Plum Tea Crazy

by Laura Childs

  Miss Dimple nodded in the direction of the tea room. “Our customers are just finishing up their morning tea. And Haley was going to share her ideas on luncheon entrées with me.”

  “Then let’s both go into the kitchen and see what she’s whipped up,” Theodosia said. “While Drayton tries to pull his tea counter back together.”

  “That’s right,” Drayton said, slipping behind the front counter. “It’s probably a horrible mess.”

  Miss Dimple’s voice floated back to him. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “We’ve got lots of good things for lunch,” Haley said as Theodosia and Miss Dimple crowded into the small kitchen. “Shrimp salad on a croissant, roast beef and horseradish tea sandwiches, and baked French toast that’s just about ready to come out of the oven.”

  “Baked French toast?” Miss Dimple asked. “What’s that?”

  “A sinfully rich French toast with lots of cinnamon, sugar, and an inordinate amount of eggs and butter.”

  “Ooh,” Miss Dimple said.

  “And what about sweets?” Theodosia asked. “For dessert, that is.”

  “Got those, too,” Haley said. “Red velvet cupcakes and pear scones.”

  “You’ve been baking up a storm,” Miss Dimple said.

  Haley grinned. She had a streak of white flour on her face and looked adorable. “That’s good, huh?”

  “It’s wonderful,” Miss Dimple said. “I don’t know how you manage all this in such a tiny kitchen.”

  “It’s no big deal,” Haley said. “Besides, this is my domain. This is where I get to rule the roost.”

  “Nobody would ever contest that,” Theodosia said.

  “In fact,” Haley said, “you can start taking luncheon orders as soon as our customers begin to arrive.”

  “You want to handle that?” Theodosia asked Miss Dimple.

  “I’m on it,” Miss Dimple said.

  Haley slid her hand into an oven mitt. “What are you going to do?” she asked Theodosia.

  “I’m going to start working on tomorrow’s Plum Blossom Tea,” Theodosia said.

  “Good,” Haley said. “Like Drayton always says, it’s never too early to start worrying about tomorrow.”

  Theodosia sped out into the tea room and grabbed Jamie by the sleeve. “Do you have a minute?”

  “I think so,” Jamie said. “But let me ditch these dirty dishes first.” He disappeared into the kitchen with his plastic bin and was back in two seconds. “What’s up?”

  “I’d like you to run down the block to Haiku Gallery and pick up a box of Japanese curios.”

  “Are you gonna use ’em for your tea tomorrow?” Jamie asked.

  “That’s exactly right,” Theodosia said. “Alexis James, the gallery owner, said she’d pull together some decorative items for us, smaller items, that we can display on the tables along with our plum blossom arrangements.”

  “You want me to go right now?” Jamie sounded excited about the prospect of going to Haiku Gallery.

  “That would be the general idea,” Theodosia said as Jamie suddenly bolted for the door. “But Jamie,” she called after him. “Take care. In all your wild enthusiasm, please don’t break anything.”

  Theodosia cleared two tables, refilled tea, chatted with a few customers, and rang up the purchase of a jar of honey. Then she turned toward the front counter, where Drayton was fussing about. “Were all your tea tins hopelessly messed up like you figured they’d be?”

  “Actually, they were surprisingly organized,” Drayton said. “We must not have had a very busy morning.”

  “Miss Dimple told me that every table was filled and some turned over twice.”

  “Is that so.” Drayton reached under the counter and pulled out an elegant pink teapot. “Look what was delivered while we were cooling our heels at the memorial service.” He held the oval-shaped teapot in his hands. It had a gold handle, spout, and lid, and the sides were decorated with pink flowers and a small cherub.

  Theodosia’s eyes lit up with recognition. “That can be only one thing.”

  “Limoges,” Drayton said. “I saw it at Anderson’s Antiques last week, and then yesterday I decided I just had to have it. I called them up and told them to send it right over.”

  “Is it a signed piece?”

  Drayton turned the teapot over. “It has the proper Limoges mark on the bottom, but not an actual artist’s signature. If it was signed, I’m not sure I could have afforded it.”

