemma sets out to solve the mystery—all while dealing with her matchmaking mother and the return of her old college love, Devlin O’Connor, now a dashing CID detective.
But with the body count rising and her business going bust, can Gemma find the killer before things turn to custard?
** Traditional English Scone recipe at the end of the story!
CHAPTER ONE
I never thought I’d end the week facing an American with a sharp knife.
It started normally enough, with the usual influx of tourists and visitors to our tiny Cotswolds’ village of Meadowford-on-Smythe. Filled with winding cobbled lanes and pretty thatched cottages, Meadowford was like a picture-perfect postcard of rural England. But quaint and gorgeous as the village was, it would probably never have got much notice if it hadn’t sat on the outskirts of the most famous university city in the world.
Over nine million tourists came to visit Oxford each year, and after they’d posed for photos in the college quadrangles and wandered reverently through the cloisters of the oldest university in the English-speaking world, they drifted out into the surrounding Cotswolds countryside. Here, they would coo over the quaint antique shops and village markets, and look forward to rounding everything off with some authentic English “afternoon tea”.
That’s where I came in. Or rather, my new business: the Little Stables Tearoom. Offering the best in traditional English refreshments, from warm buttery scones with jam and clotted cream, to home-made sticky toffee pudding and hot cross buns, all served with fragrant Earl Grey or English Breakfast tea—proper leaf tea—in delicate bone china… my little tearoom was a must-stop on any visitor’s itinerary.
Well, okay, right now, my little tearoom was more of a “must go next time”—but we all have to start somewhere, right?
And so far, things were looking pretty promising. I’d opened three weeks ago, just at the beginning of October and the start of the Michaelmas Term (a fancy name for the first term in the school year; hey, this is Oxford—at least it wasn’t in Latin) and I’d been lucky to catch the end-of-the-summer tourist trade, as well as the flood of new students arriving with their families. My tearoom had even got a write-up in the local student magazine as one of the “Top Places to Take Your Parents” and looked set on its way to becoming a success.
And I desperately needed it to succeed. I’d given up a top executive job in Sydney—much to the horror of family and friends—on a crazy whim to come back home and follow this dream. I’d sunk every last penny of my savings into this place and I needed it to work. Besides, if my venture didn’t become profitable soon, I’d never be able to afford a place of my own, and seriously, after being home for six weeks, I realised that moving back to live with your parents when you’re twenty-nine is a fate worse than death.
But standing at the counter surveying my tearoom that Friday morning, I was feeling happy and hopeful. It was still an hour till lunchtime but already the place was almost full. There was a warm cosy atmosphere, permeated by the cheerful hum of conversation, the dainty clink of china, and that gorgeous smell of fresh baking. People were poring over their menus, happily stuffing their faces, or pointing and looking around the room in admiration.
The tearoom was housed in a 15th-century Tudor building, with the distinctive dark half-timber framing and daub-and-wattle walls painted white. With its steeply pitched thatched roof and cross gables, it looked just like the quintessential English cottages featured on chocolate box tins. Inside, the period charm continued with flagstone floors and thick, exposed wood beams, matched by mullioned windows facing the street and an inglenook fireplace.
It hadn’t looked like this when I took it over. The last owner had let things go badly, due to a combination of money troubles and personal lethargy (otherwise known as laziness), and it had taken a lot of effort and dedication—not to mention all my savings—to restore this place to its former glory. But looking around now, I felt as great a sense of achievement as I had done the day I graduated with a First from that world-famous university nearby.
I scanned the tables, noting that we were starting to get some “regulars” and feeling a rush of pleasure at the thought. Getting someone to try you once—especially when they were tired and hungry and just wanted somewhere to sit down—was one thing; getting them to add you to their weekly routine was a different honour altogether. Especially when that honour was handed out by the residents of Meadowford-on-Smythe who viewed all newcomers with deep suspicion.
Not that I was really a “newcomer”—I’d lived here as a little girl and, even after my family had moved to North Oxford in my teens, we’d always popped back to visit on school holidays and long weekends. But I’d been gone long enough to be considered an “outsider” now and I knew that I would have to work hard to earn back my place in the village.
Still, it looked like I was taking my first steps. Sitting at the heavy oak table by the window were four little old ladies with their heads together, like a group of finicky hens deciding which unfortunate worm to peck first. Fluffy white hair, woolly cardigans, and spectacles perched on the ends of their noses… they looked like the stereotype of sweet, old grannies. But don’t be fooled. These four could have given MI5 a run for their money. They made it their business to know everybody’s business (that was just the basic service—interfering in other people’s business was extra). It was rumoured that even the Mayor of Oxford was in their power.
But the fact that they were sitting in my tearoom was a good sign, I told myself hopefully. It meant that there was a chance I was being accepted and approved of. Then my heart sank as I saw one of them frown and point to an item on the menu. The other three leaned closer and there were ominous nods all around.
Uh-oh. I grabbed an order pad and hurried over to their table.
“Good morning, ladies.” I pinned a bright smile to my face. “What can I get you today?”
They turned their heads in unison and looked up at me, four pairs of bright beady eyes and pursed lips.
“You’re looking a bit peaky, Gemma,” said Mabel Cooke in her booming voice. “Are you sure you’re getting enough fibre, dear? There’s a wonderful new type of bran you can take in the mornings, you know, to help you get ‘regular’. Dr Foster recommended it to me. Just a spoon on your cereal and you’ll be in the loo, regular as clockwork. Works marvellously to clear you out.” She leaned closer and added in a stage whisper, which was loud enough for the entire room to hear, “So much cheaper than that colon irrit
ation thing they do, dear.”
I saw the couple at the next table turn wide eyes on me and felt myself flushing. “Er… thank you, Mrs Cooke. Now, can I take—”
“I saw your mother in Oxford yesterday,” Glenda Bailey spoke up from across the table. As usual, she was wearing bright pink lipstick, which clashed badly with the rouge on her cheeks, but somehow the overall effect was charming. Glenda was eighty going on eighteen, with a coquettish manner that went perfectly with her girlish looks. “Has she had her hair done recently?”
To be honest, I had no idea. I had only been back six weeks and I thought my mother looked pretty much the same. But I suppose her hair was in a different style to the last time I’d returned to England.
“Er… yes, I think so.”
Glenda clucked her tongue and fluttered her eyelashes in distress. “Oh, it was shocking. So flat and shapeless. I suppose she went to one of those fancy new hairdressers in Oxford?”
“I… I think she did.”
There were gasps from around the table.
“She should have come to Bridget here in the village,” said Mabel disapprovingly. “Nobody can do a wash and blow dry like our Bridget. She even gave me a blue rinse for free the last time I was there.” She patted her head with satisfaction, then turned back to me with a scowl. “Really, Gemma! Young hairdressers nowadays know nothing about lift and volume. I don’t know why your mother is going to these fancy new hair salons.”