  “Still,” Theodosia said, “it’s a gorgeous piece.”

  “Can you believe how deep and true that pink color is? And the delicate shading? It’s really quite delicious.”

  “A collector’s item,” Theodosia said.

  “Now if I could only find a matching sugar bowl. Did you know that during the late eighteenth century, very large, almost outsize sugar bowls were in favor, especially in England and France?”

  “Why so supersized?”

  “Because sugar cost a small fortune back then, so a large sugar bowl sitting on one’s table was a clear sign of wealth.”

  “Kind of like driving a big honkin’ SUV today,” Theodosia said.

  Just then the front door flew open and Jamie and Alexis came walking in. Both were staggering under the large boxes they held in their arms, with Jamie looking as if he were picking his way along a treacherous mountain path and carrying vials of nitroglycerin.

  Theodosia flew around the counter to help them. “Let me take this,” she said to Alexis.

  Alexis gladly handed over her box to Theodosia. “Thank you. I feel like a pack animal that over-packed,” she said with a laugh.

  Theodosia set the box on the counter and Jamie slid his box next to it. Drayton peered in, gave a nod of approval, and said, “Loot.”

  “I tried to give you a diverse assortment,” Alexis said. “Some fans, small statues, a few nice pots. All Japanese items that should help accent a fancy table.”

  “This is just wonderful,” Theodosia said as she pulled out a piece of Shino ware. It was a small bowl, milky white with a red ash glaze. “And we promise to take very good care of your treasures.”

  “I brought you something else,” Alexis said with a sly smile. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a copy of Shooting Star. “Do you remember when Bill Glass was snapping pictures at Delaine’s shop yesterday?”

  “Yes, yes,” Theodosia said. Then, “Oh good heavens, don’t tell me that Glass dared to . . . ?”

  But Alexis was already grinning and nodding in the affirmative. “He did dare. The photo’s front page above the fold,” she said. “You know that old newspaper maxim: If it bleeds, it leads.”

  Drayton leaned in. “You mean Bill Glass had the gall to actually print damaging photos?”

  “Take a look,” Alex said, holding up her copy of Shooting Star. “Three different shots capturing the catfight, all in sharp focus and vivid color.”

  Theodosia stared at the photos. In the largest one, Sissy was caught with an unflattering snarl on her face and Betty Bates had both fists up, ready to throw a nasty punch. The other two photos were just as bad. Maybe worse. In one shot the two women were sprawled on the floor.

  “Let me see that,” Drayton said. He snatched the newspaper out of Alexis’s hands, scanned the photos, and let his eyes rove down the front page. “Garbage,” he spat out.

  Alexis’s eyes sparkled. “Of course it is. But you’re reading it.”

  Theodosia chuckled. “She’s got you there, Drayton.”

  “Just a glance, just a quick glance,” Drayton said brusquely. “The accompanying text is simply a bizarre curiosity.”

  “We’ll give you a pass this time, Drayton,” Alexis said. She winked at Theodosia and said, “Are you getting geared up for your first s
pin class tonight?”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Theodosia said as the phone rang. She reached around, grabbed the receiver, and said, “Indigo Tea Shop.” She listened a couple of seconds and then cried, “Aunt Libby!” in a delighted voice.

  Aunt Libby was one of Theodosia’s favorite relatives. She lived at Cane Ridge Plantation out on Rutledge Road with Margaret Rose Reese, her companion and housekeeper. The two of them were quite content at Cane Ridge, feeding the birds, conducting the occasional plantation tour, attending their local church, and enjoying their book club and bridge club.

  “Margaret Rose and I are planning to be in town this weekend,” Aunt Libby said to Theodosia.

  “That’s wonderful,” Theodosia said. “Then for sure you have to stay with me.”

  “No, no,” Aunt Libby said. “We’re planning to stay with cousin Livonia. She’s got that enormous house over on King Street, and the poor lady just rattles around in it. She has acres of room.”

  “Yes, but when was the last time she dusted?” Theodosia asked. Cousin Livonia was a bit of a free spirit. She enjoyed poker, playing the ponies, and smoking an occasional cigar. Housekeeping wasn’t just on her back burner—it was relegated to the attic.

  “It’s probably been a while since she gave that white elephant a good cleaning,” Aunt Libby said. “But we don’t want to put you out or interfere in any way. After all, we’re two old ladies who like to turn in at nine o’clock.”

  “Then you can at least come to our luncheon tomorrow,” Theodosia said. “The tea shop is hosting a Plum Blossom Tea for the Broad Street Garden Club, and I know we have a few seats left.”

  “That sounds lovely,” Aunt Libby said. “But only if it’s not too much trouble for you.”

  “No trouble at all,” Theodosia said. She glanced around the tea shop, saw that Miss Dimple was seating two customers and that Drayton had just poured Alexis a cup of tea. “I’m positive you’ll be welcome. I think you know Midge Binkley—she’s president of the Garden Club now.”

  “I’ve known Midge since her husband was in knickers. So it’ll be jolly fun to see her again.”

  “That’s just great. I’ll see you then.” Theodosia hung up the phone and smiled across the counter at Alexis.

  “You look happy,” Alexis said.

  “I am,” Theodosia said. “My aunt Libby is coming into town.”

  “The one who lives out near the Riddle Plantation?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I’d love to meet her sometime. We probably know a few of the same people.”

  “Then why don’t you come to the Plum Blossom Tea tomorrow,” Theodosia said. “In fact, I apologize for not inviting you in the first place. Because I know we have a couple of seats left.”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal,” Alexis said. “I’d love to come.”

  20

  Theodosia sat behind her desk, pushing mounds of paper around. “Things I need to do today,” she mumbled to herself. “Number one, find my to-do list.”

  Or maybe not. Maybe she should kick back and try to go with the flow. Which meant popping out to welcome the ladies who were part of the Tea Trolley today, or else she could . . .

  A sharp knock sounded at the back door.

  Who’s that?

  Theodosia crossed her office, unlocked the door, and pulled it open tentatively. And was thankfully greeted by the smiling face of Miss Josette, her favorite sweetgrass basket maker.

  “I didn’t know you were coming by today,” Theodosia said, a smile lighting her face. She was always happy to see Miss Josette. Always delighted to spend some time with a real old-fashioned Southern lady. And a skilled artisan at that.

  “I wasn’t planning to drop by, either,” Miss Josette said in her honeyed drawl. “But then I was in the neighborhood and I figured, why not. Make this my first stop.” Miss Josette was an African American woman in her late seventies who could easily pass for early sixties. She had bright, intelligent eyes and smooth skin the color of rich mahogany. Today she wore a rust-colored dress with a tomato-red fringed shawl draped around her shoulders.

  But it was the basket Miss Josette held in her hands that caught Theodosia’s gaze. It was a classic fruit tray style, shallow and oval shaped, with a large, swooping handle.

  “I’ll take it,” Theodosia said. She knew the basket would be perfect for displaying her T-Bath products. “But I hope you brought along a few more baskets than just that one.”

  Miss Josette moved aside, revealing four more baskets that were stacked on the back step.

  “I want them all,” Theodosia said.

  Miss Josette waved a hand. “You’re too easy. Don’t you know you’re supposed to let me do my sales pitch? Then you should bargain and play hard to get?”

  “No way,” Theodosia said. “Because your baskets are hard to get.”

  Sweetgrass baskets were unique to Charleston and the surrounding environs. Elegant and utilitarian, they were woven from long bunches of sweetgrass, pine needles, and bulrush, then bound together by strips from native palmetto trees. Over the years, sweetgrass baskets, crafted predominantly by African American women, had become celebrated pieces of art. A collection of low-country sweetgrass baskets was even on display at the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C.

  “Looks like I’m done for the day,” Miss Josette said as she and Theodosia moved the baskets into Theodosia’s office. “Sold out. And you were my first stop.”

  “Lucky for me,” Theodosia said.

  Miss Josette put hands on hips and cocked an eye at her. “Now what am I going to tell my other clients?”

  “I don’t know, make something up. Tell them there’s a severe drought and a shortage of suitable sweetgrass.”

  “You want me to lie?” Miss Josette said. “You know I’m a church lady. Sing in the choir every Sunday.”

  “And bless you for it,” Theodosia said. “No, don’t lie. Just tell them the baskets sold out immediately. And, by the way, you should raise your prices. I mean, just look at these baskets.”

  Besides the fruit tray basket, Miss Josette had brought along a bread basket, a pedestal basket, and a nifty figure-eight basket.

  “Uh-huh, I’ve seen them.”

  “You’re a truly gifted artist,” Theodosia said.

  “Thank you.”

  Theodosia slipped behind her desk and pulled out her checkbook. She started to write a check and then stopped. “Let me ask you something. Is your nephew, um . . .” She’d temporarily lost his name.

  “Dexter,” Miss Josette said.

  “That’s right, Dexter. Is he still doing grant writing for his nonprofit organization?”

  “Are you serious?” Miss Josette said. “Sometimes I think that’s all he does. Dex used to be executive director for the Heartsong Kids Club, now he’s got two assistants who handle administration and programming while he practically functions as a full-time fund-raiser.”

  “Does he ever apply for grants from the city?”

  Miss Josette bobbed her head. “I think so.”

  “Do you think Dexter would have time to talk to me? To answer a couple of questions?”

  “I’m sure he would,” Miss Josette said. She dug in her handbag and pulled out a creamy-colored business card with cartoon kids’ faces on it. “Here, this is Dexter’s card. Go ahead and give him a ring.”

  Theodosia wrote out a check to Miss Josette and walked her out to her car. Then she hurried back inside and called Dexter at Heartsong Kids Club, the nonprofit rec center that he’d founded a few years ago.

  Dexter was delighted to hear from Theodosia and listened carefully when she asked about obtaining grants from the City of Charleston.

  “I’ve gotten two small grants from them,” Dexter told her. “And they were a dream to work with. Easier, in fact, than some of the large private
foundations that award grants. They can be real sticklers. But if you’ve got questions about funding, you really should talk to Ginny Marchand. She heads the MOECD over there and pretty much controls the purse strings. You tell Ginny that I said to call her. She’s a real nice lady.”

  “Thank you,” Theodosia said. “I’ll give her a ring.”

  She hung up the phone just as a burst of laughter drifted in from the tea room.

  Sounds like they’re having fun.

  Theodosia peeked out the door and saw two dozen women swarming through the tea shop. All were dressed to the nines in pastel-colored suits and fancy dresses and had arrived on what was really a regular old jitney, but which today was dubbed the Tea Trolley. That is, the clever organizer drove her guests around to three different tea stops on what was billed as a Tea Trolley Tour. First up was the Charleston Tea Plantation out on Wadmalaw Island. That was a short walking tour with a cream tea following. Then they’d dropped by the Lady Goodwood Inn for a relaxing lunch in the Garden Room. The final stop was the Indigo Tea Shop for what Drayton was calling a dessert tea. He and Haley had come up with a wonderful menu that included pear scones, peaches and cream layer cake, sorbet, and vanilla black tea.

  Okay. So that tea was humming right along. Now it was time to call the City of Charleston.

  It took Theodosia three tries, but she finally got connected to Ginny Marchand, the director at the MOECD, the Mayor’s Office of Economic and Community Development. Once Theodosia introduced herself and established that Dexter had told her to call, she confessed that she wasn’t quite sure what the MOECD was all about.

  “It’s fairly straightforward,” Ginny explained. “We award grants that deal with urban renewal, historic preservation, housing rehabilitation, and neighborhood development.”

  “Housing rehabilitation,” Theodosia told her. “That’s what I’m most interested in.”

  “You have a property you’re looking to rehab?” Ginny asked.

  “Actually, I’m interested in some single homes that an acquaintance of mine is working on. A fellow named Bob Garver? He’s rehabbing a number of single houses over on Beaufain Street. I think Detective Pete Riley might have called to ask about him, too.”